“Everybody listen,” he said. In a minute or two there was quiet and they all were looking at him. “Cash in your chips and get out quietly. This joint is closing for good. There ain't no argument. . . cash in and beat it.”
Tall, square-built, his eyes unwavering, he stood there loosely and looked out at them... and they began to do his bidding. There were mutterings and an undercurrent of antipathy, but he conveyed to them a quiet force and although he hadn't told them who he was everybody sensed that he was a Ranger. They began to shuffle... and in a little while the room was devoid of customers. A few of the dealers and two or three waiters stood around. The rear door opened and Botchey Miller ambled out, smiling sourly.
“Miller,” Bender said, “keep this place shut down. Tomorrow I'm gonna start a bonfire with your furniture.”
Botchey Miller said between his teeth: “You'll never get away with this—you'll never get away with it.”
Tom Bender grinned and told him he'd been getting away with it for fifteen years.
“You close that roadhouse tonight or I'll fix it for you,” he said.
“Aw, lissen—” Miller said, “you—”
“You heard me. You guys catch a rabbit.”
He walked out.
The taxi driver kept his appointment and at ten o'clock straight up he parked his flivver in front of the hotel and started inside. At precisely the same moment the Negro bell-boy came through the lobby paging Mr. Bender. The driver spotted him and came over, but Bender told him to wait a moment and answered the page. The bell-boy took him over to the desk and said that gentleman there was waiting for him.