In his apartment Mendetta amused himself with a pack of cards. He held a cigar between his thick lips and a glass of whisky−and−soda stood at his elbow. He played patience.
The apartment was silent except for the faint shuffling of cards as Mendetta altered their position. He liked patience, and he played with tense concentration. He heard Jean, in the bathroom, drawing off water, and he glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after twelve.
The phone suddenly jangled. He half shifted his bulk, his brows coming to a heavy frown, and stared at the phone.
Jean called from the bathroom, “Shall I answer it?”
He got up and walked with heavy steps across the room. “No, no. It’ll be for me,” he said, raising his voice so that she could hear. He picked up the receiver. “Who is it?”
“That you, Tootsie? This is Grantham.”
Mendetta frowned. “What’s the trouble?” he said sharply. “This is a hell of a time to ring me.”
“Yeah, but this is a hell of a spot we’re in.” Grantham had a cold, clipped voice. “Listen, Tootsie, that little punk Hamsley’s dropped us right in it.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Mendetta sat on the edge of the small table, which rocked under his weight.
“Dropped us where?”