Haney grunted. He looked estimatingly at Joe. His glance fell to Joe’s hands. Joe had been digging further into the crates, and afterward he’d washed up, but packing grease is hard to get off. When mixed with soot and charcoal it leaves signs. Haney relaxed.
“We mostly eat together,” he observed, satisfied that Joe was regular because his hands weren’t soft and because mechanic’s soap had done an incomplete job on them. “The Chief’s a good guy. Join us?”
“Sure!” said Joe. “And thanks.”
A brittle voice sounded somewhere around Haney’s knees. Joe looked down, startled. The midget he’d seen up on the Platform nodded up at him. He’d squirmed through the press in Haney’s wake. He seemed to bristle a little out of pure habit. Joe made room for him.
“I’m okay,” said the midget pugnaciously.
Haney made a formal introduction.
“Mike Scandia.” He thumbed at Joe. “Joe Kenmore. He’s eating with us. Wants to find the Chief.”
There had been no reference to the risk Joe had run in keeping Haney from a two-hundred-foot fall. But now Haney said approvingly: “I wanted to say thanks anyhow for keeping your mouth shut. New here?”
Joe nodded. The noise in the bus made any sort of talk difficult. Haney appeared used to it.
“Saw you with—uh—Major Holt’s daughter,” he observed again. “That’s why I thought you were brass. Figured one or the other’d tell on Braun. You didn’t, or somebody’d’ve raised Cain. But I’ll handle it.”