Kells picked up his three notes; the change man raked up the bills in front of Dickinson, counted them into a stack, cut off one and handed the rest to Kells.
“Next man... Get down on the next lucky shooter, boys...”
Kells folded the bills and stuck them into his pocket.
Dickinson looked at the-tall young man, said: “Let me take five hundred, Les.”
The young man looked at him with soft unseeing eyes, turned and walked away. Kells gestured with his head and went over to a round green-covered table out of the circle of light. Dickinson followed him, they sat down.
Kells said: “Can you get the paper out by tomorrow morning?”
Dickinson was fumbling through his pockets, brought out a dark brown pint bottle. He took out the cork, held the bottle toward Kells. “Wha’ for?”
Kells shook his head but Dickinson shoved the bottle into his hands. Kells took a drink, handed it back.
“Bellmann was fogged tonight and I want to give it a big spread.”
“The hell you say!” Dickinson stared blankly at Kells. “Well, wha’d’y know about that!” Then he seemed to remember Kells’ question. “Sure.”