“Think I’d stay away?” Johnny gave him a look.
“No, I didn’t. But if I were you I’d sit with my back to the wall.”
“Do more than that. Take ‘Silent Murder,’ as you call him, along.” He nodded toward the bow that stood in the corner.
“Too slow. Better get a gun.”
“Slow! Sometime I’ll show you. That studio is all of twenty-five feet long. Door’s at one end. My cubby-hole’s at the other. Let anyone try getting to me after this!” He picked up an arrow and felt its razor-like point. “Silent murder,” he mused. “About right, I guess.”
To Johnny’s surprise he found that the feast Drew had alluded to was just ten steps from their own door. Down one low flight of stairs, up another, and there they were in the shack that stood before their own and fronted the street.
A large, dark-skinned woman of middle age greeted them with a smile that was genuine, and a handshake that was “all there.”
“This is Mrs. Ramacciotti,” said Drew. “Without her and Rosy this city would be a dreary place.”
Rosy stood by the table dimpling and smiling her thanks.
Johnny had seen Rosy before. Now, however, she was dressed for the occasion, and one good look at her made him think of cool meadows, shady orchards, blushing russet apples, and all the rest.