Where the hell did he come from? He was a hulking son of a bitch with yellow eyes and pitch black skin, the kind of man that makes another man question his masculinity. One night he was just there, as if he’d always been there, smiling out of the side of his mouth with appraising disdain, unimpressed.
“What’s your name again?” I asked. He muttered something unintelligible.
S – something, mental, aggy – I searched through the list of names on the computer screen for a rhyming pattern.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“Okay, well, I’ve signed you in. Go ahead and get to work and if you have any questions or need any help, don’t hesitate to ask.”
Spieramento twisted his body slightly in my direction, glanced down at me from the corner of his eye and flashed an incredulous grin as if he were trying to decide whether I had just told a joke or if I were the joke, then turned and walked away.