“Isn’t that your name?”
“No.”
“Pardon me, my mistake. What is it?”
“Harry Beegan.”
“Sorry.”
“Who told you to call me Sid?”
“I thought that was your name.”
He scowled at me, said slowly, “Get this straight. My name’s Harry Beegan. My nickname is Pug. I don’t want to be called by any other name.”
“Okay, that’s fine by me.”
He turned back to Helen Framley. There were lights in his eyes, little lights coming and going, like the reflection of sky in a mountain pool when the wind blows it into little ripples. “If I thought you was two-timin’ me,” he said, “I’d—”