“That squealer, Max,” continued Curfoot with placid ferocity blazing in his eyes, “ought to have been put 269 away. Quint and Parson wanted us to have it done. Was it any stunt to get that dirty little shyster in some roadhouse last May?”
Brandes said:
“I’m not mixing with any gunmen after the Rosenthal business.”
“Becuz a lot of squealers done a amateur job like that, does it say that a honest job can’t be pulled?” demanded Curfoot. “Did Quint and me ask you to go to Dopey or Clabber or Pete the Wop, or any of them cheap gangsters?”
“Ah, can the gun-stuff,” said Brandes. “I’m not for it. It’s punk.”
“What’s punk?”
“Gun-play.”
“Didn’t you pull a pop on Maxy Venem the night him and Hyman Adams and Minna beat you up in front of the Knickerbocker?”
“Eddie was stalling,” interrupted Stull, as Brandes’ face turned a dull beef-red. “You talk like a bad actor, Doc. There’s other ways of getting Max in wrong. Guns ain’t what they was once. Gun-play is old stuff. But listen, now. Quint has staked us and we gotta make good. And this is a big thing, though it looks like it was out of our line.”
“Go on; what’s the idea?” inquired Curfoot, interested.