He took two sidewise steps to a small stand and picked up the telephone receiver with one hand, squatted down until his mouth was near the transmitter. He held the revolver in his right hand, watched Kells closely while he spoke into the phone:
“Gimme Michigan six one one one, sister. Uh huh... Hello, Mike — this is Gus... Kells is out here — out at my house... Come on out an’ get him... Uh huh.”
He hung up the receiver, stood up and went back to the chair and sat down.
“You been mixed up in damn near every killing we had the past week,” he said. “It looks to me like you been our Number One Gunman — not Crotti.”
Kells leaned forward slowly.
Larson said: “Sit still.”
Kells asked: “What do you think my chances are of getting to the Station on my feet?”
“Wha’ d’you mean?” Larson was blowing his nose.
“I mean they got Beery on the way in after he’d been pinched tonight. I mean your desk sergeant has tipped Rose that I’m out here by now — he’ll be here by the time your coppers are-will be waiting outside. They’ll take me in to a slab.”
Larson said: “Aw, don’t talk that way.” He squinted his eyes as if he were trying to remember something, then said proudly: “You got a prosecution complex, that’s what you got — a prosecution complex.”