“Hello, Joe. Throat better? Too bad you weren’t around yesterday; I might have been able to throw something your way. Why not drop in some morning? I can’t promise to do anything for you, but there may be a part.”
Joe’s neck burned. Amby’s front of superiority and condescension was something he couldn’t take. He asked flatly: “Are you still in the same rat-hole?”
Bert Farr chuckled.
Amby flushed. His hand touched the tracing of mustache. “Sour, Joe?” he asked softly. “Does that get you anything? Sonny, this is Joe Carlin.”
“Who?” Sonny asked languidly.
“Carlin? You remember. Joe Carlin.”
“Oh!” Sonny held out a hand that was limp and moist. “Didn’t they try you out in my part?”
My part! “No,” said Joe. “I played it.” He didn’t like this Sonny Baker.
“Really?” Sonny’s drawl was insolent.
“Sonny!” Amby chided in sly malice. “Is that nice? I ask you. Must you forget Joe’s only a high-school amateur?”