“Sure,” Davis said. “Coppinger will handle it. He hasn’t any time for Killeano. I’ll get after him. Where is she?”
“In the jail. And listen, money’s no object. Tell this guy to get down there right away. Then when you’ve fixed him come over here fast. I want to talk to you.”
“I’ll be along,” he said, and hung up.
I dropped the receiver on its hook and pushed back my chair.
Tim was eyeing me. “Can he do it?”
I nodded. “He’s coming over as soon as he’s fixed the mouthpiece,” I said, and walked to the window.
I didn’t know what the hell was the matter with me. I’d never felt like this before. I was cold; my muscles flicked the way a horse flicks its muscles to get rid of flies. My mouth was dry and I felt sick. I wanted to go down to the jail and start shooting. I didn’t care what happened to me so long as I could kill some of those rats who’d got that kid in their hands.
“Give me a drink,” I said, without looking round.
Tim gave me a whisky.
I faced him. “You better keep out of this,” I said abruptly. “I’m going to start a massacre in this town if I don’t get her out. It’s Killeano or me, and I’m stopping at nothing.”