Gilroy opened it. The negro showed his big white teeth. “You okay?” he asked.
Duffy nodded. He said, “Come and have a drink.”
Gilroy followed him down the passage into the little room. Duffy sat on the bed and pushed his hat to the back of his head. Gilroy fixed the drinks, came over and gave Duffy a glass. He stood waiting. His thin face sleepy, but interested.
Duffy looked him over thoughtfully from the bed, scratched the side of his face, making a little rasping noise. Then he, said, “Perhaps you might like to come in on this.”
Gilroy lifted his shoulders. “Maybe,” he said, “it’s nothing to me now.”
“Gleason was knocked off tonight,” Duffy said, swirling the whisky in the glass. “I was there, so was Morgan’s gang and Gleason’s wife. She popped him and tried to pin it on me.”
Gilroy rolled up his eyes. “They’re slapping it on you all right,” he said at last.
Duffy nodded. “Sure, they got a reason. I’m holding up a million-dollar racket.” He took the note-book out of his pocket and tossed it on the table. Gilroy picked it up curiously and examined it Duffy could see it meant nothing to him.
He explained.
Gilroy sat listening, his black eyes half closed. He pursed his lips together. He said, at last, “You’ve gotta be careful.”