As he re-filled his glass, Mascola smiled. It hadn't been such a bad day at that. He'd showed somebody something about albacore fishing. And he'd show them a lot more before he got through. Things were coming his way too from other sources. He took out his leather wallet and ran over a number of bills of high denomination. Then he took another drink and smiled at the ceiling. It had been such easy money. Much easier than fishing.
A knock sounded at the street-door. Mascola shoved the wallet again into his pocket and hastily removed his bottle of Amontillado.
"Come in," he called.
Boris entered, clumsily filling the doorway with his great bulk and bringing with him a strong odor of garlic and Jap sake. For a moment he stood on the threshold, blinking stupidly. Then he pulled the door closed with a bang.
Mascola's eyes grew hard as he dropped his hand into a drawer of his desk which stood open.
"Stay where you are," he commanded. "What do you want?"
"Job," muttered the Russian thickly.
Mascola shook his head and an annoyed frown darkened his brow. "Go home," he said. "You're drunk. You're no good. I fired you. Don't want to talk."
Boris made no move to comply with his order. His small eyes roved restlessly about the room for a moment, then came to rest on the Italian.