Stonewall nodded and said, “Oh? Ah, yes-” and kept nodding his large head with no hair on it.

Stonewall, I thought, was about the same age as Lippit, just a little past fifty, but Stonewall had hardly any hair and Lippit had all of his. Stonewall was short and had a small chest and Lippit was tall and had a large chest. And his shoulders were large, and his hands and his belly.

I have found that a big man like that is either especially shy or especially confident. Lippit was neither. He was just sure. Like when he paid for his liquor, and when he told Stonewall about the most expensive model we carried.

“It plays one hundred discs, makes no mechanical sounds, and it’s got a soft light inside, like a fancy cocktail lounge.”

“Like Mister Stonewall’s,” I said, because Lippit paid me.

“What else,” said Lippit “The rest is glass and black wood. And we stock this model,” he went on, “with cocktail music and wee-hours-type music. I mean class.”

I had not heard of wee-hours-type music before and neither had Stonewall. But he nodded, shy and impressed.

“What you get special on this machine,” Lippit told him, “is a counter which tells us which record pulls and which doesn’t. And our statistical branch figures out how long to keep the hot ones before they get tiresome and how soon to toss the slow ones, before we lose money. Before you and me lose money, huh, Stonewall?”

I had not heard of our statistical branch before, even though I had been around for a while and was usually present when Lippit made a pitch for a new place. But he talked different every time. He was very inventive. He let each occasion inspire him afresh.

I felt what Stonewall offered as inspiration was nothing. He nodded and smiled and waited for more. This bored Lippit, I could tell, because he stopped inventing a pitch and turned to the figures. He did not enjoy conning a mouse.

“The machine costs as much as a good car.