The little guy giggled. He put his hand inside his coat and took out an envelope. He opened it and drew out a sheaf of notes. Duffy watched him count them. Twenty-five grand. Then Duffy took the note-book out and they exchanged. The little guy said, “And the duplicate?” Duffy smiled. His eyes were like ice. “The State’s got that.”
The little guy shook his head sadly. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said. “Morgan’s going to get mad when I tell him that.”
Duffy said deliberately, “Morgan can —— himself.”
The little guy giggled again. “I’ll tell him that too.” He put the note-book in his pocket. “Those notes are phoneys,” he said, as an afterthought.
Duffy took the envelope out of his pocket, examined one of the notes carefully. It looked all right to him. “You don’t say,” he said.
The little guy nodded cheerfully. “Sure, Morgan wouldn’t pay a punk like you in real dough.”
Duffy put the notes away. He had an idea.
The little guy said, “Well, for God’s sake, you’re taking it quietly, ain’t you?”
Duffy said, “Take my tip, scram.”
The little guy looked at him, then nodded. “You’ll see me again, of course,” he said apologetically.