He looked up suspiciously as we fumbled our way into the dark little tavern.
“Hey, Waxey,” Sam said, grinning, “still carrying your corns in a snood?”
Waxey stiffened. His fat, brutish face, glistening with sweat, lit up and he shoved out a fist the size of a mellon. “Bogle!” he said, shaking hands, “where ta hell yuh spring from?”
Sam grinned as he pumped the big man’s arm up and down. “Thought I’d look the old dump over,” he said. “How’s tricks, Waxey?”
Waxey lost his smile, “Looka,” he said, “six years I work in dis burg, an’ where does it get me? A lousy handout a thoity bucks a month! Starvin’ an’ freezin’… fuh what? Peanuts!” and he spat disgustedly on the floor.
“Gees!” Sam said, his eyes opening. “I thought this burg was all right.”
“It was,” Waxey returned darkly, “when da boys were around. Lucky… remember Lucky?
. . When he was around, dat was somethin’. But, now… Hell, might as well wait for Santa Claus tuh take care of me.”
“Meet my pal Millan,” Sam said, pushing me forward. “He’s an all right guy, Waxey. We work together.”
Waxey looked at me sharply, then stuck out his hand. “Any pal a Sam’s pal a mine,” he said, crushing my hand in a grip that made me shuffle my feet.