George picked up his tankard and drank. The beer tasted warm and flat. Without looking at Brant, he said, “Yeah—Frank Kelly. I used to work for him in the good old days.”
“Kelly?” Brant was still and tense. “You mean, the gangster?”
George nodded. “Sure,” he said, feeling an infuriating rush of blood mounting to his face. “Poor old Frank. He certainly had a bad break.” He set his tankard down, and in an endeavour to conceal his confusion, he lit a cigarette. “But, of course, that was some time ago.”
Brant’s thin mouth twisted. “Still, now you know, you’re not going to let Robinson get away with this, are you?”
George suddenly saw the trap he had dug for himself. If Brant was to think anything of him, he’d have to go through with it.
“You bet I’m not,” he growled, scowling fiercely into his empty tankard.
“Good,” Brant said, a veiled, jeering look in his eyes. “That’ll save me some trouble. You’d know how to talk to him, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll fix him,” George threatened, feeling a growing dismay. “No one’s ever pulled a fast one on me without regretting it.”
“I’ll come with you,” Brant said softly. “I’d like to see how you handle him.”
George shook his head. “You’d better leave this to me,” he said feebly. “I might lose my temper with him I don’t want witnesses.”