Kells shook his head, leaned against the table. He glanced at the Greek and at the boy who had resumed taping the big Negro’s hand. He looked at Gilroy, said: “You win?”
“Shuah — shuah.” Gilroy’s grin was a shade less easy. “Shuah, Ah win.”
Kells kept looking at him. Gilroy looked at the Greek, then back at Kells. He shook his head slightly. “How long you been out hyah, Mistah Kells?”
Kells didn’t answer. He stared at Gilroy vacantly. The Greek looked at Gilroy and then glanced icily at Kells, went out of the room. The squat youth kept on taping Gilroy’s hand mechanically.
Gilroy said: “No. Ah don’t win.” He said it very softly.
“How much are you getting?”
Gilroy’s face had become very serious. “Nothin’,” he said. “Not a nickel.”
Kells rubbed the back of one hand with the palm of the other.
Gilroy went on: “Not a nickel — but Ah get plenty if Ah don’t throw it...”
“What are you talking about?”