“You be careful how you talk to me,” Poison said, his voice thick with rage. “A word in the right direction would make things mighty unpleasant for you.”
Grantham laughed. “Forget it, Poison,” he jeered. “You can’t scare me with that stuff. What about you?
How would you look if it got around that half your money comes from brothel investments? I’ve got your signatures, don’t forget.”
There was a long pause, then Poison said more mildly: “Don’t let us quarrel, Grantham.”
Grantham nodded. “We won’t quarrel. Don’t you worry about the business. If it doesn’t keep up its returns I promise you I’ll have a talk with you in three months’ timehow’s that?”
“Very well. I’ll see how you manage for three months.”
“By the way, Poison, how come your paper was the first on the street with the news?”
“I’m not responsible for that,” Poison said, his voice sinking to a very mild note. “I’ve got a crime reporter who’s pretty good on his job.”
“Yeah? He’s too good, Poison. He’s cut my working time down badly. I reckoned on another twenty−four hours to get organized. There might be a little trouble with the bookers now.”
“He knows all about it,” Poison said grimly. “I’ve told him to lay off the case.”