“A hundred bucks!” Dexter’s face twisted into a sneer. “Sherrill pays me more than that every month: regular money. I’m not doing it.”
I motioned to Mike to take it easy. He was straining forward, making a growling noise in his throat.
“Look,” I said to Dexter, “all we want you to do is to deliver this case of supplies to the ship tonight. Do that, and you’ll get a hundred. What’s scaring you?”
“And you’re going to travel inside the case,” Dexter said. “To hell with that for an idea. No one’s allowed on that ship without a permit. If they catch you—and they will —they’ll know I had something to do with it. The least Sherrill would do would be to shut down my account.
He’s likely to send someone over to crack my skull. I’m not doing it.”
As I refilled the glasses I glanced at my wrist-watch. It was half-past seven. Time was
moving.
“Listen, Joe,” Mike said, leaning forward, “this guy’s a friend of mine, see? He wants to get aboard that ship. If he wants to get aboard, he’s going to get aboard, see? Sherrill ain’t the only guy who can crack a skull. Do you do the job or do I have to get tough?”
Kerman pulled out his Colt .45 and laid it on the table.
“And when he’s through with you. I’ll start,” he said.