“Give me room, fellows,” Nat Neill said. “I’m going to plug him.”
Durkin didn’t flinch. His jaw was quivering, and his eyes looked sick, but he didn’t flinch.
“This is wrong,” Con Prentiss said. “He wants us to hurt him. He’d like to be knocked cold. He’s not a coward, he’s just a snake. Did you see his eyes when you said you’d plug him? That’s what he wants.”
“It’s a moral question,” Joe Eston said. “That’s the way to handle it; it’s a moral question.”
Art Kinney shouldered between two of them to get his face within ten inches of Durkin’s. “Look, Beaky. You’ve been in baseball thirty years. You know everybody in the majors, and we know you. What do you think’s going to happen? Where could you light? We’ve got you here now, and we’re going to keep you. I’ll send for the whole damn team. How will you like that?”
“I want a lawyer,” Durkin said in a sudden burst.
“By God!” Neill roared. “He wants a lawyer! Get out of the way! I’m going to clip him!”
“No, Beaky, no lawyers,” Kinney said. “I’ll send for the boys, and we’ll lock the doors. Where’s the money? We know you got it. Where is it?”
Durkin’s head went forward, down. Kinney put a fist under his chin and yanked it up and held it. “No, you don’t. Look at me. We’ve got you, but even if we didn’t, where could you go? Where you going to sleep and eat? You’re done, Beaky. Where’s the money?”
“Let me hold his chin,” Neill requested. “I’ll fix his goddam chin.”