The old man was fit to be tied. He was green with hate and he kept glaring at Ben out of his little red-rimmed eyes.
I said: “Well, gran’pa — if you’ll make out that check now, we’ll finish this business.” The old man swallowed.
“You can give me your twenty-five hundred in cash,” I went on to Ben. “Then I’ll put the chill on both of you — and everybody’ll be happy.”
They must have thought I meant it. Ben got rigid, and the old man cleared his throat and made a slow pass at the humidor.
I fiddled with the gun. I threw a pack of cigarettes on the table and said: “Smoke?”
The old man looked at the cigarettes and at the gun in my hand, and relaxed.
I said: “Still and all — it don’t quite square with my weakness for efficiency, yet. Maybe you boys’ll get together and make me an offer for Stokes. He’s the star — he’s been framing both of you.”
I don’t think Ben was very surprised — but the old man looked like he’d swallowed a mouse.
“He’s been in with Ben on the truck heistings,” I went on. “He’s been waiting for a good spot to dump you — working on your connections.”
The old man said: “That’s a — damned lie.”