“You want I should sock him, Boss?”
Soule said, “Sit down and eat your peanuts, Bart.” He sank back into his chair. “I’ve heard you were a stubborn son of a bitch, Shayne.”
Shayne sat down in a chair beside Soule’s desk. He grinned and said, “I guess I’m sort of slap-happy.”
Soule chuckled evilly. “I guess maybe you are at that.” He leaned forward and picked up a glossy unmounted print about four by five, flipped it over to Shayne. “I hear the Item is going to run that on the front page if you’re still around town this evening.”
Shayne turned the photograph over. Lucile had instinctively thrown her arms about both bare breasts as the flash went off, making it a perfect picture for newspaper reproduction. Shayne’s left arm was protectively about her shoulders. There was a look of abject terror on her face, while Shayne was snarling at the camera.
“Along with a transcript of this morning’s court record,” Soule told him, “it’ll make a juicy story even for New Orleans.”
Shayne nodded. “Mind if I keep this?”
“Hell, no,” Soule said generously. “We can get plenty just like it.”
Shayne pocketed the print, leaned back, and lit a cigarette. “If you’re smart you’ll pull away from Denton. He’s just about washed up in this town.”
“Not as long as he can come out on top with something like that picture.”