Hughson filled his glass. He looked at the clock. “Deadline 12.1,” he said.
Hackenschmidt grabbed a handful of drinking-straws and broke them in two; discarded one lot and carefully counted the rest. I watched him thoughtfully. “You’ve left me out,” I said, after he was through.
The guy lifted his thick lip. It was his idea of a sneer. “Yeah?” he said. “I guess you ain’t in this.”
I leant forward and picked up a straw. “Put it in the bundle and don’t be a punk,” I said, offering it to him.
He looked at me, and I looked at him. Then he took the straw. Some of these flabby guys think they’re tough. Hackenschmidt was just punk, right through.
One of the straws was a lot shorter than the others. The guy who drew the short one got Vessi’s last words. I wanted the job bad.
Hughson pulled the first straw, but he didn’t get the short one. I let three more have a go, then I shoved a little, and the other guys gave way. I knew the short one, so I got it.
The others stood round, glaring at me.
“You gotta play ball,” Hughson said. “Don’t start anythin’ that ain’t on the level.”
I tossed the straw away. “You’ll get it all,” I said. “Don’t you worry.”