Noolen said, “That’s Schaife,” indicating the man who had just spoken. “Scalfoni in the green shirt, Kemerinski holdin’ the cue, and Mick Alex the guy with the squint.”
Fenner thought they were a fine collection of rats. He nodded. “Let’s get together,” he said, wandering over to the long padded seats, raised to overlook the billiard-table. “How about some drinks?”
Schaife said to Noolen, “Who’s the guy, boss?”
Noolen smiled sourly, “He’s the original white-headed boy,” he said. “You won’t go wrong with him.”
They all sat down on the bench and fidgeted until the barman brought drinks. Fenner said, “This is my party. Noolen’s the guy who’ll pay for it.”
Scalfoni, a little dried-up Italian, said, “I gotta date with a dame in a little while. Suppose we get down to things.”
The others grunted.
Fenner said, “Carlos has been the big shot in this town too long. We’re going to make things so hot for him he’s going to take a powder. I want you boys to get together on this. This ain’t a picnic, it’s war.”
“What’s it worth?” Schaife said.
Fenner glanced at Noolen. “That’s your side of it.”