“No one. I’m telling you. For myself.”
“Nuts. Give me the gun, Mort, and get some cord and the pliers.”
Mort handed the gun over, went to a chest of drawers in the rear and opened one, and returned with a brown ball of heavy cord and a pair of pliers. The pliers were medium-sized and had something wrapped around the jaws, but I couldn’t tell what. He came up behind Fred. “Put your hands back here.”
Fred didn’t move.
“Do you want to get slammed with your own gun? Put your paws back.”
Fred obeyed. Mort unrolled a length of cord, cut it off with a knife, went down on his knees, did a thorough job of tying Fred’s wrists, and wrapped the ends of the cord around the rung of the chair and tied them. Then he picked up the pliers. I couldn’t see what he did with them, but I didn’t need to.
“Does that hurt?” he asked.
“No,” Fred said.
Mort laughed. “You be careful. You’re goin’ to answer some questions. If you get excited and start jerkin’ you’re apt to lose a finger, so watch it. All set, Lips.”
Egan was seated across from Fred, with the hand that held the gun resting on the tabletop. “Who you working for, Durkin?”