minute behind him, nicking the red light, or to the young sandy-haired man behind the wheel, watching the road and the Cougar burbling along two cars ahead, his face tilted a little to see out from under an eyelid that drooped.
CHAPTER 9
âHello Gyp.â
Wyler G. Ibsen, head tailor at Clovis Haberdashers on Greenfield, glanced up between the parted thighs of the fat man whose inseam he was measuring to see who had addressed him by his old nickname. When he recognized Peter Macklin, his perennial half-smile froze and the color slid from his face. The measuring tape slithered free of his thumb and forefinger and coiled on the carpet, but his hand stayed where it was. The tiny black moustache that made his round head look too big for his slight frame twitched and crawled like feelers.
âOhâhello, Mac,â he managed. âGuess Iâm stuck here for a spell. Got appointments back-to-back till closing. Some friends are picking me up then,â he added quickly, his half-smile flickering.
âThatâs okay. My business today is with your boss. He in?â
The question took a moment to ring up. When it did, Gyp almost leaped to his feet. âOhâHerb? Heâs in the office. In back.â
âI know where it is.â Macklin paused before turning. âIt isnât that business,â he said.
âOh. Oh!â The smile became brilliant.
âWho was that?â asked the fat man, when they were alone again.
âEfficiency expert.â Ibsenâs hands were shaking so badly he had to use both of them to pick up the tape.
The fat man grunted. âMine affects me the same way.â
The âofficeâ was really a working storeroom, jungled with cartons of Arrow and Van Heusen shirts and bolts of material lying at odd angles and accordions of tissue-paper patterns tacked elbow-deep to the lath-and-plaster walls. Macklin found the door open and Herb Pinelli, standing with one well-tailored leg bent and a patent-leather shoe propped on a crate stuffed with crushed newspapers and a clipboard on his knee, checking off a list of items on a typewritten sheet with a fat green fountain pen. He didnât look up as Macklin approached. âPull up a box, Pietro. Itâs good to see you.â
Macklin remained standing. âGyp said Iâd find you back here.â
Pinelli grinned at the clipboard. âWhen he sees you I bet he shits.â
âI canât think why. Iâve never had any business with him.â
âHe gets himself into some trouble six months ago, boffing the sister of a numbers man in Pontiac. The numbers man, he sends two niggers to wait for him in the alley with iron pipes. I come out first. They donât come back.â
Macklin said, âThen heâs got no reason to spook.â
âYou are not two dumb niggers with iron pipes.â
Macklin warmed to the compliment in spite of himself. Pinelli was a big man in a snug vest and shirtsleeves with French cuffs and gold studs, and he brushed his silver hair straight back without a part, accentuating the Indianlike planes and hollows of his face. He was a well-preserved 60, retaining the strong Sicilian accent of his boyhood and an adolescence spent in New Yorkâs Little Italy. It was said that he had killed his first man at the age of 16. He scorned firearms of any kind, and legend had it that before his retirement from heavyweight work he could decapitate a man from behind with a single backhand slash of his seven-inch blade. He had large powerful hands and his old shoulders were stacked with muscle. For the past fourteen years he had been using them to build up the haberdashery business he had named for his late wife Clovis.
He lowered his foot to the floor, set aside the clipboard, capped the fountain pen, and clipped it to his shirt pocket, looking expectantly at his visitor. He never shook hands, a thing for which the much slighter Macklin was
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