He laughed not only when the mark made some crack, but a lot of the time when he didn't. It got so the customers were looking at him with a lot of dislike, and that was bad for business.
So I called him out into the hall. "Skippy," I said—that's what we called him, "lay off. Never rub it in to a sucker. It's enough to take his money."
He ran his fingers back along his hair. "Can't a fellow express himself?"
I gave him a long, hard unhealthy look. Express himself? He wouldn't have to. I'd express him myself—express him right out of our setup.
But before I got a chance, this fellow from Chicago came in, a big manufacturer named Chapo; a wheel, and he looked it. He was red-faced, with hanging jowls and a big dollar cigar; he announced that he only played for big stakes ... and, nodding toward the kid and me, that he didn't like an audience.
Henry looked at us miserably. But what was he going to do? If he didn't go along, the word could spread that maybe there was something wrong going on. He had to play. "Take the day off, you two," he said, but he wasn't happy.
I thought fast.
There was still one chance. I got behind Chapo long enough to give Henry a wink and a nod toward the window. Then I took Skippy by the elbow and steered him out of there.
Down in the street I said, fast: "You want to earn your pay? You have to give me a hand—an eye is really what I mean. Don't argue—just say yes or no."
He didn't stop to think. "Sure," he said. "Why not?"