I said to the fat guy at the table. He had squinty, pig eyes, and when he smiled his cheeks bunched up and almost obscured them completely. “Mr. Curry, sir,” he replied. The last word was a genuine Southern “suh.” He gave a courtly dip of his head. “And this gentleman is Mr. Baron.” “Mr. Baron,” the gaunt guy with the gun, grinned wolfishly at their joke. Then he waved at me and Sylvie with his gun. “G’wan,” he grunted. “Get over there.” Sylvie and I moved toward the table where “Mr. Curry” was seated. He pushed himself out of his chair and held it, gesturing with a sweep of his hand that Sylvie should sit there. She looked at me. I nodded. She sat down. The thin man, “Mr. Baron,” poked me again, and I sat at the table across from Sylvie. “How’d you get into my apartment?” I said. “Your young friend was kind enough to let us borrow his key,” said “Mr. Curry.” “Buddy.” “A very courageous young man,” said the fat man. “Did you have to kill him?”
