“A century!” he said. “Say, Cliff, I can’t be takin’ your dough. We was in stir together — we was buddies—”
“Forget it,” interrupted Cliff. “I’m flush, Nipper. I know where there’s plenty of money. I’m working” — he paused an instant — “working a racket of my own, Nipper. I want you with me — when I need you. Are you game?”
“Sure thing!”
THE prompt response elated Cliff. This meeting with Nipper was proving most opportune. He knew that Nipper was a fighter; that despite his frail appearance, he was the gamest crook in gangland.
There would be no danger with Nipper. The man would ask no questions, and his loyalty would never be open to question.
“Who’s in the room down the hall?” asked Cliff.
“A bunch of guys that are out on a lay,” replied Nipper.
“Working up a new racket, eh?”
“Looks that way. There’s one of ‘em — I don’t know his moniker — that looks like he might be hooked up with a big shot. Strong-lookin’ guy. Looks like he could handle a rod, all right. Got a poker-face—”
The description answered Ernie Shires.