He grinned at her.
“The number was engaged.” He ran his eyes over her. She was good, but not in the same class as that red-headed devil. Still, she would have to do instead. He would take her somewhere in the dark and imagine she was Dolores. She wasn’t going to forget this night with him. He would leave a scar on her mind — a scar in memory of Dolores.
“Come on,” he said, taking her arm possessively. “Let’s eat.”
CHAPTER FOUR
I
MOE GLEB flicked a fried egg on to his plate, added two thick rashers of ham, dropped the hissing fry-pan into the sink and carried the plate to the table.
He was a thickset, undersized youth with a mop of sandy-coloured hair. His small, heart-shaped face was as white as fresh mutton fat; his small, deep-set eyes, his pinched thin mouth were hard and vicious. He looked what he was: a young hoodlum fighting with no holds barred to get into the money, as dangerous and as savage as a treed wild cat.
He sat down at the table, poured himself a cup of coffee, and began to eat ravenously.
From the window, Peter Weiner watched him.
“For cryin’ out loud!” Moe snarled, looking up suddenly. “Wadjer starin’ at? Ain’t yuh seen a guy eat before?”