“You’ve been away quite a while, ain’t yuh, Torres?”
“Did you miss me?”
Torres lifted his eyebrows. Hashknife grinned and shook his head.
“No, I didn’t miss yuh, but I see yore clothes are dry.”
Torres flushed at the reminder. He did not want to be baited by this man; and yet he did not know how to prevent it, except by walking away. Hashknife was laughing at him, and it suddenly occurred to Torres that this man’s laugh was not derisive. The joke seemed to be on Torres, so he laughed with Hashknife.
“That’s a lot better,” said Hashknife. “There are things that are a lot better to forget, pardner.”
“I have forgotten them,” said Torres earnestly. “Perhaps I made a mistake.”
“Mebbe,” grinned Hashknife.
Garcia leaned against the wall near the roulette wheel, his arms folded under his dirty serape, feeling of the knife hilt inside his shirt. He heard what Torres said, and his hands came in sight to fumble with a cigarette.
Hashknife drifted away from the wheel and joined Sleepy near the bar.