“Einarson knew Mahmoud had paid the soldier to wipe him out, so he plugged Mahmoud, or had him plugged. Did you tell him what I told you last night?”
“No.” He blushed. “It’s embarrassing to have one’s family sending guardians after one.”
I made a guess:
“He told you to offer me the job he spoke of last night, and to caution me against talking about the soldier. Didn’t he?”
“Y‑e‑s.”
“Well, go ahead and offer.”
“But he doesn’t know you’re—”
“What are you going to do, then?” I asked. “If you don’t make me the offer, you’ll have to tell him why.”
“Oh, Lord, what a mess!” he said wearily, putting elbows on knees, face between palms, looking at me with the harried eyes of a boy finding life too complicated.
He was ripe for talk. I grinned at him, finished my coffee, and waited.
“You know I’m not going to be led home by an ear,” he said with a sudden burst of rather childish defiance.
“You know I’m not going to try to take you,” I soothed him.
We had some more silence after that. I smoked while he held his head and worried. After a while he squirmed in his chair, sat stiffly upright, and his face turned perfectly crimson from hair to collar.