First I smelled him, or rather, his cigar. A moment later I saw him. Futt the Butcher stood waiting by the elevator door. Next to him stood a youth of slender build who stopped whatever he had been saying in mid-sentence when his eyes lit on me. I couldn't help laughing.
A fat red vein swelled up on Futt's bald pate, and his fat chest heaved. But the road did not come. Instead, he broke into a smile like a torturer's assistant who is delighted to see his next victim.
"Ah, it's the envoy."
He sounded beery and cheery, ready to offer me a cigar. Only his eyes narrowed. He could have had a career as a character actor in children's movies -- the sweet uncle next door who is fond of making peepee with the little girls.
"Ah, it's the detective superintendent. How is the Hamul case? Are international complications in the offing, or was he just your average darkie? My interest is of a private nature, as you must have discovered in the meantime."
Futt blew the last puff of smoke out of his lungs and into my face and said, in the compassionate tone of a defense attorney who informs his client of the execution date, "My dear Mr. Kayankaya -- as far as I know, I don't have any urgent appointments this afternoon. Therefore I'll spend some time finding out how to divest you of your private investigator's license as quickly as possible. I'm sure it will be child's play for a man of your talents to find some other form of employment."
"Like, sanitation engineer?" the kid burbled, and twisted his lips into an uncertain smile.
Futt, however, didn't seem to think that was very funny. He gave the kid a look of cutting reprimand.
The pair provided an excellent demonstration of the simply structured existence of master and dog.
