I sat. I hadn’t seen him in about a year. He looked skinny and quite a bit older; he’d shaved his mustache off. Still, he was a roughly handsome man, with flecks of scar here and there on his face, notably his lower lip. His hair was slicked back and parted at the left. A former barber, he was always immaculately groomed. His suit was black, his shirt too; his tie was white, with a ruby stickpin. He was eating what looked to be boiled beef with some small skinned potatoes and some sliced carrots. He was drinking milk. He must’ve noticed me looking at this less-than-lavish lunch, because he grimaced and said, “Goddamn ulcers. Can you believe it? And this is one of the better meals I had lately.” “Hardly pays to own a restaurant,” I said. He smiled a little. “Yeah. Maybe I oughta find another line of work.” I didn’t say anything; I was nervous. Nitti seemed to like me, but he was an intimidating figure, albeit a short one. “Heller,” he said, “you look older.” “You look about the same, Frank.”
