"Darling, fighting results from frustration and breeds even more frustration and anger. But somehow men get cornered until—well, they have to. Not Tony. He was a gay fool, tilting at windmills. Oh, Grant! I know you're wrong, but you're right, too, and inside I'm so glad!"
He wanted to erase the worry behind her gladness, to smother it with reassurance. They went up together to Slag's suite. Teagle was at the door. "Glad to see you, Mahomet," he said to Grant. "The contract's all ready to sign. I guess you'll want your cut for charity, eh?"
"You won't, I suppose."
"Not on your life. Excuse the double meaning, Miss." He smirked at Bee. "I ask you, who's going to match us after we knock this one off?"
Slag stared glumly from a chair, not even removing his hand from the glass beside him. "Practicing," he said. "Getting into shape for our tussle, Doc. Like Teagle said, you had to come across."
Grant took the papers from the manager, filled in the blanks and signed.
"Don't talk much, this Doc Lane," said Slag. "Should I show him, Teagle?"
"Sure thing. Watch this practice, Doc."
The big man concentrated on the amber bottle beside him. Slowly, jerkily, it lifted—one inch, then two. Slag relaxed, and watched it ring as it fell to the table. "My job when I retire," he said. "Got to pour it right into the glass. Pretty hot, eh?"
Grant gave no warning. The man's trousers were deluged as the glass shattered in his hand. He leaped up cursing, and then moved quickly and with ugly purpose toward his visitors.