marks of the gentleman gone to pot on him. Not altogether on the rocks yet, but you could see evidence of the downhill slide plainly in the dullness of his blue eyes, in the pouches under his eyes, in the blurred lines around his mouth and the mouth’s looseness, and in the grayish tint of his skin. He was still fairly attractive in appearance—enough of his former wholesomeness remained for that.
He sat down facing me across the table.
“You’re looking for me?”
There was only a hint of the Britisher in his accent.
“You’re Ed Bohannon?”
He nodded.
“Jamocha was picked up a couple of days ago,” I told him, “and ought to be riding back to the Kansas big house by now. He got word out for me to give you the rap. He knew I was heading this way.”
“How did they come to get him?”
His blue eyes were suspicious on my face.
“Don’t know,” I said. “Maybe they picked him up on a circular.”
He frowned at the table and traced a meaningless design with a finger in a puddle of beer. Then he looked sharply at me again.
“Did he tell you anything else?”
“ He didn’t tell me anything. He got word out to me by somebody’s mouthpiece. I didn’t see him.”
“You’re staying down here a while?”