Hank said, “Sure.” But it wasn’t impressive.
“I’m goin’ to need a lot of luck with Franks,” Sankey mumbled.
Butch stiffened. “For God’s sake, that guy ain’t no use. He can’t hit you.”
Sankey shifted. “I wish to hell you’re right.”
“That punk couldn’t hit you with a handful of gravel.”
“He ain’t got to hit me with gravel, has he?” Sankey turned to the rail and sat on it. He still kept his head down.
Butch rubbed both his hands over his bald head. “Listen, this is crazy talk. When you get in there, you’re goin’ to give this punk the works, see? You’re going to left-hand him till you’ve pushed his nut off his neck. Then over with your right, an’ lay him among the sweet peas.”
Sankey didn’t say anything.
Butch was getting the jitters. “Where’s Gurney? Ain’t he here?” he asked suddenly.
“Sure,” Hank said quickly. “He’s fixin’ the auto. She ain’t so good as she was. He’ll be along.”