"I will wait with anxiety," Lynch said. "But it had better be before
eight. I get off then."
"If I can make it," Malone said.
"If you can't," Lynch said, "call me at home." He gave Malone the
number, and then added, "Whatever information I get, I can keep for my
own use this time, can't I?"
"Hell," Malone said, "you've already got all the information you're
going to get. I just gave it to you."
"That," Lynch said, "we'll see."
"I'll call to collect my money," Malone said.
"Well talk about it later," Lynch said. "Farewell, old pal."
"Flights of angels," Malone said, "sing thee to thy rest."
Malone replaced the microphone and headed for the door. Halfway there,
however, he stopped. He hadn't had any tequila in a long time, and he
thought he owed it to himself. He felt he had come out ahead in his
exchange with Lynch, and another medal was in order.
Only a small one, though. He told himself that he would order one
tequila and quit. Besides, he had to meet Dorothy.
He sat down on one of the tall bar stools. The bartender bustled over
and eyed him speculatively.
_"Tequila con limon,"_ he said negligently.
"Ah," the bartender said. _"Si, señor."_
Malone waited with ill-concealed impatience. At last it arrived,
Malone took the small glass of tequila in his right hand, with the
slice of lemon held firmly between the index and middle fingers of the
same hand, the rind facing in toward the glass. On the web between the
thumb and forefinger of his left hand he had sprinkled a little salt.
Moving adroitly and with dispatch, he downed the tequila, licked off
the salt, and bit his teeth into the lemon slice.
It felt better than good; it felt wonderful. He hadn't had such a good
time in years.
He had three more before he left the Xochitl.
Then, noticing the time, he moved in a hurry and got out of the bar
before temptation overcame him and he started ordering still more. It
was nearly six o'clock, and he had to meet Dorothy at Topp's.
He hoped he could find it.
He headed downtown toward 42nd Street, turned right and, sure enough,
there was a big red sign. It said Topp's. Malone beamed his approval
at it. It was just where it ought to be, and he was grateful.
He pushed open the glass door of the place and went in.
The maître d'hôtel was a chunky man with a pleasant face, a receding
hairline and, some distance back on his head, dark curly hair. He
beamed at Malone as if the FBI agent were a long-lost brother. "Table
for one, sir?" he said.
"No," Malone said, peering into the place. It was much bigger than he
had expected. "No," he said again. "I guess I'll just have a drink at
the bar."
The maître d' smiled and bowed him to a bar stool. Malone sat down and
looked the place over again. His first glance had shown him that
Dorothy wasn't there yet, but he saw no harm in making sure. _Always
be careful of your facts_, he admonished himself a little fuzzily.
There were a lot of women in the place, but they were all with
escorts. Some of them had two escorts, and Malone wondered about them.
Were they drunk, or was he? It was obvious that someone was seeing
double, but Malone wasn't quite sure who.
He stared at his face in the bar mirror for a few seconds, and ordered
a bourbon and soda when a bartender came over and occluded the image.
The bartender went away and Malone went on studying himself.
He wasn't bad looking for an FBI agent. He was taller than his father,
anyway, and less heavily built. That was one good thing. As a matter
of fact, Malone told himself, he was really a pretty good-looking guy.
So why did women keep him waiting?
He heard her voice before he saw her. But she wasn't talking to him.
"Hello, Milty," she said. "How's everything?"
Malone turned around to get a look at Milty. He turned out to be the
maître d'. What did he have that Malone didn't have? the agent asked
himself sourly. Obviously Dorothy was captivated by his charm. Well,
that showed him what city girls were like. Butterflies. Social
butterflies. Flitting hither and yon with the wind, now attracted to
this man, now to that. Once, Malone told himself sadly, he had known
this beautiful woman. Now she belonged to someone else.
He felt a little bit sad about it, but he told himself to buck up and
learn to live with his tragedy. He drank some more of his bourbon and
soda, and then she noticed him.
He heard her say, "Oh. Excuse me, Milty. There's my man." She came
over and sat down next to him.
He wanted to ignore her, just to teach her a lesson. But he had
already turned around and smiled at her, and she smiled back.
"Hi," she said. "Did you get the tickets?"
_Tickets._
Malone knew there was something he'd forgotten, and now he knew what
it was. "Oh," he said. "Sure. Just a second. I've got to check up."
"Check up?"
"Friend of mine," Malone improvised hurriedly. "Bringing them." He
gave Dorothy a big smile and climbed down off the bar stool. He
managed to find a phone booth, and dialed FBI headquarters on 69th
Street and blessed several saints when he found that the A-in-C was
still there.
"Tickets," Malone said.
The Agent-in-Charge blinked at him. "What tickets?" he said.
"The _Hot Seat_ tickets," Malone said. "Did you get 'em?"
"I got 'em," the Agent-in-Charge said sourly. "Had to chase all over
town and pull more wires than there are on a grand piano. But they
turned up, brother. Two seats. Do you know what a job like that
entails?"
"I'm grateful," Malone said. "I'm hysterical with gratitude."
"I'd rather track down a gang of fingerless second-story men than go
through that again," the Agent-in-Charge said. He looked as if his
stomach trouble had suddenly gotten a great deal worse. Malone thought
that the A-in-C was considering calling a doctor, and would probably
decide to make it the undertaker instead, and save the price of a
call.
"I can't express my gratitude," Malone told him. "Where are they?
Where do I pick them up?"
"Box office," the A-in-C said sourly. "I tell you, everybody in
Washington must be nuts. The things I have to go through--"
"Thanks," Malone said. "Thanks a lot. Thanks a million. If there's
ever anything I can do for you, let me know and I'll do it." He hung
up and went back to the bar, walking very carefully.
"Well?" Dorothy said. "Where do we go tonight? Joe's hot-dog stand? Or
a revival of _The Wild Duck_ in a loft on Bleecker Street?"
There was pride in Malone's manner as he stood there on his feet.
There was just a touch of hauteur as he said, "We'll see _Hot Seat_."
And he was repaid for all of the Agent-in-Charge's efforts. Dorothy's
eyes went wide with appreciation and awe. "My goodness," she said. "A
man of his word--and what a tough word, too! Mr. Malone, I
congratulate you."
"Nothing," Malone said. "A mere absolute nothing."
"Nothing, the man says," Dorothy muttered. "My goodness. And modest,
too. Tell me, how do you do, Mr. Malone?"
"Me?" Malone said. "Very well, so far." He finished his drink. "And
you?"
"I work at it," she said cryptically.
"May I have another drink?"