CHAPTER 23

"Hello, Foster, old man," said Max, clapping him jovially on the shoulder. "How's business?"

"I can't complain," answered Foster unconvincingly. "When are you going to sell me that car?"

"Next week; I've got my man working on it now."

"Works pretty slow, doesn't he?"

"No, he doesn't," Max said coldly. "And if you feel that way, maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all."

"I didn't mean that," Foster quickly clarified. "I just meant—"

His voice trailed off, and Max glanced impatiently around the garage. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs, and soon the figure of a woman blocked out the light from the

office door. She was in her mid-thirties, slightly stout, but carried her extra weight in a sensuous manner.

Her face, above a spotted dark blue dress, lacked any notable beauty, yet there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her, as if her nerves were

perpetually smoldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as though he were a ghost, shook hands with Max, looking him straight in the eye. Then she

wetted her lips and, without turning around, addressed her husband in a soft, coarse voice:

"Get some chairs, why don't you, so somebody can sit down."

"Oh, sure," agreed Foster hastily and moved towards the small office, blending in with the cement-colored walls.

A white ashen dust covered his dark suit and pale hair, just as it covered everything nearby—except his wife, who moved close to Max.