"Fine sort of wife you turned out to be," Jack informed Juno, striding toward her with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Can't leave you ten minutes but you start pulling some dumb trick." With circles under his eyes and a day's growth of beard, the black-sweatered little wrestler did a fair job of looking outraged and dejected. But Cookie, automatically imitating his hero, could produce only an expression like that of a blonde baby about to cry.
"Getting sneaky, too," Jack observed. "Spying on me."
"Underhanded," Cookie commented.
"Underhanded?" Juno banged the silver inlaid table so hard that it jumped and she had to grab at her glass and the bottle. "Why, you two stinkers are so permanently underhanded you couldn't play no game but softball."
"Also, I don't like the company you keep," Jack continued. "The Ikeless Joe was bad enough," he said, giving Phil the barest glance before going on to da Silva, "but where between here and Pluto did you ever pick up this silly greaser who can't even talk English?"
"This corny gigolo," Cookie added witheringly.
Dion, who until this moment had seemed merely interested, put down his glass and frowned at Jack. "No like you," he asserted. "You want kick in face, trample?"
Phil winced, visualizing it in the full, rich details.
"Do you know who you're talking to?" Cookie demanded of Dion.
"Don't brawl, boys," Mary called from the alcove, "at least until I've finished this ticklish part." She was putting some finishing touches on Moe Brimstine's face under the magnifier. "Then I think I'd like to watch you tramp around, Dion man."