Haykh and his cousins walked in at last. They wore black suits and colorful shirts, no tie, and they had ear pieces in as though they had lots of people to talk to — they only ever hung out with each other. Who were they talking to all the time?
Sports bookies, probably. They gambled a lot.
“Get outta here, Ernie!” Haykh snapped. He had evidently reached the end of his tolerance for a man staring at the beautiful women he stuffed into beautiful clothes and paraded around for men to stare at. “Quit eye-fuckin’ the candy, you fuckin’ loser!” Actually he said yu foikin’ loozer, like he was pretending to be a New Yawker. All he knew of New York came from Woody Allen movies he had only seen comedic impressions of.
Haykh was a cool and calm straightlane upper-crust pinkie-ring of a man, and he wore a designer suit that he musta gone to Miami to buy. His hookish nose wrinkled at sight of Graham.From Max the Beach Bum
Haykh Gregarian was tall and lean, with a nose like a broken fist. He wasn’t as tall as Poahi, but he was a long slab of a straight-lane white man with gym-toned muscles and a permanent sneer on his idiot face. Poahi disliked him. He had a couple art-filled tats on his bicep, vaguely tribal symbols, a chain-link fence and Armenian writing. He sometimes affected an Armenian accent, even though he was born in Glendale. He was always in a hurry to get to the next place he was going, even though all he did there was pretend he had someplace better to be.
From Poahi the Lackey