“What's your name?” he repeated.
Unintelligible growls came from the man's throat and words finally took form. “Wright, you!” he cried. “You got a nerve—”
“Yeah,” Bender said. He looked at Miller, who was standing stiff and straight as a tent pole. “All right, Miller, clean the house out. You're closing tight as a drum.”
Botchey Miller was boiling inside and his eyes were swimming in anger, but he managed to say: “Aw, hell... I got to have a chance. Let's talk this over.”
Bender shook his head and kept his .38 across his hip. Wright and Price were a little way in front of him and both of them were itching to go after their guns, but they were afraid to.
“Talkin's out,” Bender snapped. “You're closing right now. Are you gonna do this or am I?”
“Well,” Miller sneered, “since you're so—tough suppose you do it.”
“Okey. Your roadhouse is closing, too. I'm going out there later and if it's open I'll roll you guys good.”
He turned around and walked out.
Outside Tom Bender stopped in the middle of the floor and raised his voice.