He sipped his cocktail, widened his smile. “She told me what a great guy you were,” he went on, “an’ she stuck to it, even after you’d dropped all your dough, and hers. Then she told me you wanted to take over this place, an’ I came in on it, laid fifteen grand on the line.”
Rigas moved uncomfortably in his chair, glanced swiftly around the room.
“Since then,” Shane went on, “I’ve chunked in somewhere around five more...”
Rigas interrupted: “We’ve got nearly twelve thousand dollars’ worth of stock.” He made a wide gesture.
“What for?” Shane curved his mouth to a pleasant sneer. “So you can be knocked over, and keep the enforcement boys in vintage wines for a couple of months.”
Rigas shrugged elaborately, turned half away. “I cannot talk to you,” he said. “You fly off the handle...”
“No.” Shane smiled. “You can talk to me all you like, Charley — and I don’t fly off the handle — and I’m not squawking. But don’t make any more cracks about Lorain and me. Whatever I’ve done for you I’ve done for her — because I like her. Like her. Can you get that through that thick spick skull of yours? I wouldn’t want her if she was a dime a dozen — an’ I don’t like that raised eyebrow stuff. It sounds like pimp.”
Rigas’ face turned dull red. His eyes were very sharp and bright. He stood up, spoke very softly, breathlessly, as if it was hard for him to get all the words out: “Let’s go upstairs, Dick.”
Shane got up and they crossed the room together, went out through the double door.
On the third floor they crossed an identical hallway, Rigas unlocked a tall gray door and they went into another large room. There were two large round tables, each with a green-shaded drop-light over it. There were eight men at one of the tables, seven at the other; Rigas and Shane crossed the room to another tall gray door.