“We looked in ‘cause we thought you might wise us up,” Sam said, lowering his voice. Waxey stroked his shapeless nose and his little green eyes showed interest. “Yuh in a racket, Sam?” he asked, hopefully.
“Not tight now,” Sam returned cautiously. “But, it looks like it was headin’ that way. What do you know about Andasca?”
Waxey blinked. “What yew mean?”
“Just that. This guy’s going to work for him,” Sam said, jerking his thumb in my direction.
“But he wants to know what line he’s in first.”
Waxey studied me. “Lu’s gettin’ somewhere,” he said at last. “Twenty buck shoits. A hundred an’ fifty buck custom tailored suits. Da fat a da land he live off of. An’ he’s got a flock a dames at’d make youse guys water at da mout’.”
“But what’s the set-up?” Sam persisted.
Waxey lowered his voice, “Peppi Kruger’s behind him,” he said “Between da two a dem, dey have da Bowery sewed up tight, see?”
“How tight?” Sam asked, looking hopefully at the row of dusty bottles behind Waxey’s head, “and how about a drink, Waxey?”
“Sure.” Waxey produced a black bottle without a label from under the counter. “Dis is da McCoy,” he went on, slapping the bottle down in front of us. “Help yuhselves.”