Noolen said, “Where you from?”
“Crotti.”
Noolen studied his dirty finger-nails. “So Carlos couldn’t use you. What’s the matter with him?” There was a sneer in his voice.
“Carlos didn’t see me. I saw his flock of hoods an’ that was enough for me. They made me puke, so I scrammed.”
“Why come to me?”
Fenner grinned. “They told me you were the south-end of a horse. I thought maybe we could do something about it.”
A faint red crept into Noolen’s face. “So they said that, did they?”
“Sure. With me, you might have a lotta fun with that gang.”
“Meanin’?”
Fenner hooked a chair towards him with his foot and sat down. He leant forward and helped himself to a thin greenish cigar from a cigar-box on the desk. He took his time lighting it. Noolen sat watching him. His eyes intent and bright.