Gurney poured himself out a shot of bourbon and pushed the bottle over to Morgan. “And Sankey?”
“Sankey’s got his nerve back. He’s a big shot now the brawl’s rigged. That guy’s got a yellow streak somewhere.”
Morgan didn’t like that, but he kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t sure of Dillon. “Too bad about Butch,” he said, pushing the conversation into safer channels.
Dillon raised his eyebrows. “I ain’t heard,” he said.
Gurney looked uncomfortable. He hurriedly filled his glass. Under his eyelids, Dillon watched him.
Morgan gave a tinny laugh. “Ain’t you heard? Say, it’s rich! That little kid of his nearly knocked his block off.”
“You’re crazy,” Dillon said, frowning.
“It sounds like that, but it’s on the level. Old Butch comes back from an evenin’ out, and catches her with some guy neckin’ in the front room. Gee! I’d like to’ve been there. She didn’t have a stitch on. The guy blows his top an’ lams through the window. I guess it must’ve been a scream.” Morgan hit his thigh, bending forward, laughing in a hoarse burst.
Dillon eyed him contemptuously.
“Then Butch takes his belt to her and raises a few blisters. Just what’s been comin’ to that little broad. After he’s half skinned her she breaks loose, an’ damn if she don’t bounce a chair on his dome. I tell you, that dame is sure hot an’ wild. She goes on bouncin’ that chair until Butch takes the count. He’s lying up now, sore as a bear with a boil, an’ the kid’s runnin’ the house, givin’ herself airs.”