“Yeah?” There was menace in Waldron’s tone. “Yeah? What was the matter with Ernie Shires, the guy that has the tough gorillas?”
“There’s nothing the matter with me,” retorted Shires. “But when it comes to them gorillas, they’re yours — not mine! You can have the bunch of ‘em at a dime apiece, so far as I’m concerned!”
Waldron leaned back in his chair. His eyebrows narrowed as he threw his cigar butt in a corner and drew another stogie from his pocket.
For a moment, his eyes were menacing; then his voice became smooth.
“Spill it, Ernie,” he said.
SHIRES looked at him suspiciously. He walked across the room and leaned against the wall. The paleness had gone from his face. The hardness of his features was more pronounced.
“Before you begin,” said Waldron quietly, “I’d better remind you what I told you tonight. Remember? I’ve been paying you one grand a week, waiting for something where I’d need you.
“I kept you out of the collecting end because I smelled trouble, and didn’t want you mixed up too heavy in the legit side of the business. Those gorillas — well, I supplied the dough for them — but you picked them. Don’t forget that!”
“Well, I got a bum steer, that’s all,” said Ernie sullenly. “I know this racket, Tim. It may be a new one, but you’re running it like a lot of other guys. Collecting the dough from all these two-by-four storage houses. Making ‘em keep their prices the same. Each one to his own territory.
“Soft, wasn’t it, the way they fell in line! Until this one guy — Burton Brooks — tells you it’s all off, and gets a few other small fry to do the same.