His oily face beamed quickly. "Ah, Mr. Nelson! That I have! Sharp for the salami!" He kissed his thick fingers and made a flipping motion into the air with them. "Sharp for the good big salami!"
"Excellent!" I nodded quick approbation. "Go home and cut your throat with it."
He pushed his hulk up from the chair and walked toward the door.
"And don't bother about coming back to the office afterwards," I admonished.
He paused, hand on the knob, and turned. Then his round face lighted up. "Ah, Mr. Nelson!" he chuckled. "You make with the joke!"
"Sure." I smiled. "And now you go home and make with the knife."
That was the last time I saw Pasquamine. Except at the funeral, of course. He made a lovely corpse—considering everything.
It was the day following the funeral when there came a gentle tapping at my office door.
"Come in," I said, tossing the half-finished bottle of gin back into the lower drawer.