“Where it says,” he told me, “that you got to repair and service within a reasonable time. Not two days of nothing.”

He had even taken the trouble to read up on the contract. He was so edgy and clever about all this, Morry was annoying me. And his coffee had been lousy. I got up, smiled the warmth-and-tolerance smile, and sighed.

“I’ll fix it so it doesn’t happen again,” I said. “No more repair men bouncing balls down your alley, no more two-day delays. All right?”

He shrugged and watched the jukebox stack the ballad disc into the rack.

“And you, Morry, you fix it at your end, like no more outside electricians.”

“You threatening me?”

“You ever meet anybody nicer than me, Morry?” And I put a dime on the counter for the cup of near-coffee.

Morry’s face stayed sour, like the coffee he made, and his hand picked up the dime as if he himself knew nothing about it. I left, feeling none too badly about any of this, because the customer’s feelings were mostly what counted. And Morry, without question, felt good all over. He had made money on the dime I had dropped into the machine (one-third dime was his), and money on the dime I had spent on his coffee (four-fifth dime, my estimate), and on the jukebox repair by that fly-by-night outfit. Not that it would pay Morry in the long run. We were set up to make sure of that. It was strange, though, for Morry to ignore this, what with the feeling he had for all problems of loss and profit.

I drove off fast, being late for the last stop that day, and mostly concerned about red lights all the way crosstown. The last stop that day was really Lippit’s job, with me around just for trappings. Lippit always broke a new man in himself.

The place turned out to be a bar in a shopping center, with a big New Management sign in the window and the blue tile facade not all finished. This being supper time there was all kinds of parking space by the curb, and the bar inside looked big with no customers. Of course Lippit was there. He was leaning on the bar.