Kells said, “Talk to me, Jakie,” out of the side of his mouth.
Rose turned his head and twisted his mouth to a terribly forced grin. His eyes were wide, frightened. “What’ll I talk about?”
Several people turned to look at them.
Kells said: “The weather — an’ walk faster.”
Then someone crashed against the locked door behind them.
In the same moment Kells saw Reilly. He had risen from one of the smaller tables, was staring at Rose. He said: “Jack — what the hell?...” Then he looked at Kells, his hand dipped toward his hip. Kells shot from his pocket — twice.
Reilly put his two hands against the middle of his chest, slowly. He sat down on the edge of the table, slid slowly down — as his knees buckled, fell backward, half under the table.
Another gun roared and Kells felt the shoulder of his coat lift, tear; felt a hot stab in the muscle of his upper arm.
Rose was running toward the other end of the room, zigzagging a little, swiftly.
Kells started after him, stumbled, almost fell. He jerked the big automatic out of his pocket, swung it toward Rose. Then the door beyond Rose opened and someone came in. Kells couldn’t see who it was; he staggered on after Rose, stopped suddenly as Rose stopped.