“Say, I don’t get you, mister!”
“Well,” drawled Grand, chuckling down at his fat wallet, browsing about in it, “simple enough really....” And he took out a few thousand. “I have this ticket, as you know, and I was just wondering if you would care to eat it, for, say”—a quick glance to ascertain—“six thousand dollars?”
“What do you mean, ‘eat it’?” demanded the dark-suited man in a kind of a snarl. “Say, what’re you anyway, bub, a wise-guy?”
“‘Wise-guy’ or ‘grand guy’—call me anything you like ... as long as you don’t call me ‘late-for-chow!’ Eh? Ho-ho.” Grand rounded it off with a jolly chortle, but was quick to add, unsmiling, “How ’bout it, pal—got a taste for the easy green?”
The man, who now appeared to be openly angry, took another step forward.
“Listen, mister ...” he began in a threatening tone, half clenching his fists.
“I think I should warn you,” said Grand quietly, raising one hand to his breast, “that I am armed.”
“Huh?” The man seemed momentarily dumfounded, staring down in dull rage at the six bills in Grand’s hand; then he partially recovered, and cocking his head to one side, regarded Grand narrowly, in an attempt at shrewd skepticism, still heavily flavored with indignation.
“Just who do you think you are, Mister! Just what is your game?”
“Grand’s the name, easy-green’s the game,” said Guy with a twinkle. “Play along?” He brusquely flicked the corners of the six crisp bills, and they crackled with a brittle, compelling sound.