"I wonder where a chronically broke small-time entertainer gets money to splurge, all at once," said Kintyre.
Guido set his drink down again. Behind the loose, open blouse, his breast muscles grew taut.
"Never you mind," he said, in the bleakest voice Kintyre had yet heard him use. "Forget I mentioned it. Run along home and play with your books."
"As you wish. But when you're being officially grilled—and you will be, sonny—I wouldn't talk about Bruce in exactly the terms you used tonight. It sounds more and more as if you hated him."
Kintyre had no intention of leaving. Guido was disquietingly hard to understand. He might even, actually, be a party to the murder. Kintyre didn't want to believe that. He hoped all the tough and scornful words had been no more than a concealment, from Guido's own inward self, of bewildered pain. But he couldn't be sure.
He would have to learn more.
He sat back, easing his body, his mind, trying not to expect anything whatsoever. Then nothing could catch him off balance.
But the third party jarred him nonetheless.
A man came over toward the booth. He had evidently just made an inquiry of the waitress. He wore a good suit, painstakingly fashionable, and very tight black shoes. His face looked young.
Guido saw him coming and tightened fingers around his glass. A pulse in the singer's throat began to flutter.