‘I had counted the cash, and as I was working the combination to open the wall safe I heard this guy in back of me say, “Get ’em up, Bo. This is a stick-up.” I reached for the ceiling as he says, “Make a move and I’ll drill you!” He didn’t sound like he was foolin’, so I kept quiet.
‘Well, he comes over, gives me a prod with his gun, pockets the dough, and asks me where the best liquor is, saying he don’t want no bar whiskey either. I told him and he poured himself a drink.
‘Then he got real sociable-like, but wouldn’t let me take my hands down. He kept on talkin’ and makin’ wise-cracks, but finally got tired, I guess.
‘With a warnin’ that, if I moved before I could count twenty, my wife would be a widow, he beat it,’ concluded Sullivan.
‘How much did he take?’ inquired Professor Fordney, who had entered the speakeasy after hearing the bartender’s call for help.
‘About five hundred dollars,’ Sullivan replied. ‘We had a good day.’
‘Haven’t you a gun here?’
‘Sure, but I didn’t have a chance. I ain’t exactly no boy scout, but this mug was too big and tough-lookin’ for me to tackle.’
‘How did you get that cut on your hand?’ inquired the Professor. ‘And that bruise on your finger?’
‘Opening a case of lemons,’ answered Sullivan.
‘Well,’ said Fordney, ‘if your whiskey isn’t any better than your attempt at a fake hold-up, I’ll have ginger ale.’
You’re right. The bruise had nothing to do with it, but:
