“Goodbye, Docker,” he said aloud.
His tone was somewhat like the tone he had used the previous day, in bidding goodbye to a junkie whore named Robin whom he had once loved very deeply. Deeply enough to give her those few moments of regained humanity before she slipped through the wall.
Neil Fargo heard the voices of the garbagemen, exchanging cheery profanities with Emil. He walked out of the cold little cubicle into the empty California sunshine, moving like a professional athlete the day after his team has lost the playoff game. The purple bruise Maxwell Stayton’s fist had left on his cheekbone only heightened the illusion.
Then he straightened slightly, as if about to pass a reviewing stand, pointed a forefinger at Emil as if it were a gun, moved his thumb twice to make the gun go bang bang, and got into his Fairlane.
Externally, at least, he was merely a hard-nosed private detective who’d lost his leading client so he had to get out to hustle up some new business. Manhunting was what he did, and he was good at it.