called

reported. "There ain't no tap here, Buncey."
"That's good for you small-timers," the man called Buncey said in a soft tone. "If you were bleeding the wire, you'd wake up a long way from here—only you wouldn't wake up. The way it is, we just lift the take and close you down. You're lucky, see? Vince, Greaseball here will tell you where he keeps the loot."
"No he won't," Bailey said in a level tone. Buncey turned to look him up and down. He dandled the gun on his palm.
"Use it or put it away," Bailey said. "We don't bluff."
"Kid, listen—" Gus started.
"You tired of breathing?" the small man inquired softly, curling his fingers around the weapon.
"Don't play dumb," Bailey said. "You've been covered like a bashful bride ever since you came in here."
"Yeah?" the small man said tightly. "Maybe. But I could still blow you down, junior."
"Does your boss want to spend three chips for a couple of front men?"
"Our boss doesn't like small-time competish," the gunman growled.
Bailey showed him a crooked grin. "Dream on, Buncey. We booked in half a million tonight. Does that look like small time?"
"You're cutting your own throat, cheapie—"
"There won't be any throats cut," Bailey said. "Wake up, there's been a change. Our outfit is in—and we're not settling for small change. Our backers are taking a full share."
Buncey snorted. "You're showing your cuff, dummy. The play's backed from the top—all the way up. And it's a closed operation, lr