"Well, what are we waiting for?" I snapped, "let's take them!"
I had forgotten for the moment that the cop was a coward; but Burke didn't waste a bit of time in bringing back my memory.
"Maybe we'd better call headquarters?" he said slowly.
I caught at Burke's arm with a grip so tight it hurt my fingers.
"Let me tell you something, Burke," I said, "Lefty is too ratty to trust. Before a squad could get here, he'll tip Tony Flasco off about cops coming. That's his way; he collects both ways." I let go his arm. "We'll call headquarters, sure, but meanwhile we'll see what we can do to stop those punks from leaving."
Burke's face was whiter than any man's I've ever seen. A muscle twitched in his cheek, and his hands lifted a bit.
"Look, Southern," he said, "you don't understand."
"Don't understand!" I was so filled with rage I could barely talk. "I understand only too well. You dirty yellow rat, you're a disgrace to the uniform you wear. You're afraid, afraid to meet another man on equal footing. You were afraid of me in the gym; you were afraid of the drunk in the beer joint; you were afraid of Tony's guns—and now you're afraid to try to mop up a mob that's murdered two men in cold blood." I went toward the street. "Well, by the Gods, I'm afraid too. I'm just as scared as you of getting my belly full of hot lead. But this is my job, and I intend to do it."
"Look, Southern—" He caught at my sleeve.