“I’ll think it over,” I promised, and watched Louie Hazen walk down the long line of slot machines out the front door, his head and neck resting on his shoulders with that unmistakable air of tough competency which characterizes a man who learned the hard way to take it and to dish it out.
I drifted over to the bar. When the bartender moved up and asked, “What’ll it be?” I inquired, “Has Breckenridge come in yet?”
“Yeah. I think he’s upstairs. Want him?”
“I’d like to talk with him.”
“What’s the name?”
“Lam.”
“How do you spell it?”
“L-a-m.”
He turned quickly back toward the mirror, looked at a piece of paper, and asked, “Are you Donald Lam?” I nodded.
“The boss left a note about you. I wasn’t on duty last night. He left word for the day shift. Anything you want in the place is yours. What’ll it be?”