“I might,” Golding said menacingly.
“Bill!” the woman exclaimed. “Shut up!”
Mason puffed at his cigarette. “Someone declared an open season on Cullens,” he said.
Golding started to say something. The woman screamed at him, “You shut up, Bill Golding. You talk too damn much!”
“Or not enough,” Mason said.
“Well, all he’s going to,” the woman insisted. “You’ve got our story — all of it.”
“That story,” Mason said, “doesn’t hold together.”
“Try and pull it apart,” Golding invited.
Mason said, “You were tipped off Cullens was killed. You decided it’d be fine if he hadn’t been here. You tipped off your employees. You didn’t figure you’d get such prompt action. When I came up and offered to have the homicide squad go through the customers in the place, you knew you were licked. So you decided to admit he’d been here, but swear that was all. You figure no one alive can contradict you.”
“That’s your story,” Golding said. “I’ve told mine and I’m sticking to it. You start pushing me around and I’ll make things hot for you.”