Nightingale made an expressive gesture. He waved his hand round the room and shrugged. “All this is his. I’m just his front.”
Fenner grunted. “You keep pluggin’ because you’ve got nothing else?”
Nightingale nodded. “Sure,” he said; “I gotta live.”
“Curly? Where does she come in on this?”
The weak eyes snapped behind the lenses. “You leave her outta this.”
Fenner said, “She’s gone soft on Carlos.”
Nightingale took two little shuffling steps forward. He swung over a left that caught Fenner flush on the chin. It was meant to be a socker, but a man like Nightingale hadn’t any iron in his bones. Fenner didn’t even rock. _He said, “You’re under my weight. Forget it.” Nightingale started another punch, then switched to his pocket. Fenner sunk his fist in his ribs. Nightingale went down on his knees with a sigh, rolled over on his side and got his gun out. Fenner stepped forward and stamped on his wrist. The gun clattered on the parquet, then bounced on to the pile carpet. Fenner knelt down and jerked Nightingale round by his coat collar.
“I said, forget it.” He shook the little man. “If you don’t believe me, then you’ll believe someone else some other time, but I ain’t fighting with you over any dame.”
Nightingale drew his lips off his teeth, started to say something, stopped and looked beyond Fenner, over his shoulder. His anger changed to alarm. Fenner saw a man standing behind him. He saw the miniature of the man in Nightingale’s glasses. He saw an arm come up, and he tried to turn. Something exploded inside his head and he fell forward. He scraped the skin off his nose on Nightingale’s coat buttons.