He looked at me and smiled lightly, pulling his hand away and instinctively wiping it on his thigh. "You should have a wrist-lock on that," George said in the same deep, slightly accented voice I’d heard at the Cafe Seventy-Seven. I glanced down and caught a glimpse of the back of his right hand. A long scar stood out plainly against his dark skin. Before I could say anything else, a car pulled up at the curb and a man jumped out. He was below-average height and build, light-skinned but with some Amerindian blood, and younger than George. He shoved himself between George and me. "Problems, chummer?" he asked.