We continue.
“Alan Smithee? Never heard of him.”
Bananas Foster was one of those guys who it takes only five minutes to know all your life. At least, if you were in the habit of hanging around short, kinda rat-looking, jittery chain-smokers who was clued-in about all the hinky deals out there, but didn’t have the scratch to get a piece in any of them. Which describes what the Old Americans would call my ‘working environment,’ right down to the cheap cologne Bananas wore. Weirdly, it didn’t even smell like bananas. More like burnt wood, old tobacco, and booze so raw, it practically bubbled.
Yeah, yeah, I know: I need a better class of business acquaintances. Who are you, my mother?
I shook my head. “Bananas. Look, I know I’m new around here, but you really gotta try to sell me on the lie. I ain’t just some tourist down from the City. See the hat?”
He peered at it. “What about it?” He sounded genuinely confused, too.
Truly, I was a pilgrim in an unholy land. “It’s a Shamus hat,” I explained, trying to ignore Lucas’s manful attempts not to snicker. “Tell me you’ve heard of Shamuses, Banana.”
Is Banana plural, i.e. is the last sentence supposed to say Bananas?
Mew
p.s. I will be disappointed if Bananas doesn’t get.. singed a little
I wouldn’t get too attached to old Bananas there, yeah.