Shayne finished his drink. He hurled the glass across the room and shattered it against the wall. He said bitterly,
“Thank God I haven’t got any prestige to lose. You’re not running out on me, Marsh. Not by a damn sight. You’re going to stay in this election and win whether you like it or not.”
Marsh set his lips stubbornly. “Further discussion is useless. My mind is made up.”
“Then you’re going to unmake it.” Shayne got to his feet. He strode forward and stopped in front of Marsh on widespread legs. “No man is going to pull a fade-out on me. I always finish what I start.”
“It can’t matter particularly to you,” Marsh protested. “You have no money invested in my campaign. I’m the loser.”
Shayne studied him out of bleak gray eyes. Marsh’s wiry energy appeared completely dissipated. Except for the grim set of his thin jaw and the sullen determination of his elongated eyes, he was a picture of defeatism.
“I’ve got something invested in this election that means the same thing as money,” Shayne said harshly. “My reputation for knowing my way around. Do you think I’ll let a weak-livered punk take that away from me?”
“I refuse to be intimidated. It’s my decision and nothing can change it.”
“I’ll see about that.” Shayne turned on his heel and went to the telephone, dialed a number.
He said, “Hello, Joe? Mike Shayne talking. Are you making book on the local election? Fine! I’ve got a little two-to-one money on Marsh.”