“Now who are you?” he opened, with charming directness, a heavy hint of federal prison at Leavenworth lurking in his tone.
I gave him my business card without making any fuss and he looked me over and reached, with a now-I’ve-got-you gesture, for a copy of the Chicago Tribune which somebody had left on the leather seat.
He turned to the produce market page and questioned me temptingly:
“What do you do in the firm, Mr. Fanneal?”
“Oh, I buy a little,” I admitted. “Overlook sales some.”
“You buy butter, eggs and cheeses, for instance?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good. Now what was centralized Chicago yesterday?” he sprung at me.
“What score?” I said; and he was sure I was stalling.