Fenner gave Reiger a wintry smile. He didn’t like the look of him.
Reiger nodded. “How do,” he said. “Stayin’ long?”
Fenner waved his hand. “These other guys friends of yours, or are they just decoration?”
Reiger’s eyes snapped. “I said, stayin’ long?” he said.
Fenner eyed him. “I heard you. It ain’t no goddamn business of yours, is it?”
Nightingale put his hand on Fenner’s cuff. He didn’t say anything, but it was a little warning gesture. Reiger tried a staring match with Fenner, lost it and shrugged. He said, “Pug Kane by the radio. Borg on the right. Miller on the left.”
The three other men nodded at Fenner. None of them seemed friendly.
Fenner was quite at ease. “Glad to know you,” he said. “I won’t ask you guys for a drink. Maybe you don’t use the stuff.”
Reiger turned on Nightingale. “What’s this?” he snarled. “Who’s this loud-mouthed punk?”
Miller, a fat, greasy-looking man with a prematurely bald head said, “Somethin’ he’s dug outa an ash-can.”