Beery said: “It must be the way you wear your clothes.”
“Sure. It’s just your natural charm.” Borg made a wry face, went back to the table and began laying out solitaire.
“Of course Crotti’s got the right idea about organization.” Kells rubbed his eyes — with his knuckles. “But the fun in an organization is being head man.”
Beery said: “The other night at Fenner’s when you were putting on that act for Gowdy, you said you had some friends on the way out here. Was that a gag?”
“Certainly. I wanted to impress Gowdy with my importance to his outfit. You can get my torpedo friends in the East into a telephone booth.”
“Well — if Crotti says war” — Beery got up and went over to one of the rain-swept windows — “we’re sitting pretty...”
“Uh huh.” Borg looked at Kells. “In a pig’s eye. We three, an’ whatever strong-arm strength Gowdy swings — and that doesn’t amount to a hell of a lot...”
“And against us...” Beery turned from the window, stuck his hands deep in his pockets. “There’s all Crotti’s mob — and that’s supposed to be the best in the country. There’s Rose, with his syndicate behind him, and all the loogans he’s imported from back East. There’s the Bellmann outfit. They weren’t very efficient when they blew up the print shop the other day, but you can’t figure from that—”
“And by God! — most of them are in uniform,” Borg interrupted.
Beery smiled faintly, nodded. “Uh huh — we’re in a swell spot.”