Bugsey came into the bar with a look on his face a dog gets when he thinks there’s a bone around. He was wearing a stained suit of grey herringbone, and a greasy light felt hat. A red flower decorated his buttonhole. Fenner found himself wondering if it had grown there.
Bugsey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at the row of bottles with a smile of expectation. Fenner bought him a large beer and took him to the far end of the room. When they had settled, Fenner said, “Listen, pal, how would you like to work for me?”
Bugsey’s gooseberry eyes opened. “I don’t get it,” he said.
I gotta little job you might like to handle. Nothing very much, but it’s worth fifty bucks. If you an’ me get along, I might put you on my pay-roll, but it’d mean kissin’ good-bye to Carlos.”
“Ain’t you workin’ for Carlos no more?”
Fenner shook his head. “Naw,” he said, “I don’t like his game. It stinks.”
Bugsey scratched his head. “Carlos won’t like it,” he said uneasily.
“Never mind Carlos,” Fenner said. “If I don’t wantta play, I don’t.”
Bugsey wagged his head. “How do I earn fifty bucks?” he asked eagerly.
“This is a sweet job that means no work and not much worry. You remember the jane on the Nancy W? The one with the swell stems and fancy front?”