The Dropper was in his own castle. The bunks in the den were filled with the reclining forms of a number of men who would commit murder at his bidding. He had, safely planted, the only hundred toys of choice Victoria hop in all of Chicago. One could buy most anything, from virtue to a man’s soul, with opium at the current prices.
He considered the matter of Fay with a slow brain. Back in the heart of him there lurked a fear for a five-figure man. They did big things. They were supercrooks. Their weight might be felt through political influence.
“I’m hep!” he said sullenly. “You want to cop the skirt from me. You want to tell her about diamonds and rubies and strings of pearls—of swag and kale and the easy life swillin’ wine.”
“I don’t want to do anything of the kind. I’ve got a message for her from her old man. He’s not well,” Fay added cautiously, remembering that under the law the Dropper might be considered Emily’s guardian.
“So he aint goin’ to get sprung? I heard he had a swell mouthpiece who was workin’ with the pollies.”
“The appeal was denied last week. The governor turned it down—cold. Charley may have to serve his full term.”
“Oh, well, if that’s the straight of it— I’ll get the moll an’ let you chin with her a bit. Remember, no fancy stuff.”
Fay stared at the dive-keeper disgustedly. The Dropper weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds. He moved his gross form across the matting, paused at the screen where the piglike dog lay, and lumbered out of sight. His voice rasped in a shout: “Emily!”
Her entrance came a minute after Fay had seated himself at the poker-table. His hand rested on his hat. He heard the Dropper’s nagging oaths.