Butch got to his feet. He moved round the small table, on which stood a bottle and glasses. He held out his hand. “So you’re Dillon, the fight-fixer?” There was a faint sneer in his voice.
Dillon looked him over, looked at his hand and ignored it.
Butch moved his great paw impatiently. “Gimme your hand,” he said. “I wantta see what kind of a guy you are.”
A gleam came into Dillon’s eyes. He put his hand in Butch’s. Then Butch squeezed. The tremendous muscles of his forearm swelled as he put all his strength into a crushing grip. The sweat suddenly jumped out of Dillon’s face. He shifted his feet, then swung a punch at Butch with his left, coming up and hitting. Butch in his thick throat. It thumped into Butch like a cleaver into beef. Butch reeled back, making a croaking sound. Gurney sprang to his feet and saved him from going over.
Dillon stood flexing his ringers. “That’s the kind of a guy I am,” he said evenly.
Butch put his fingers to his throat. He sat down a little heavily. No one had hit him so hard since he left the resin. He said, when he got his breath, “This guy’s okay, he can punch.”
Dillon came a little nearer. “Suppose we get inside where I can see you.”
They went inside without a word. Dillon stood by the window. He said, “Sit down.”
Gurney said, “There’s some booze outside, want any?”
Dillon looked at him. “I don’t use it. Forget it! This is important. Franks has got your boy on the run. You’re all backing Sankey for a win. Sankey ain’t goin’ to win unless Franks is so goddam bad that a child could push him around. That right?”