Gurney winked at Freedman. “He asks me it it’s straight? Me! Take him away someone an’ bury him.”
Freedman said, “I’d like your boy to push this Dillon around. That’s what that bastard wants.”
Gurney raised his eyebrows. “Dillon? Who’s he?”
They jostled one another to tell him. Gurney stood, his shoulders against the wall, a glass in his hand, and listened. He said at last, “Abe ain’t no fool This guy can’t be so bad.”
Freedman said, “He’s got Goldberg tooled.”
Gurney was getting sick of Freedman. He straightened his coat, leant forward over the counter, and adjusted his hat in the wall mirror. “I gotta see Abe; I’ll look this guy over.”
Freedman made as if to go with him. Gurney checked him with a look. “This is a little matter of business,” he said.
Freedman said, “Sure, you go ahead.” He said it hastily. He didn’t want to get in bad with Gurney.
Crossing the street, Gurney entered the store. It was the slack part of the day, and the place was empty. Dillon came out from the back, and stood with his hands resting on the counter, framed by two towers of tinned foods. He was wearing one of Abe’s store suits that fitted him in places, and his face was close-shaven. He didn’t look the hobo that had come into Plattsville a few days back. He looked at Gurney from under his eyelids. A cold, suspicious stare. Gurney thought he might be a mean sort of a guy.
“Abe about?” he asked.