I slammed the door and went out to the wife's car and got in and drove downtown. All the way down, you could have threaded a needle with the line my lips made.
There was one customer in my waiting room when I reached the office. I offered him a curt nod and went by the inner door. "Be right with you," I mumbled. He didn't respond. He was a short, chunky man with hips as wide as his shoulders and a flabby, loose-jowled face but a chest like a barrel. I gave him a double take when he failed to respond. I said, "Well, do you want to see a private detective or don't you?"
"I want to see you," he said.
Somehow, I didn't like the way he said it, but let it ride. "Be right with you," I told him as I unlocked the inner door and moved through the sanctum sanctorum, such as it is. I smoked a cigarette halfway down before I pressed the buzzer to admit him.
He came in with the bouncy stride to which chunky fat men are prone. He looked straight at me and smiled as if he had known me for years. "I'm glad to see you're still alive, Mr. Foley," he said.
I stood up. "Would you say that again please?" I asked him.
"I'm glad to see you're still alive."
"Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Well, let me see. By this time your wife and son would have tried three times to kill you. That being the—"