Martinelli laughed suddenly. The empty grin exploded into loud high-pitched mirth. “What’s it all about! Dear God — what’s it all about!...”
Halloran was watching Doolin, his shadowed sunken eyes half closed.
Martinelli leaned forward, lifted his hands and pointed two fingers at Doolin. “Listen — wise guy... You’ve got minutes to live — if you’re lucky. That’s what it’s all about!” Doolin regarded Martinelli with faint amusement. Martinelli laughed again. He moved his hand slowly until the two fingers pointed at Halloran. “He killed Coleman,” he said. “He shot Coleman an’ I drove the car. An’ he killed Winfield himself. An’ his outfit killed Riccio an’ Conroy...”
Doolin glanced at Halloran, turned back to smile dimly, dumbly at Martinelli.
“He propositioned me into killing the dance-hall dame,” Martinelli went on — “an’ now he’s going to kill you an’ me...”
Doolin grinned broadly but it was all done with his mouth. He didn’t look like he felt it very much. He looked at Halloran. Halloran’s face was white and immovable as plaster.
“Listen — wise-guy!” Martinelli leaned forward, moved his hand back to point at Doolin. He was suddenly very intense; his dark eyes burned into Doolin’s. “I came out here for Riccio to make connections to peddle M — a lot of it — an’ I met Mr. Halloran.” Martinelli moved his head an eighth of an inch towards Halloran. “Mr. Halloran runs the drug racket out here — did you know that?”
Doolin glanced swiftly at Halloran, looked back at Martinelli’s tense face.
“Mr. Halloran aced me into double-crossing Frankie Riccio an’ Conroy,” Martinelli went on. “Mr. Halloran’s men rubbed Riccio an’ Conroy, an’ would’ve taken care of me if Riccio hadn’t almost beat ’em to it...”
Halloran said coldly, amusedly: “Oh — come, come, Angelo...”