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Lying there, he looked like a machine not yet turned on. He was thinking about nothing; his nerves were still.
Two lamps and a ceiling light were all burning, making the room bright and garish and semi-hysterical.
Sweet jobs were occasionally fingered by amateurs and fools, but the odds weren't good.
You're too hungry to be smart.”
He thought about all the towns he knew, all the places he'd ever been, from Miami to Seattle, from San Diego to New York, and there was nothing good to be said about any of them.
“Number one, you don't meet in the town where you're going to make the hit. Number two, you don't stay in the hotel where you're going to make the hit. Number three, you don't take a job on consignment;
“Sing that,”
“You know how you make pity? One jigger guilt, one jigger contempt.
Muscle had a habit of being emotional trouble; all right when working, but jumpy as a high-school girl betweentimes.
“I was working today. When I'm not working, give me a call, we'll sit around and talk to each other.”
AT NIGHT the yard was floodlit, looking like some metallic moonscape where nothing had ever lived.
She was a good woman, good to look at and good to be with. Sensible and independent. Not full of foolishness.
