The accent had to be the best part. Nancing around like some kind of limey fruitcake, Clarence was a civvie. But old habits died hard, and he was bound to have something behind that cutesy little counter that would put the hurt on me if I gave him half the chance.

We used to be pals, too. Bunko artists and headknockers down on Skid Row. It paid the bills, though; especially Bill, my bookie, and Bill, my probation officer.

I smiled at the jibe - Clarence was always the stiff who'd sit there blank-faced with everyone else wondering whose ass he just insulted. Normally I would've let it slide, but things had stopped being so copacetic between us months ago. Sliding my left hand over the book, dusting it off, I decided to drag out the play a little longer before giving him the sting.

"Nah, I just came to visit an old friend. You might know 'im."