“We have a murder on our hands, Joe.”
Motley stared at him.
“So what? That doesn’t mean you and I can’t go to the dance does it? What the hell have we got Adams for? He’ll take care of it.”
“You go. I have things to do,” Howard said curtly.
“Gloria won’t like it. She’s relying on you.”
Howard started to say something, then stopped. To cover his embarrassment, he stubbed out his cigar which was only half burned.
“It’s up to you, of course,” Motley went on.
“Well, I’ll see how things work out. Maybe I’ll look in later.”
“Suit yourself,” Motley said. “But there’s no point in letting all the young punks fight over her. You know what it’s like when she goes to a dance on her own. I have my own dish to look after.”
Adams, watching and listening, saw Howard’s face tighten, and he knew Motley had hit him where it hurt.