I said, “I may be here for a while. I may want some cooperation. You fellows made things hard for me while I was getting started. I just want you to understand that. You can make up for it later. That would be all I’d want.”
Breckenridge held his face in a poker mask. “You kidding us?”
“No. It’s on the square.”
Breckenridge pushed back his chair, shot his hand across the desk, and said, “That’s damn square, Lam. Shake.”
I shook hands. When Breckenridge released my hand, I saw Kleinsmidt’s big paw out in front of me. I shook it, too. It was moist and hot, and it had bone-crushing strength.
“Exactly what do you want?” Breckenridge asked.
“First,” I said, “I want to talk with Louie. I want to know what he knows about the girl who was playing the machines.”
Breckenridge said, “Personally, I think Louie is full of prunes. He drifted in here from San Francisco, telling me about how he’d worked in the resorts and knew all the gangs that were working on the slot machines. Evidently, he was a good man with his mitts in the Navy. That’s the trouble. They’ve jarred his brain loose from its moorings. He’s punch drunk.”
I rubbed my sore face. “He’s got a good wallop,” I admitted.
They laughed.