“Listen,” I said. “I told you I didn’t carry anything that can talk. Sacked liquor can’t talk. Demijohns can’t talk. There’s other things that can’t talk. Men can talk.”
“Can Chinamen talk?” Pancho said, pretty nasty. “They can talk but I can’t understand them,” I told him.
“So you won’t?”
“It’s just like I told you last night. I can’t.”
“But you won’t talk?” Pancho said.
The one thing that he hadn’t understood right had made him nasty. I guess it was disappointment, too. I didn’t even answer him.
“You’re not a lengua larga, are you?” he asked, still nasty.
“I don’t think so.”
“What’s that? A threat?”
“Listen,” I told him. “Don’t be so tough so early in the morning. I’m sure you’ve cut plenty people’s throats. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.”
“So you’re sure I’ve cut people’s throats?”
“No,” I said. “And I don’t give a damn. Can’t you do business without getting angry?”
“I am angry now,” he said. “I would like to kill you.”
“Oh, hell,” I told him. “Don’t talk so much.” “Come on, Pancho,” the first one said. Then, to me, “I am very sorry. I wish you would take us.” “I’m sorry, too. But I can’t.”
