“A rat less won’t make any difference. Pop him, before he pops you.”
Duffy looked at the gun with distaste. He shook his head. “No,” he said, “I guess I wouldn’t go that far.”
For a moment she sat very still, then she said, “He’s right. You’re soft and you’re yellow.”
Duffy took the gun from her and put it back into the panel. He sat looking at the knife-edge crease of his trousers. “No dough’s worth murder,” he said. “If you and me are going to get along, we got to think the same way.”
She put her hand on his arm. “I guess I’m a heel,” she said.
“Forget it,” he said. “You’re fine.”
“You go ahead. The next move’s yours.”
“Let’s take Gleason for a ride. If we get some dough out of him, we can scram to the coast. Would you like that? Some nice hot place with plenty of yellow sand. With a sky real blue and just you and me?”
She leant back. “It sounds pretty good.”
“It would be a lot better than having the cops chasing you and getting that nice little bottom of yours burnt. Come on, honey, let’s look Gleason up.”