“Get away from the table,” I said, pausing within a few feet of him.
He hesitated, pushed back the wooden box on which he was sitting, stood up. Something fell to the floor off his lap. I glanced down. A broad, squat knife lay at his feet. It looked very sharp, deadly.
“Get back to the wall,” I said, advancing on him.
He retreated, his hands raised to his shoulders. There was no shock of fear in his eyes. As I passed the knife I picked it up, dropped it into my pocket.
“Where’s Bat Thompson?” I asked.
His eyes narrowed. “Who wants him?”
“You’d better talk,” I said. “I’m in a hurry.”
He grinned evilly. “You’ve made a mistake,” he said. “I don’t know any Bat Thompson.”
I edged towards him. “You’d better talk,” I said.
“Who are you? You’re new to the racket, ain’t you? Guys don’t threaten me. I’m everyone’s pal.”