Betsy was, Godwin knew, over at Antiquity Rose finishing her half-sandwich and a cup—not a bowl—of soup. This was so she could have a slice of pie for dessert. She would bring Godwin a turkey sandwich with potato chips and a length of pickle. His stomach responded enthusiastically to that thought, the greedy, impatient old thing.The door sounded its two electronic notes, and Godwin came out from the back of the store, where he’d been putting a model of one of John Clayton’s beautiful young women on the wall. He saw a short, chesty man, whose big white sideburns flanked a face trying, not very successfully, to look cordial.“Well, Joe Mickels!” exclaimed Godwin. “I haven’t seen you in here for a long while!”Mickels’s grin was as false as his teeth. “Well, Mr. DuLac,” he said, “the very person I was looking for.”“Me? What did you want to see me about?”“I was hoping to buy you lunch.”Godwin was speechless for a moment. Mickels, a very wealthy man, had gotten that way by never spending a dime more than desperately necessary.
