Woodward said: “How much do you want?”
“Plenty.” Kells picked up the piece of paper, held it by a corner. He grinned at Beery. “It’s lousy theater,” he said. “The ‘incriminating confession’” — he said it very melodramatically. “All we need is the ‘Old Homestead,’ some papier-maché snow and a couple of bloodhounds.”
“And you ought to have a black mustache.” Beery looked up, smiled.
Woodward said: “As I told you — my, uh — people are pressed for cash.”
“I don’t give a damn how pressed they are. They can do business with me now — big business — and get their lousy administration out of the hole, or they can start packing to move out of City Hall. This is the last call...”
Woodward started to speak and then the phone rang. Borg answered it, put his hand over the transmitter, nodded to Kells. Then he got up and brought the phone over.
Kells said: “Hello... Wait a minute — I want you to meet a friend of mine.”
He spoke to Woodward: “In case you’re figuring this for a plant I want you to talk to this guy. You’d know Fenner’s voice, wouldn’t you?”
Woodward nodded. He took the phone from Kells, hesitantly said: “Hello.”
Kells reached over and took the phone back. He smiled at Woodward, said: “Hello, Lee... That was Mister Woodward, a big buyer from downtown... Uh huh... Now don’t get excited, Lee — we haven’t made a deal yet... Why don’t you come on over?... Yes — and bring plenty of cash — it starts at fifty grand... Okay, make it snappy.”