“You weren’t doing any good by being in a speakeasy,” retorted Flash. “You should have been sticking close to the hotel. Last night was the big night and you — asleep!”
“It was an accident, Flash,” responded Dip. “Honest. I thought a guy was goin’ to slug me, an’ I started to pull my gat. Then a whole mob lit on me. I was in a bad jam, Flash.
“There was a guy there helped me out. Say, Flash” — Dip was seeking to arouse enthusiasm — “there’s a bird we can use, any time you need him. Cliff Marsland. He’s an ace. He’s a friend of Pete’s—”
“Don’t talk about that now,” broke in Flash. “I’m not figuring on who I’m going to get with me. I’m wondering how I can get rid of mugs like you. Think that over!”
Dip Riker did think it over. He sat silently, watching Flash from the corner of his eyes. Rebukes were not to Dip’s liking; but he could furnish no retort.
At times, he was on the verge of speaking, but invariably thought better of it. Flash did not reopen the conversation.
Twenty minutes passed, and Dip began to wonder why Flash Donegan had summoned him here tonight. Certainly they were gaining nothing by silence.
Dip wanted to talk, but every time he opened his mouth, the sight of Flash stopped him. The smooth-mannered racketeer was in an evil humor. Dip had no desire to further arouse his ire.
There was another rap at the door. Flash growled in response. In came Lance Bolero. Flash motioned the tawny gunman to a chair.
Bolero looked at Dip Riker. He sensed the situation. Like Dip, Lance was not anxious to talk.