"You got the wrong man, brother. I won't spill nothin'."
"The hell you won't!" Tony leaned across the desk, the pistol pointed unwaveringly at the hapless captive. "Do you want a load of that in you?"
"Naw, course not. But if I talked, my own crowd would bump me off."
"Maybe not." Tony leaned back. "How much jack do you make with your mob?"
"'Bout three ‘C’s’ a week. Sometimes more."
"Three ‘C’s,’ eh? That's not very much, is it, for all the work you do and the chances you take?"
"I'm wort' more," agreed the man darkly.
"Yeah. But you'll never get it, not with this Bruno guy, from what I hear of him. Where do you think he got that name Schemer anyhow? When a guy has a monicker like that hung on him there's a reason for it. Now, Benny, I'm not a bad guy when you don't cross me. And I'm always willing to see the boys get a piece of change for themselves." He leaned across the desk. How would you like to have fifteen grand—in one chunk?"
The prisoner's eyes sparkled and he licked his lips.
