Or maybe it’s better you didn’t, considering that you’re sitting in a chair and it takes time to get up and make a jump for that gun. It’s a long jump, it’s at least nine feet, and that’s suicide. And he ain’t gonna come no closer, either. He knows what he’s doing with that gun. He’s a gunman, this Gene. You can tell from the way he holds it. Just from the way he holds it and covers you, the traffic signal is red—period.

Delbert Kingsley was lighting a cigarette. He took a few drags and then pulled up a chair and sat down facing Corey Bradford.

For some moments Kingsley just sat and studied Corey’s face. Then he said, “You look sorta groggy.”

“From liquor,” Corey said.

“You soused?”

“Not now,” Corey said. “I slept it off.”

“You sure?” Kingsley prodded, frowning clinically. “You really look plastered. I can’t let you fade out.”

Corey grinned.

“What’s that for?” Kingsley murmured.

“You can’t let me fade out. That’s a good one.”

“But I mean it,” Kingsley said. “You know I don’t want you all chopped up. If I wanted that, you wouldn’t be sitting there breathing.”

“You wanted that in them swamps. In them swamps you weren’t playing.”

“Only because you cut loose. I couldn’t afford to let you get away.”

Corey grinned again. This time it was a tight grin. His eyes were saying, you still can’t afford that.

It got across to Kingsley. He smiled pleasantly and said, “Let’s keep it on the soft side. What the hell, I’m not a butcher. And it’s a cinch I can’t sell you for fertilizer. All I want from you is some talk. That is, if you know what I think you know.”

Corey leaned back in the chair. His expression was passive, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. It looked as though he was very weary, just about worn out. That was how he wanted it to look.

Kingsley said, “If you know what I think you know, then it’s just a matter of coming to terms and arranging a deal. The deal goes through, we both score.”

“Score how?”

“You get a ticket outta here.”

“On my feet?”

“Guaranteed.”

“And you?” Corey spoke with his eyes half-closed. “What do you get?”

“The jackpot.”

There was a long silence. Kingsley was waiting for Corey to say something, to show some reaction. Corey just sat there slumped, looking weary. Ernie moved closer, frowning anxiously. Gene stayed where he was, his dark face immobile, the gun braced in his hand as though locked in a vise, the muzzle aimed at Corey’s skull.

Kingsley gestured impatiently to Corey, “Come on, feed it to me.”

“I’m thinking.”