“Your punks weren’t invited to this conference.”
The gambler halted in front of him, his icy eyes fixed on the top button of Shayne’s coat. His two bodyguards ranged up beside him. He asked, “How do I know what you’re fixing to pull, Shamus? I’ve a right to have my friends along in case you spring one of your fast ones.”
Shayne laughed. “A lot of good those two would be if I did frame you for murder. Don’t forget you’re out west, Two-Deck, where the trees grow tall.” He stepped aside to let Bryant pass, warning the others, “This is a private performance, boys. You can wait outside.”
The one whom Shayne had disarmed the night before rasped, “How about it, Chief? Do we stay?”
Anger flamed in Shayne’s eyes. He gave Bryant a shove through the doorway, then blocked the opening. His fists were bunched at his sides. Through his teeth, he said, “Beat it.”
The two gunsels hesitated. Each had a right hand lumped in his coat pocket.
Casey appeared beside Shayne and asked, “You want I should light a fire under ’em, Mike?”
Shayne said, “You won’t have to. They’re going out like good little boys.” Deprived of Bryant’s moral support they turned silently and padded down the hall.
Olivia Mattson came through the door as it was swinging shut behind Bryant’s erstwhile bodyguards. She looked trim and neat and almost youthful in a tailored suit of heather-green wool and an absurd little hat tilted down over her right eye. She was camouflaged with a lot of rouge, and managed a flippant smile as she came up to Shayne.
“Here I am. I hope you won’t keep me long.”