"The High Duke of Jersey. Flat. Left rear. On a night like this. Some luck."
"The Jersey can't afford a jack?"
I stepped over the short man, prodded him with a forefinger. "He could buy you and gut you on the altar any Saturday night of the week, low-pockets. And he'd get a kick out of doing it. He's like that."
"Can't a guy crack a harmless joke without somebody talks about altar-bait? You wanna jack, take a jack."
The man in the chair opened one eye and looked me over. "How long you on the Jersey payroll?" he growled.
"Long enough to know who handles the rank between Jersey and Filly." I yawned, looked around the wide, cement floored garage, glanced over the four heavy cars with the Filly crest on their sides.
"Where's the kitchen? I'm putting a couple of hot coffees under my belt before I go back out into that."
"Over there. A flight up and to your left. Tell the cook Pintsy invited you."
"I tell him Jersey sent me, low-pockets." I moved off in a dead silence, opened the door and stepped up into spicy-scented warmth.