"'Ye'll be gettin' it,' says th'sailor t'the whore." Solitaire winked. "I ain't workin' fer naught, an' if ye think t'break me bones fer payment, I'll see that no runner'll give ye what yer wantin'. None o' us work fer free." Solitaire was still smiling. His heart was in his throat, too, but he was getting pissed. He was too respected in lowtown for this gadder to come around slinging his weight like he was some bruiser.
Who was the man, anyways?
Who was the man, anyways?