“What the hell’s that to do with you?” Louie demanded, backing away.
“Plenty, pally,” Tux said, and his hand came out of his pocket. The squatnosed automatic threatened Louie. “Come on. Didn’t you know she belongs to O’Brien?”
Louie stiffened, his face went white and his mouth turned dry.
He stared at the gun as if hypnotized.
“Come on,” Tux repeated. “You’ve been playing with dynamite.”
“O’Brien?” Louie croaked. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Why should she?” Tux said, and dug the gun into Louie’s ribs. “Let’s go, pally.”
Louie walked to the end of the alley on unsteady legs. He knew enough about Tux not to try to run.
There was a car at the end of the alley. Whitey, a fat, jovial-looking ruffian, his chin unshaven and a lank lock of hair hanging over his ear from under his hat, sat at the wheel.
“Hi, Louie,” he said, grinning through the open window. “Long time no see.”