Noolen said, “I didn’t say I’d do it.”
“I’m goin’ to smack you in a minute if you go on like this,” Fenner said. “Forget I’m anything to do with the cops. This burg doesn’t mean anything to me. I want Carlos and his mob kicked out of here, an’ I’m having the fun of seein’ it done. After that I’m clearing out. It’s up to you to horn in and make yourself the King Pin when they’ve gone.”
Noolen got up. “I think the outfit’s too big, but if that’s the way you put it, I’ll see how it goes.”
They went out together. A four-minute drive brought them to a pool room on Duval Street. Noolen walked in, followed by Fenner. The barman nodded to Noolen, who went on through the back.
In a large room with one billiard table and two green-shaded lamps, five men stood around making the atmosphere thick with tobacco smoke.
They all looked up quickly as Noolen and Fenner walked in. One of them put his cue in the rack and slouched out of the room.
Noolen said, “I wantta talk to you boys.”
They came drifting up through the smoke, their faces expressionless and their cold eyes restless. Noolen jerked his thumb at Fenner. “This guy’s Fenner. He’s been gettin’ ideas about Carlos’s mob. Think it’s time we rode them outta town.”
They all looked at Fenner. Then a tall thin man, with a cut-away chin and watery, vicious eyes said, “Yeah? Well, that’s a swell idea. That’ll get us all a bang-up funeral, sure thing.”
Fenner said quietly, “Let me know these guys.”