“I've no use for Paul Kelly,” whispered Razor in response to some remark of Ellison's. “You bet he knows enough not to show his snout along Eighth Avenue. He'd get it good if he did.”
“My notion,” said Ellison, “is to turn th' trick right now.”
“Just th' two of us?”
“Why not?”
“He'd have his guerillas; youse have got to figure on that.”
“They wouldn't stand th' gaff. It's the difference between guys who knows what they wants, and guys who don't. Once we started, they'd tear th' side out the Brighton in the get-away.”
“All right,” said Razor, bringing down his hand; “I'm wit' you.”
“Just a moment,” and Ellison motioned Razor back into his chair. “If Paul's dancin', we must stall him into th' bar. I don't want to hoit any of them skirts.”
It was the delightful habit of Slimmy, on the tail of one of his lectures, to order beer for his hearers. That's why he was listened to with so much interest. Were every lecturer to adopt Slimmy's plan, he would never fail of an audience. Also, his fame would grow.
Slimmy, having finished with Cæsar and the others, had just signed up to the waiter to go his merry rounds, when Ellison and Razor slipped in from the street. Their hands were on their guns, their eyes on Kelly.