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said:
    “Where’s the boss?”
    The cigarette jiggled in his mouth. The water went on swishing gently on the paint.
    “Ask at the house, Jack.”
    “I done asked. They done shut the door in mah face.”
    “You’re breaking my heart, Jack.”
    “How about Mrs. Morny?”
    “Same answer, Jack. I just work here. Selling something?”
    I held my card so that he could read it. It was a business card this time. He put the sponge down on the running board, and the hose on the cement. He stepped around the water to wipe his hands on a towel that hung at the side of the garage doors. He fished a match out of his pants, struck it and tilted his head back to light the dead butt that was stuck in his face.
    His foxy little eyes flicked around this way and that and he moved behind the car, with a jerk of the head. I went over near him.
    “How’s the little old expense account?” he asked in a small careful voice.
    “Fat with inactivity.”
    “For five I could start thinking.”
    “I wouldn’t want to make it that tough for you.”
    “For ten I could sing like four canaries and a steel guitar.”
    “I don’t like these plushy orchestrations,” I said.
    He cocked his head sideways. “Talk English, Jack.”
    “I don’t want you to lose your job, son. All I want to know is whether Mrs. Morny is home. Does that rate more than a buck?”
    “Don’t worry about my job, Jack. I’m solid.”
    “With Morny—or somebody else?”
    “You want that for the same buck?”
    “Two bucks.”
    He eyed me over. “You ain’t working for him, are you?”
    “Sure.”
    “You’re a liar.”
    “Sure.”
    “Gimme the two bucks,” he snapped.
    I gave him two dollars.
    “She’s in the backyard with a friend,” he said. “A nice friend. You got a friend that don’t work and a husband that works, you’re all set, see?” he leered.
    “You’ll be all set in an irrigation ditch one of these days.”
    “Not me, Jack. I’m wise. I know how to play ’em. I monkeyed around these kind of people all my life.”
    He rubbed the two dollar bills between his palms, blew on them, folded them longways and wideways and tucked them in the watch pocket of his breeches.
    “That was just the soup,” he said. “Now for five more—”
    A rather large blond cocker spaniel tore around the Cadillac, skidded a little on the wet concrete, took off neatly, hit me in the stomach and thighs with all four paws, licked my face, dropped to the ground, ran around my legs, sat down between them, let his tongue out all the way and started to pant.
    I stepped over him and braced myself against the side of the car and got my handkerchief out.
    A male voice called: “Here, Heathcliff. Here, Heathcliff.” Steps sounded on a hard walk.
    “That’s Heathcliff,” the chauffeur said sourly.
    “Heathcliff?”
    “Cripes, that’s what they call the dog, Jack.”
    “
Wuthering Heights
?” I asked.
    “Now you’re double-talking again,” he sneered. “Look out—company.”
    He picked up the sponge and the hose and went back to washing the car. I moved away from him. The cocker spaniel immediately moved between my legs again, almost tripping me.
    “Here, Heathcliff,” the male voice called out louder, and a man came into view through the opening of a latticed tunnel covered with climbing roses.
    Tall, dark, with a clear olive skin, brilliant black eyes, gleaming white teeth. Sideburns. A narrow black mustache. Sideburns too long, much too long. White shirt with embroidered initials on the pocket, white slacks, white shoes. A wrist watch that curved halfway around a lean dark wrist, held on by a gold chain. A yellow scarf around a bronzed slender neck.
    He saw the dog squatted between my legs and didn’t like it. He snapped long fingers and snapped a clear hard voice:
    “Here, Heathcliff. Come here at once!”
    The dog breathed hard and didn’t move, except to lean a little closer to my right leg.
    “Who are you?” the man asked, staring me down.
    I