He waved a hand cheerfully. "Come on in," he said.
IV
Max Arena was a broad-shouldered six-footer, with clean-shaven blue jaws, coarse gray-flecked black hair brushed back from a high forehead, a deeper tan than was natural for the city in November, and very white teeth. He was showing them now in a smile. He waved a hand toward a chair, not even glancing at the gun in my hand. I admired the twinkle of light on the polished barrel of a Norge stunner at his elbow and decided to ignore it too.
"I been following your progress with considerable interest," Arena said genially. "The boys had orders not to shoot. I guess Luvitch sort of lost his head."
"It's nothing," I said, "that a little skin graft won't clear up in a year or so."
"Don't feel bad. You're the first guy ever made it in here under his own steam without an invitation."
"And with a gun in his hand," I said.
"We won't need guns," he said. "Not right away."
I went over to one of the big soft chairs and sat down, put the gun in my lap.