as whirling. She could catch only disjointed
phrases.
“—only six strokes and promised me that I could administer—”
Damon was shouting.
“—really think that these little flunkies tell the truth?” someone
else—probably Clewd—was shouting back.
But isn’t that exactly what the Godfather was, too? Just a bigger,
more frightening, and, undoubtedly, more efficient flunky who reported
to someone higher up, and didn’t cloud his mind with dope-smoke?
Elena thought; and then ducked her head hastily as the fat man glanced
toward her.
She could hear Damon again, this time clearly above the hubbub.
He was standing by the Godfather. “I had believed that even here there
was some honor once a bargain was struck.” His voice made it obvious
that he no longer thought negotiations were possible and that he was
about to go on the attack. Elena tensed, horrified. She had never heard
such open menace in his speaking voice.
“Wait.” It was in the Godfather’s lackadaisical tones, but it caused
an instant of silence in the babble. The fat man, having removed
Damon’s hand from his arm, turned his head back toward Elena.
“I will waive, for my part, the participation of my nephew Clewd.
Diarmund, or whoever you were, you are free to punish your own slave
with your own tools.”
Suddenly, surprisingly, the old man was brushing bits of gold out