“I’m Tom-Tom Carey,” he said, drawling the words.
I nodded at the chair beside my desk and weighed him in while he moved to it. Tall, wide-shouldered, thick-chested, thin-bellied, he would add up to say a hundred and ninety pounds. His swarthy face was hard as a fist, but there was nothing ill-humored in it. It was the face of a man of forty-something who lived life raw and thrived on it. His blue clothes were good and he wore them well.
In the chair, he twisted brown paper around a charge of Bull Durham and finished introducing himself:
“I’m Paddy the Mex’s brother.”
I thought maybe he was telling the truth. Paddy had been like this fellow in coloring and manner.
“That would make your real name Carrera,” I suggested.
“Yes,” he was lighting his cigarette. “Alfredo Estanislao Cristobal Carrera, if you want all the details.”
I asked him how to spell Estanislao, wrote the name down on a slip of paper, adding “alias Tom-Tom Carey,” rang for Tommy Howd, and told him to have the file clerk see if we had anything on it.
“While your people are opening graves I’ll tell you why I’m here,” the swarthy man drawled through smoke when Tommy had gone away with the paper.
“Tough—Paddy being knocked off like that,” I said.