"Making three thousand more than that for you to see me," he said coolly.
Mercer sucked in his breath and whispered: "Oh boy!"
Kilgarry said nothing, hunching tensely over the table.
Yoring blinked at him.
"Len' me some chips, old man."
"Do you know what you're doing?" Kilgarry asked in a harsh strained voice.
Yoring picked up his glass and half emptied it. His hand wobbled so that some of it ran down his chin.
"I know," he snapped.
He reached out and raked Kilgarry's chips into the pile.
"Eighteen hunnerd," he said. "I gotta buy some more. I'll write you a check—"