They took a table near the bar and ordered coffee.

We looked at one another.

After a while I said, “You gents new in town?”

The tall one said, “Yes.”

We looked at one another some more.

“Passing through?” I said. “Or you planning to stay?”

“We came to do some work for Eamon O’Malley,” the tall one said.

“That so,” I said. “What kind of work you fellas do?”

The tall one looked at the small one and smiled.

“Hear that, Cato,” he said. “Gentleman wants to know what kind of work we do.”

The little guy nodded.

“A little of this,” he said, “a little of that.”

I nodded back, friendly.

“Cato,” I said. “Cato Tillson?”

The little guy nodded again. His eyes were sort of narrow, and the upper lids drooped so that the eyes seemed hooded.

“And you’d be Frank Rose?” I said to the tall one.

“You heard of us,” he said.

“Cato and Rose,” I said.

Rose seemed pleased.

“That’s what they call us,” he said. “His first name, my last. Kind of funny, huh? How that worked out? Guess people just like the way it sounds.”

He sipped some coffee.

“Cato and Rose,” he said, enjoying the phrase.

“What’s your name?” Cato said.

“Hitch,” I said. “Everett Hitch.”

“With Virgil Cole awhile, wasn’t you?” Cato said.

“I was.”

“Never had a chance to go against Cole,” Rose said.

“Why you’re still here,” I said.

Rose laughed.

“I heard he was pretty good,” Rose said.

“Best,” I said.