Here is the excerpt:
Tubby Ingram hated being called the “Tubster” in that offhand way some people used. At his age and station in life resentment often sprang full-bodied from the slightest offense. The “Tubster” was a name someone his own age could use, but never would, an unspoken pact among the survivors; the young man disturbing the serenity of his office was too self-absorbed to sense Tubby’s umbrage.
“You on the phone?” Gennardo asked, pushing his lips into the bad boy pout that drove the women wild. It drove Tubby wild too, albeit in a different way. An odd recollection of his first wife provoked a bleak moment of homophobic inflection before Tubby conjured pouting lips of the feminine kind from deep in his memory. It worried him that his psyche had reached such a delicate state that fantasy and reality were each on the ropes waiting for somebody to count one of them out.It didn’t matter which prevailed, as long as one of them was around to do things like drive the car. A hard knock on the door preceded the arrival of Solly Face. “Tub?”

“Solly,” Tubby said. “Come on in.”

“Tub” was a form of the “Tubster,” but more of a peer thing, if an over boss scumbag could be considered a peer. The ritual was always the same. Solly liked to pretend he was dropping by. Tubby pretended he was surprised to see him. “Hey,” Tubby said. “What a surprise.”
Solly lingered near the door. He nodded to Gennardo. “Give us a minute, will ya?”

The young sculptor glanced at Tubby.

“Give us five,” Tubby said. “Smoke a cigarette.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Go bother Maria. She’s getting too much work done.”

Solly tousled Gennardo’s hair as he left the office. Then he gave Tubby a sick smile like he was a member of the Joint Chiefs and Tubby was some grease monkey. “Bother Maria, that’s a good one,” Solly said to Tubby. “What’s the matter with your door? Is it broke?”

Tubby hiked his shoulders. Solly Face wasn’t a big man. He was Jimmy Warden’s top guy and he was Tubby’s boss. Solly wore his favorite suit, a dove gray tropical weight, with a white shirt and a maroon tie. The man sported a ton of hair swept into a silver pompadour above a high forehead and a long sharp nose.

Solly had once tried to kill Tubby on a windy Saturday one November when they were both young and tough. It was on the Chelsea Pier and Solly had a tire iron. Tubby cold-cocked him with a chunk of concrete that God handed him for the occasion.

“It felt like it was stuck or something,” Solly said. His dark eyes narrowed and his silver eyebrows arched. Big door conspiracy here. Solly set a gym bag on Tubby’s desk.

“I’ll get it checked,” Tubby said. Solly never looked at him, even though by-gones were fucking by-gones. Tubby knew that under all the hair on Solly’s head was a jagged scar. It was a small joy, like seeing your face in a grammar school photo.Looks like Lord Font-Leroy has run amok.

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