“I’m on business,” Dillon said, and went on.
The little runt had to let him go; he was just swept aside.
Dillon wandered into Sankey’s room. Hank was sitting on a stool beside the table. Sankey was lying on the table, a bright-red dressing-gown covered him. They both looked up as Dillon came in.
Hank said, “He’s on next but one.”
Dillon pursed his lips. “You okay?” he said.
Sankey half sat up. “Sure I’m okay. This guy’s goin’ to take a dive, ain’t he?”
Dillon nodded. “That don’t mean you ain’t gotta try,” he said evenly; “you gotta watch this guy, Sankey.”
Hank said heatedly, “Sure he’ll watch him… what you think?”
Dillon nodded. Then he wandered out again. He walked softly down the corridor until he came to Franks’ room. He put his hand inside his coat, feeling the cold butt of the Colt. Then he opened the door and went in.
Franks was staring moodily at his feet. His trainer, Borg, was sitting despondently on a wooden chair, cleaning his nails with a small knife. He looked up sharply as Dillon came in. “Wrong room, buddy,” he said crisply. “On your way.”