Sam shook his head unbelievingly. “You mean you’re going to call the law in on this?”
“I certainly am!”
Sam sighed regretfully. “What do you think of that, Walter? Treating his wife like that. Such a nice lady, too.”
“What are you talking about?” Morey demanded, stung on a peculiarly sensitive spot.
“I’m talking about your wife,” Sam explained. “Of course, I’m not married myself. But it seems to me that if I was, I wouldn’t call the police when my wife was engaged in some kind of criminal activity or other. No, sir, I’d try to settle it myself. Tell you what,” he advised, “why don’t you talk this over with her? Make her see the error of—”
“Wait a minute,” Morey interrupted. “You mean you’d involve my wife in this thing?”
The man spread his hands helplessly. “It’s not me that would involve her, Buster,” he said. “She already involved her own self. It takes two to make a crime, you know. I sell, maybe; I won’t deny it. But after all, I can’t sell unless somebody buys, can I?”
Morey stared at him glumly. He glanced in quick speculation at the large-sized Walter; but Walter was just as big as he’d remembered, so that took care of that. Violence was out; the police were out; that left no really attractive way of capitalizing on the good luck of running into the man again.
Sam said, “Well, I’m glad to see that’s off your mind. Now, returning to my original question, Mac, how would you like a good time? You look like a smart fellow to me; you look like you’d be kind of interested in a place I happen to know of down the block.”
Morey said bitterly, “So you’re a dive-steerer, too. A real talented man.”