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when Rubynagged him into it. He liked to get some of the boys out for the weekend and sit up until Sunday morning, playing pinochle. But it’s hard to relax when you’re possessed by a lean, sharp-faced kid from Henry Street who’s always got an eye out to pry the back off another coin machine.
    The Killer was on the phone in the outer office when I got there, laying his plans for the evening or vice versa. He had a way of addressing his women in terms of exaggerated endearment that suggested a deeply rooted contempt. ‘Okay, honey chile … Check, sugar … You name it, beauteeful …’ A psychiatrist, observing the Killer’s hopped-up promiscuity and his chronic inability to settle down to any female, probably would have described him as a latent homosexual. But the Killer himself wasn’t at all reticent about pressing his claim not only to the virility championship of Eighth Avenue, but also to the possession of physiological attributes of heroic proportions. He wore the pants of his snugly fitting suit almost skintight, so you couldn’t help noticing. He had short stocky legs and a four-inch chest expansion which he often showed off, even during normal conversation, by suddenly inhaling deeply and holding his breath. If you have ever seen a bantam rooster penned up with a flock of hens you would have a nice sharp picture of Killer Menegheni.
    ‘Hang on a sec, beauteeful,’ he said into the phone when he saw me come in. ‘Cheez, Eddie, hodja come, by way of Flatbush?’
    ‘I always ignore rhetorical questions.’
    ‘Cheez, listen to them words,’ said the Killer.
    This had been going on between us ever since we met.The Killer seemed to take my two years in Princeton as a personal affront.
    ‘Better get your ass in there,’ Killer waved me in. ‘D’ boss is bitin’ his nails.’
    When I went in, Nick was in his private bathroom, shaving. He had a heavy beard that he always shaved twice a day, leaving a smooth blue patina on his face. He always came to his office in the morning from an hour in George Kochan’s barbershop. He was kind of a nut on barbershops. His nails were always trimmed and polished, his black kinky hair was singed and greased and the constant sunlamp treatments had given his skin a tanned and healthy look. He wasn’t a handsome man, but the facials, the oil shampoos and the meticulous grooming gave him a smooth, lacquered appearance.
    ‘Hello, Eddie,’ he said, with his back toward me, wiping the last of the cream from his face as I came up behind him. ‘Sorry to louse up your evening this way, but I got no choice.’ He still pronounced it as
cherce
, but he no longer contracted his
ths
to hard
ds
the way the Killer did.
    ‘Oh, that’s all right, Nick,’ I said. ‘The evening isn’t dead yet.’
    ‘But it will be,’ Nick said. ‘Got a big job for you, kid. Think you’re gonna go for it.’
    He took a handsome leather-encased bottle from the cabinet and turned around to face me as he applied the toilet water to his face and neck. ‘Great stuff,’ he said, holding the bottle to my nose. ‘Smell.’
    Like most things Nick said, it sounded more like a command than a friendly suggestion. I smelt.
    ‘Hmmmmmm,’ I nodded.
    ‘Whatta you use?’ Nick said.
    ‘Oh, anything. Mem’s, sometimes Knize Ten,’ I said.
    ‘Hmm,’ said Nick. He turned back to the medicine cabinet again. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘The best. Old Leather. It’s yours.’
    He handed me a sealed bottle of it. If he liked you, he was always giving away stuff like that. ‘Aw thanks, Nick,’ I said, ‘but it’s your stuff, you like it …’
    ‘Don’t be a sucker,’ Nick said, and he shoved the bottle into my belly with a gesture so emphatic that it ended the argument. Nick was accustomed to leaning his weight on you, even when he was doing you a kindness. ‘I’ve been able to do a couple of little favours for the chairman of the board of the outfit that puts this stuff out – so he sent me a case