Chapter 7
BUT THE newcomer’s first words disillusioned him. In dead silence and with a deliberation that was in itself a menace he had walked up to the bar. ‘Where’s Hermie?’ he demanded.
He spoke with the brusqueness of one who is accustomed to being obeyed. His Palm Beach suit was clean and well-pressed: he wore no jewellery or loud colours: he looked like an ordinary prosperous business man. The small, black eyes and the dark shadow of his beard, extending from the eye level to the folds of his thick-set neck, hinted at Latin or Jewish blood. He was dissolved in perspiration. His scant, raven hair, plastered down over the low, broad forehead, was dank. The moisture coursed down his cheek in glistening channels and his collar was a wreck.
‘Why, hello there, Rocco!’ exclaimed Mike, wit
