His companion amplified. “You was told to keep your nose clean, Casey,” in a flat monotone.
Phyllis Shayne drew closer to her husband, appealing to him with dark, frightened eyes.
Shayne’s gaze was negligently fixed on the two men. His rangy body was relaxed. He struck a light to a cigarette.
Casey smiled blandly at the two gunsels and tilted his straw hat to a cockier angle. He said, “All right, boys. You caught up with me.”
“Bryant’s got a bug to put in your ear,” the rasping voice told him, jerking his head toward the corridor.
They touched shoulders and moved into the room, separating when they reached Casey to allow him to pass out between them.
Casey said, “Maybe I got a bug to put in Bryant’s ear. A hornet, maybe.” He put his hands in his pockets and sauntered through the doorway, a gunman on either side.
Shayne said to Phyllis, “Casey knows the angles. Don’t worry about him.”
Casey’s voice boomed into the room from the hallway, hard and demanding: “Hello, Two-Deck. What have you got for me?”
Shayne heard Bryant’s voice but couldn’t distinguish the words. He stalked to the door with smoke rolling through his nostrils.