Ike Bush was sitting at a table with four men; they were playing poker.
Fenner wandered in and stood just behind Bush. The other men looked at him suspiciously, but went on playing. Bush studied his cards thoughtfully. He was a big, fat man with a red rubbery face and ingrowing eyebrows. His thick fingers made the playing cards look like a set of dominoes.
Fenner watched him play for a few minutes. Then he leaned over and whispered in Bush’s ear: “You’re goin’ to take an’ awful hidin’.”
Bush studied the cards again, cleared his throat and spat on the floor. He threw down the cards in disgust. Pushing back his chair, he climbed to his feet and led Fenner to the other end of the room. “What you want?” he growled.
“Two Cubans,” Fenner said quietly. “Both dressed in black. Black slouch hats, white shirts and flashy ties. Black square shoes. Both little punks. Both wear rods.”
Ike shook his head. “Don’t know ’em,” he said; “they don’t belong here.”
Fenner regarded him coldly. “Then find out quick who they are. I want to get after those two fast.”
Ike shrugged. “What’ve they done to you?” he said. “I wantta get back to my game—”
Fenner turned his head slightly and showed the gash on his cheek-bone. “Those two punks came into my joint, gave me this . . . stripped Paula . . . and got away.”
Ike’s eyes bulged. “Wait,” he said. He went over to the telephone that stood on a small table across the room. After a long whispered conversation he hung up and jerked his head at Fenner.