Butch leant forward. “What the hell’s this?” he snarled. “That palooka’s out on his feet already.”
Gurney scratched his chin. “What the hell can I do about it? Franks has scared him, got him jittery. They ran into each other at the boozer the other night. You know Franks, he got on Sankey’s nerves.”
Butch got to his feet. He raised his clenched fists above his head. “The yellow punk,” he said, his voice suppressed and strangled. “You gotta do somethin’, Gurney. I’ve got too much dough on that bum to risk. I tell you, you gotta do somethin’.”
“I’ve got a hundred bucks on him myself,” Gurney said uneasily. “He’s a trifle over-trained, I guess.”
“You’ve got a week to fix things,” Butch said slowly. “Use your head.”
Myra came out on the verandah. Her eyes were fixed on Gurney. Butch jerked his head round. “Where’ve you been?” he demanded.
“Your supper’s ready,” she said.
Gurney got to his feet. “Okay, Butch, I’ll see what I can do.”
Very softly he walked across to Myra and kissed her. Kissed her right under Butch’s nose. Myra didn’t dare stop him, but she went so white that he held her arm for a second.
“What you doin’?” Butch asked. He stood there, his head on one side, straining his ears.