I recalled what I had heard Brack called back in Billy Taylor’s in Seattle.
“Pierce,” I said, “how much do you know about Brack?”
He cast a look of disapproval at me.
“You don’t need to ask me that, Brains,” he said. “I got eyes—I can see you got him sized up, too.”
“You joined the Wanderer in San Francisco two weeks before I did,” I reminded him. “Surely you know more about the man than I do.”
“Well,” he said, “I know that he’s a devil with men.”
“A masterful personality,” I agreed. “Any one can see that.”
“Yep. But that ain’t what’s worrying me.”
“Worrying? Are you worrying about Brack?”
“Oh, sort of.”