“Joe Service asked. Fatman nodded without looking up from the veal scallops. The two men sat at a table in the Seven Continents Restaurant at O'Hare International Airport, in Chicago. Joe Service looked down at his own veal. He tried to remember what the menu called this dish and why it required melted cheese. He pushed the plate away untouched. “It's a very ancient saying,” he said. “It dates from Piers Plowman, at least.” “Plowman? What is he, a farmer?” Fatman said, chewing slowly. “Well, yea...h. Actually, it's a book about a farmer. A very old book. From Chaucer's time.” “Chaucer? I heard of Chaucer. Don't look so surprised, Joe,” Fatman said affably. “Just ‘cause I got a lot of business, don't mean I never read a book.” Joe beamed. He was a short, muscular man. He wore cowboy boots and a denim leisure suit. He was deeply tanned and his blue eyes were startling. He had heavy black hair and thick eyebrows. He was not a handsome man. His features were too strong—an aggressive nose, solid jaw and wide mouth—but he wasn't ugly.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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