The good-natured grin faded from his lips. He stood with his feet apart, blocking the stairway. His shoulders settled into solid hostility. “I’m not sure I like that, buddy,” he said.
“The name,” I told him, “is Donald Lam.”
He puckered his forehead, trying to remember where he’d heard the name before.
I refreshed his recollection. “You were playing tag with me last night.”
Suddenly his face lit up. He grinned, and the grin showed a gap where a couple of teeth had been knocked out on the left side of his upper jaw. “Well, well, well,” he said, “so that’s the way it is! Come on up and have a chair.”
He stood to one side and thrust out his hand.
I shook hands with him. The grip made my bones ache. “Get your car back all right?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said.
He said, “We put some petrol in the crock and found out where you kept it. I put it down in the regular stall so it would be there for you this morning. I had to leave the keys in it, but I didn’t think anyone would steal it.”
“No, it was there, all right.”