“Noolen in?” he asked, smiling at her, because he felt she could do with a few male smiles.
“He’s busy right now,” she said. “Who is it?” .
“Me? Tell him Ross. Dave Ross. Tell him I ain’t sellin’ anythin’, and I want to see him fast.”
She got up and walked over to a door behind her. Fenner gave her a start, then he took two strides and walked into the room with her.
Noolen was a dark, middle-aged man, growing a paunch. He’d a double chin and a hooked nose. His eyes were hooded and mean. He looked at Fenner and then at the woman. “Who’s this?” he snapped.
The woman jerked round, her eyes popping. “Wait outside,” she said.
Fenner pushed past her and wandered over to the big desk. He noticed a lot of spots on Noolen’s vest. He noticed the dirty nails and the grubby hands. Nightingale was right. Noolen was the south-end of a horse.
Fenner said, “Ross is the name. How do?”
Noolen jerked his head at the woman, who went out, shutting the door with a sharp click. “What do you want?” he asked, scowling.
Fenner put his hands on the desk and leant forward. “I want a hook-up in this burg. I’ve seen Carlos. He won’t play. You’re next on my list, so here I am.