Martinelli stood up very straight.
Doolin got to his feet slowly. He bent over and held the middle of his body, rolled his head toward Martinelli, his eyes narrow, malevolent. He said very quietly, as if to himself: “Dirty son of a bitch — dirty, dirty son of a bitch!”
Martinelli grinned, stood very straight. His hands, cupped close to his thighs, trembled rigidly.
Halloran said slowly: “Don’t do it, baby. I’ll shoot both your eyes out before you get that shiv of yours into the air — and never touch your nose.”
Martinelli looked like a clothing store dummy. He was balanced on the balls of his feet, his hands trembling at his sides; his grin artificial, empty.
Doolin laughed suddenly. He stood up straight and looked at Martinelli and laughed.
Halloran moved his eyes to Doolin, smiled faintly. He said: “Gentlemen — sit down.” Martinelli tottered forward, sank into one of the chairs. Halloran said: “Put your hands on the table, please.” Martinelli obediently put his hands on the table. The empty grin seemed to have congealed on his face.
Halloran turned his eyes towards Doolin. Doolin smiled, walked gingerly to the other chair and sat down.
Halloran said: “Now...” He put one hand up to his face; the other held the Luger loosely on the table.
Doolin cleared his throat, said: “What’s it all about, Mr. Halloran?”