“I don’t reckon Louie is feeling too good right now,” Tux said guardedly. “He’s got a dome like an egg-shell.”
“Does that mean he’s dead?”
Tux lifted his shoulders.
“He could be. He spilt a lot of brain.”
O’Brien rubbed his jaw.
“This set-up is getting out of hand,” he said, took out a cigar and bit off the end. “It might be a good thing if Louie did croak.”
Tux looked relieved.
“It’ll surprise me if he doesn’t.”
“We don’t want any death-bed confessions.”
“He was too far gone to talk when we left him.”