“You’re not scared of a punk like Thompson, are you?” he asked, blankly.
“I didn’t say I was scared of anyone,” I said patiently. “I’m respectable now. My wild days are over. I own a wife and a service station. I’m not risking being sent to jail or the chair because you boys can’t do your job.”
He eyed me thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll keep an eye on your place,” he said. “Will that do?”
“That’s what I want, and suppose Bat turns up when your eye isn’t on the place. What then?”
“You deal with him. You’d be within your rights.”
I shook my head. “I’ve killed about six men now and pleaded self defence. That plea is wearing a little thin. A bright lawyer might sway a jury and rail-road me to the chair. I’m through with that stuff. Have me made a deputy sheriff. I haven’t even a permit for this rod.”
“Don’t show me,” he said, hurriedly closing his eyes. “I don’t want to know about it. I can’t make you a deputy sheriff. Maybe the D.A. might play.”
I had an idea. “Say, Bat’s wanted by the Federal Office. Maybe…”
“Try them,” Mallory said. “In the meantime I’ll detail a patrolman to keep an eye on your place.”
I thanked him, drove over to the Federal Bureau, asked to see someone in charge.