Vic Wylie, rumpled and tense, was in the room. Tony Vaux scratched his chin.
“What do you think of it, Vic?”
Wylie was abrupt. “I never poke a finger in another man’s show. You know that.”
Tony took a fat cigar from his bulging vest and chewed off the end. “What’s wrong with it?” He raised plump hands toward Joe and Pop. “Now, now, folks. I don’t mean it’s a bad show. It’s like one of these salads that need a pinch more of this or a pinch less of that.” He puffed on the cigar.
“Now, now, folks,” Tony Vaux said. “I don’t mean it’s a bad show.”
Joe began a hesitant: “Perhaps—”
“Again, Joe?” Tony chuckled. “What is it this time?”
“Perhaps Mr. Bartell comes in too fast. He’s supposed to be a retired old man with no worries except baseball. Sits around in the shade and enjoys life. Never in a hurry—that’s what I mean. Doesn’t Pop come in too crisply? You sort of lose the mellow, unhurried old man. If he came in leisurely, a little drawly....”
Joe knew that Vic Wylie was watching him intently. Had he been too free with his opinion? Tony rolled the cigar across his lips.