“He gives you a cut.”
“Of course. But he must find his own protection.”
Larrigan was on the point of being convinced by Savoli’s argument. Borrango was ready to add persuasion. But before the Irishman could formulate a further reply, Savoli became suddenly direct in his statements.
“It is good for you,” he said quietly, “that Schultz and Spirak were bumped off.”
“What do you mean?” exclaimed Larrigan.
“Were you master of your own mob?” questioned Savoli, with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “No, Larrigan, you were not. You had your gang; Schultz and Spirak had theirs. You often went by what they said. Their men were yours — while you did what they wanted. Am I right?”
LARRIGAN’S freckled face became red. He was too angry to speak, but his wrath left him as suddenly as it had come. He stared at Savoli, and was met with a look that was firm, yet not unfriendly. Borrango broke the strain.
“Nick is a friend of yours, Mike,” he insisted. “He is not trying to make you feel bad. You told him what you thought; he is telling you what he thinks. It is all between friends.”
“Well,” said Larrigan slowly, “you may be right, Nick. I never looked at it that way, but you may be right. Those two fellows were pals of mine, though. Don’t forget that!”
“I have not forgotten it,” said Savoli quietly. “Like you, I am sorry that they are dead. But friends of mine have died, too. We have ourselves to think about.”