“I see you’ve been a beginner some time,” I said, thinking I was lucky not to have played this guy.
He leant over the table to dig out a ball, and his coat shifted up over his hip. I saw the handle of a gun sticking out of his hip-pocket. “Me? I’m punk,” he said. “I just like pushin’ the balls around.”
I took a close look at this guy. He still looked a dope, but when you examined him closely, his eyes gave him away. This guy was tough. He’d got a hanging lip that gave him the soft look, but his eyes were suspicious and hard.
He was quick to see my interest, and he leant against the table and began to clean his nails with a pocket-knife. “Ain’t seen you around before?” he said, his voice rising a little, making it a question.
I shook my head. “Just looked in for a pal,” I told him. I wondered who he was, so I thought a little harmless talk wouldn’t waste my time.
“I guess I’ve seen your face before,” he said, without looking up.
“Yeah? Maybe you have.”
“You wouldn’t be Mason, the news writer?” He overdid it. He knew who I was.
“Sure,” I said. “Maybe you’ve seen my photo somewhere.”
“Yeah.” He folded the knife and put it in his vest-pocket. “Yeah, maybe I have.” He gave me a long, hard look, then, tossing the cue on to the table, he walked out.