“Positive!”
Killer Durgan arose and walked back and forth across the room. He seemed indifferent to Ernie’s presence. His hand brushed against a dainty liquor glass that was on a table.
The fragile goblet broke when it struck the floor, despite the thickness of the rug. Durgan stepped upon the pieces and ground them savagely beneath his foot. Then he glared toward Shires.
“You know why they call me Killer?” he demanded.
“I’ve heard,” replied Shires.
“All right! I get them when I go after them! But I quit using the rod when I got into this racket. The pickings are too soft.
“Look at this joint.” He swept his hand about the room. “Does this look like Tim Waldron’s place?”
“No!”
“You’re right it don’t! A dozen Tim Waldrons couldn’t raise the dough to keep up a joint like this! But it’s small change for me.
“The moll wants it this way — that’s why I’ve got it — and it only costs me my pickle money!