“I’ll close at thirty,” Johnny said, watching O’Brien closely. O’Brien appeared to hesitate, then he shrugged. “Okay: thirty. My agent will give you half in New York and you’ll get the other half in Paris.”
“You wouldn’t double-cross me, would you, Sean? If I don’t get the money, I’ll come back.”
“By then the police may be looking for you. You seem to have forgotten you killed a woman last night.”
“Why shouldn’t I forget it? That’s your headache. I want some money now. How about my air passage?”
“My agent will take care of that,” O’Brien said glibly. He took out his billfold, counted three hundred dollars on to the table and waved his hand. “There you are: take it.”
Johnny didn’t need a second invitation. He slid off the bunk, collected the money and put it in his pocket.
“You must want her, Sean,” he said, grinning. “Brother! You must want her to part with all that dough. I wouldn’t give all that for her or any woman.” O’Brien had to make an effort to hide the fury that was raging inside him.
“There’s notepaper in that drawer. Write to Gilda and tell her you’re going to Paris and won’t be coming back for some time,” he said curtly
“Oh, the hell with that!” Johnny said impatiently. “You tell her. Why should I bother to write?”
“Write to her or the deal’s off!” O’Brien said, his rage sounding in his voice.