“We’ll plant Puma if he tries any of that,” he said thickly.
Kastner added that he feared investigation more than they did because he had more at stake.
“Dot guy he iss rich like a millionaire,” he added. “Ve make him pay some dammach, too.”
“How’s he going to fire that bunch of women if they got a lease?” demanded Bromberg.
“Who the hell cares how he does it?” grunted Sondheim.
“Sure,” added Kastner; “let him dig up. You buy anybody if you haff sufficient coin. Effery time! Yess. Also! Let him dig down into his pants once. So shall 286 he pay them, these vimmen, to go avay und shut up mit their mischief what they make for us already!”
Sondheim was still muttering about “plants” in the depths of his soiled overcoat-collar, when they arrived at the hall and presented themselves at the door of Puma’s outer office.
A girl took their message. After a while she returned and piloted them out, and up a wide flight of stairs to a door marked, “No admittance.” Here she knocked, and Puma’s voice bade them enter.
Angelo Puma was standing by a desk when they trooped in, keeping their hats on. The room was ventilated and illumined in the daytime only by a very dirty transom giving on a shaft. Otherwise, there were no windows, no outlet to any outer light and air.
Two gas jets caged in wire––obsolete stage dressing-room effects––lighted the room and glimmered on Puma’s polished top-hat and the gold knob of his walking-stick.