Kells studied the names. Then he said: “MacAlmon — that’s Bellmann’s silksock ward heeler. I thought he lived in Beverly Hills.” He stared at the envelope. “That’d be a tricky piece of business — if MacAlmon was go-between on the white stuff. I can figure his tie-up with Max Hesse — if Hesse is really the buyer — but how the hell would Crotti get to him?”
Faber looked interested at the mention of Crotti’s name. He said: “Maybe this would be more fun for me if I knew what it was all about.”
Borg said: “Crotti’s delivering a load of C, and the hundred and fifteen we want to locate is what somebody up there” — he jerked his head toward the apartment house — “has got to pay for it with.”
“Oh.” Faber turned to Kells. “Count me out — I don’t want any part of Crotti.”
Kells smiled slowly. He said: “Okay.”
Faber started to get out of the car and then he looked at Kells’ hands; Kells had slipped the Luger out of his waistband, was holding it loosely on his lap.
Borg said: “Aw, for God’s sake, cut it out.” He looked from Kells to Faber.
Kells was smiling faintly at Faber. He said very seriously: “Your cut on this lick is ten grand. You’ve got one coming now — an’ you can have it, but you’ll have to stick around until this is over.” He put his hand into his pocket and slid out a roll of bills, pulled one off and held it toward Faber.
Faber looked at it a little while, then he grinned sourly, said: “Well — if I’ve got to stay I might as well work.” He took the bill, folded it carefully and put it into his watch pocket. “Deal me in — ten grand’ll buy a lot of flowers.”
“Me — I want to be cremated.” Borg was staring soberly into space. “No flowers, but plenty of music.” He glanced at Kells. “You know — Wagner.”