“Well, okay.”
“And watch out. That stuff about a beating wasn’t fiction. You won’t be the first or the last guy who’s had his ears smacked down because Brandon doesn’t like him. I’m telling you. Watch out.”
“Thanks, Tim. I’ll watch out, but I can take care of myself.”
Mifflin rubbed his shapeless nose with the back of his hand.
“It’s not that simple. You start fighting back and you get caught with a police-assault rap. They’ll fake a charge against you and take you in, and then the crew boys will really go to town on you.”
I patted his arm.
“Don’t let it worry you. It’s not going to worry me. Anything else?”
Mifflin shook his head.
“Just watch out,” he said, opened his office door, peeped up and down the passage to make sure the coast was clear and then waved us out.
We went down the stone stairs into the lobby. Two big plain-clothes men lounged by the double doors. One of them had fiery red hair and a white flabby face. The other was thin and as hard looking as a lump of rusty pig iron. They both eyed us over slowly and thoughtfully, and the redheaded one spat accurately at the brass spitoon six yards from him. We went past them, down the steps into the street.