CHAPTER XXI
On the following Monday a pock-marked Mexican appeared at the county jail in Los Angeles, during visitors’ hours, and asked to be permitted to see Slick Allen. The two stood in a corner and conversed in whispers. Allen’s face wore an ugly scowl when his visitor told him of young Pennington’s interference with their plans.
“ It’s getting too hot for us around there,” said Allen. “We got to move. How much junk you got left?”
“ About sixty cases of booze. We got rid of nearly three hundred cases on the coast side, without sending ’em through Evans. There isn’t much of the other junk left—a couple pounds altogether, at the outside.”
“ We got to lose the last of the booze,” said Allen; “but we’ll get our money’s worth out of it. Now you listen, and listen careful, Bartolo.
