rang.
‘Answer it,’ I said to the Chinese. ‘It’s for you.’
He picked up the receiver and listened to the fast, sing-song words. He spoke once, put the phone down, picked up a coat and hat from a chair and walked out.
Milton-Smith looked down at the tarot cards, then turned his watery pale-blue eyes on me.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
I put the gun away and turned over one of the cards. ‘It’s pretty simple, Milt. Dan Swan talked to Mr Wong tonight and they’ve settled their differences. That means I’m not interested in George Pagemill anymore, or in you. That means Mr Wong calls off Odd Job there. You’ve still got your gambling debts and your loan and I’d think you were out a job. But that’s your problem.’
He sighed and moved a card with a bitten-to-the-quick fingernail.
‘Where’s the bird?’ I said.
He pointed down to a cupboard under a bookcase. I reached down and opened it. The figure was wrapped in a grey rag that had once been an undervest. It was about a foot high, shiny black, and weighed about the same as a full bottle of beer.
‘Why’d you keep it?’
He shrugged, then something like hope flickered across his face. ‘Dan’ll be glad to get it back, won’t he? You think he might let me keep my job?’
‘He just might,’ I said. ‘He seems like a pretty nice guy.’
