“You said you weren’t working, Shamus.”
Shayne whirled to face Two-Deck Bryant’s cold blue eyes glaring at him.
Shayne said, “I knew, by God, you were going to spoil my vacation.”
Casey chuckled, standing behind Bryant. “Nice layout you’ve got here, Mike.”
One of Bryant’s bodyguards was slumped against the wall with the knuckles of his injured hand pressed against his mouth. The other was out cold.
Shayne’s eyes bored into Bryant’s. He said, “I’ve been looking for you all day. What angle are you playing — trying to get me in Dutch by saying those Indian blankets were phony?”
Bryant laughed uproariously and unpleasantly. “You were made for a fall guy, Shamus. I figured the big yokel would smear you up good, especially when the sheriff was standing right behind you.”
Shayne slapped Bryant a backhanded blow that brought a trickle of blood from the gambler’s upper lip.
Bryant wiped the blood away with a white linen handkerchief. In a low, furious voice, he warned, “You’re going to swing on the wrong guy one of these days.”
“Not as long as you set up tenpins in my alley.” Shayne turned to Casey and asked, “Are you having trouble with Bryant?”