Carlson went to his desk, sat down, stuck a slim cigar in his well formed lips.
"How much was your job?" he asked quietly as he struck a match.
"Not much," Delancy said. "Maybe ten grand at the outside." He purposely lied about the take because Carlson usually charged on the percentage basis. Another thing which was inclined to influence Carlson's price was that little business of murder. If you killed on a job Carlson considered the danger greater and pushed up his fee accordingly.
"Anybody knocked off, Ray?" Jack Carlson asked.
Delancy squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. "One of the boys had to shoot a guard in the leg. Nothing messy, though."
Carlson inhaled deeply. A faint smile came to his lips. He removed his cigar and waved it at Delancy.
"So you got only ten grand, Ray? And nobody knocked off?"
"That's what I said," Delancy crabbed.
Carlson chuckled. "I happen to know that a number of men were killed, that you're wanted for murder, and that your total take was about seventy-five thousand dollars. And it'll cost you just thirty-two thousand five hundred dollars of that money to get you out of the jam."
"Thirty-two thousand—" Delancy gasped.