Dexter eyed the Colt and flinched away from Mike’s concentrated glare.
“You guys can’t threaten me,” he said feebly.
“We can try,” Kerman said calmly. “Give you ten seconds before we start something.”
“Don’t crowd the fella,” I said, and took from my wallet ten ten-dollar bills. I spread them out on the table and pushed them towards Dexter. “Come on, take your money and let’s get moving. Sherrill’s washed up. The cops will move in by tomorrow. Cash in while the going’s good.”
Dexter hesitated, then picked up the notes, and rustled them between dirty fingers.
“I wouldn’t do it for anyone else,” he said to Mike.
We finished our drinks, pushed back our chairs and went out on to the water-front. It was a hot-still night, with a hint of rain in the sky. Way out on the horizon I could see the lights of the Dream Ship.
We tramped down an alley to Dexter’s warehouse. It was in darkness. As he unlocked and pushed open the door the smell of tar, oil, damp clothes and rubber came out to greet us. The warehouse was big and cluttered up with cases and coils of rope and bundles tied up in tarred paper, waiting to be delivered to the ships at anchor beyond the harbour. In the middle of the floor was a five-foot square packing-case.
“That’s it,” Dexter said gloomily.
We got busy unpacking the case.