About five feet six inches tall. Around fifty years old. A light brown beard trimmed to give his fleshy face the illusion of a jaw line. A white, broad brimmed fedora tilted to the left. He held himself with a forced elegance, with one hand dipped in the pocket of his white cashmere overcoat. The other hand held a black walking stick that supported his weight. He had a strangely passive expression, like he was making an effort to look bored. Quinn knew this was the man he’d been looking for. Simon Wallace. This was the man in white. The ex-boxer in Quinn wanted to drag the bastard downstairs to beat a confession out of him. His pride was wounded because this man had the balls to walk into his place not twenty four hours after Fatty got shot. But Quinn knew Wallace must’ve come there for a reason. He’d let the man make whatever play he’d come there to make. He could always beat the hell out of Wallace later. “I’m Terry Quinn,” he extended his hand to Wallace. “What seems to be the problem?”
