She didn’t bother to drag her eyes away from the funnies, but she did manage to incline her head a couple of inches to show she heard and understood.
Maxie plodded off towards the elevator.
We stood side by side, breathing over each other as the elevator took us down to the basement.
He led the way along a white-tiled passage, lit by lamps in wire baskets to a small office that consisted of a desk, two chairs and a signed photograph of Jack Dempsey over a soot-filled fireplace.
He sat down behind the desk, pushed his bowler hat to the back of his head and relaxed, breathing gently through his thick, fat nose. His eyes never left the ten-dollar bill for a second.
I gave it to him. I knew he wouldn’t concentrate on anything else until he had it. Fat, nicotined fingers closed on it and stowed it away in a pocket somewhere in his rear.
‘Perelli,’ I said.
He wiped the end of his nose on his coat-sleeve, puffed out a small quantity of garlic and beer fumes and sighed.
‘Aw, hell! Not him again?’
‘Certainly. Why not?’