O'Rory's head moved to the right, barely enough to let the fist whip past his cheek. O'Rory's long finely sculptured face was gravely composed. His right hand dropped down behind his hip.
Ned Beaumont flung from his chair at O'Rory's right arm, caught it with both hands, going down on his knees.
Jeff, thrown against the wall by the impetus behind his left fist, now turned and took Shad O'Rory's throat in both hands. The apish face was yellow, distorted, hideous. There was no longer any drunkenness in it.
'Got the roscoe?' Jeff panted.
'Yes.' Ned Beaumont stood up, stepped back holding a black pistol leveled at O'Rory.
O'Rory's eyes were glassy, protuberant, his face mottled, turgid. He did not struggle against the man holding his throat.
Jeff turned his head over his shoulder to grin at Ned Beaumont. The grin was wide, genuine, idiotically bestial. Jeff's little red eyes glinted merrily. He said in a hoarse good-natured voice: 'Now you see what we got to do. We got to give him the works.'
Ned Beaumont said: 'I don't want anything to do with it.' His voice was steady. His nostrils quivered.
'No?' Jeff leered at him. 'I expect you think Shad's a guy that'll forget what we done.' He ran his tongue over his lips. 'He'll forget. I'll fix that.'
Grinning from ear to ear at Ned Beaumont, not looking at the man whose throat he held in his hands, Jeff began to take in and let out long slow breaths. His coat became lumpy over his shoulders and back and along his arms. Sweat appeared on his ugly dark face.
Ned Beaumont was pale. He too was breathing heavily and moisture filmed his temples. He looked over Jeff's lumpy shoulder at O'Rory's face.
O'Rory's face was liver-colored. His eyes stood far out, blind. His tongue came out blue between bluish lips. His slender body writhed. One of his hands began to beat the wall behind him, mechanically, without force.
Grinning at Ned Beaumont, not looking at the man whose throat he held, Jeff spread his legs a little wider and arched his back. O'Rory's hand stopped beating the wall. There was a muffled crack, then, almost immediately, a sharper one. O'Rory did not writhe now. He sagged in Jeff's hands.
Jeff laughed in his throat. 'That's keno,' he said. He kicked a chair out of the way and dropped O'Rory's body on the sofa. O'Rory's body fell there face down, one hand and his feet hanging down to the floor. Jeff rubbed his hands on his hips and faced Ned Beaumont. 'I'm just a big good-natured slob,' he said. 'Anybody can kick me around all they want to and I never do nothing about it'
Ned Beaumont said: 'You were afraid of him.'
Jeff laughed. 'I hope to tell you I was. So was anybody that was in their right mind. I suppose you wasn't?' He laughed again, looked around the room, said: 'Let's screw before anybody pops in.' He held out his hand. 'Give me the roscoe. I'll ditch it.'
Ned Beaumont said: 'No.' He moved his hand sidewise until the pistol was pointed at Jeff's belly. 'We can say this was self-defense. I'm with you. We can beat it at the inquest.'
'Jesus, that's a bright idea!' Jeff exclaimed. 'Me with a murder-rap hanging over me for that West guy!' His small red eyes kept shifting their focus from Ned Beaumont's face to the pistol in his hand.
Ned Beaumont smiled with thin pale lips. 'That's what I was thinking about,' he said softly.
'Don't be a God-damned sap,' Jeff blustered, taking a step forward. 'You—'
Ned Beaumont backed away, around one of the tables. 'I don't mind plugging you, Jeff,' he said. 'Remember I owe you something.'
Jeff stood still and scratched the back of his head. 'What kind of a heel are you?' he asked perplexedly.
'Just a pal.' Ned Beaumont moved the pistol forward suddenly. 'Sit down.'
Jeff, after a moment's glowering hesitation, sat down.
Ned Beaumont put out his left hand and pressed the bell-button.
Jeff stood up.
Ned Beaumont said: 'Sit down.'
Jeff sat down.
Ned Beaumont said: 'Keep your hands on the table.'
Jeff shook his head lugubriously. 'What a half-smart bastard you turned out to be,' he said. 'You don't think they're going to let you drag me out of here, do you?'
Ned Beaumont went around the table again and sat on a chair facing Jeff and facing the door.
Jeff said: 'The best thing for you to do is give me that gun and hope I'll forget you made the break. Jesus, Ned, this is one of my hang-outs! You ain't got a chance in the world of pulling a fast one here.'
Ned Beaumont said: 'Keep your hand away from the catchup-bottle.'
The waiter opened the door, goggled at them.
'Tell Tim to come up,' Ned Beaumont said, and then, to the apish man when he would have spoken: 'Shut up.'
The waiter shut the door and hurried away.
Jeff said: 'Don't be a sap, Neddy. This can't get you anything but a rub-out. What good's it going to do you to try to turn me up? None.' He wet his lips with his tongue. 'I know you're kind of sore about the time we were rough with you, but—hell!—that wasn't my fault. I was just doing what Shad told me, and ain't I evened that up now by knocking him off for you?'
Ned Beaumont said: 'If you don't keep your hand away from that catchup-bottle I'm going to shoot a hole in it.'
Jeff said: 'You're a heel.'
The young-middle-aged man with plump lips and round eyes opened the door, came in quickly, and shut it behind him.
Ned Beaumont said: 'Jeff's killed O'Rory. Phone the police. You'll have time to clear the place before they get here. Better get a doctor, too, in case he's not dead.'
Jeff laughed scornfully. 'If he ain't dead I'm the Pope.' He stopped laughing and addressed the plump- mouthed man with careless familiarity: 'What do you think of this guy thinking you're going to let him get away with that? Tell him what a fat chance he has of getting away with it, Tim.'
Tim looked at the dead man on the sofa, at Jeff, and at Ned Beaumont. His round eyes were sober. He spoke to Ned Beaumont, slowly: 'This is a tough break for the house. Can't we drag him out in the street and let him be found there?'
Ned Beaumont shook his head. 'Get your place cleaned up before the coppers get here and you'll be all right. I'll do what I can for you.'
While Tim hesitated Jeff said: 'Listen, Tim, you know me. You know—'
Tim said without especial warmth: 'For Christ's sake pipe down.'
Ned Beaumont smiled. 'Nobody knows you, Jeff, now Shad's dead.'
'No?' The apish man sat back more comfortably in his chair and his face cleared. 'Well, turn me up. Now I know what kind of sons of bitches you are I'd rather take the fall than ask a God-damned thing of either of you.'
Tim, ignoring Jeff, asked: 'Have to play it that way?'
Ned Beaumont nodded.
'I guess I can stand it,' Tim said and put his hand on the door-knob.
'Mind seeing if Jeff's got a gun on him?' Ned Beaumont asked.
Tim shook his head. 'It happened here, but I've got nothing to do with it and I'm going to have nothing to do with it,' he said and went out.
Jeff, slouching back comfortably in his chair, his hands idle on the edge of the table before him, talked to Ned Beaumont until the police came. He talked cheerfully, calling Ned Beaumont numerous profane and obscene and merely insulting names, accusing him of a long and varied list of vices.
Ned Beaumont listened with polite interest.
A raw-boned white-haired man in a lieutenant's uniform was the first policeman to come in. Half a dozen police detectives were behind him.
Ned Beaumont said: ''Lo, Brett. I think he's got a gun on him.'
