“It’s your nickel, ain’t it?” chuckled Mark. “Go right ahead.”
“Looks as if we’ll have to wait until your helper gets through using it,” observed Salt.
“That worthless no-good!” Mark snorted. “I pay him thirty dolla a week to eat his head off and all the time calla dat girl of his! You, Frankey! Git off dat phone and git to work on them oranges!”
Frank, a youth of sallow complexion and unsteady gaze, dropped the telephone receiver as if it were a red hot coal.
He mumbled a “call you later,” into the transmitter, hung up, and ducked into the kitchen.
“Such bad luck I have this summer,” sighed Mark, expertly turning the hamburgers and salting them. “Six helpers I hire and fire. All no good. They talka big, eat big—but work? Naw!”
“It’s a tough life,” Salt agreed, fishing for a coin in his pocket. “Change for a dime, Mark?”
“Sure. Who you calla tonight? Big scoop for de paper, eh?”
“I wish it were,” said Salt. “We’ve had a tough night.”
“Jerry’s missing,” Penny added earnestly. “He was taken to the hospital this afternoon, but he walked out. We’re trying to find him because he’s in no condition to be wandering about.”