“Oh, sure! Sure,” Beau said, spitting a little blood. “I also realize 1 can’t go on being beaten up by hoods forever.” “I thought you had plans, Beau. I thought you were going to speak to Henry Conner—”
“I did.” Beau spat more scarlet in the porcelain wash bowl. “Yesterday. That’s why I saw Jake tonight. I thought old Hank would come through.”
“What happened?”
Beau’s face, pale save where blood reddened it, turned toward her piteously. “He offered me five hundred. Said, with taxes the way they are, it was all he could spare.”
“Skinflint!”
“Maybe it was the truth.”
“Henry Conner,” Netta said, with more rage than veracity, “probably still has the first dollar he ever made! Look at the cheap way they live. I bet he has a tidy sum stashed away.”
“Well—we haven’t. And Hank’s not parting with it. And I went to ask Jake for more time-and—” He shuddered. “Look at me! What’ll I say at the bank?”
Netta was bitter. “Oh, heavens. Say you fell down the cellar stairs. Say a mouse pushed you. We’ve got to plan, Beau!”
“How in hell can planning materialize five thousand?”