The Greatest Works of Randall Garrett. Randall Garrett

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      So why did women keep him waiting?

      He heard her voice before he saw her, behind him. 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 had been 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 Sixty-ninth Street and blessed several saints when he found that 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.

      "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?"

      Malone gave her a grin. "Another?" he said. "Have two. Have a dozen."

      "And what," she said, "would I do with half a dozen drinks? Don't answer. I think I can guess. But let's just take them one at a time—O.K.?" She signaled to the bartender. "Wally, I'll have a Martini. And Mr. Malone will have whatever it is he has, I imagine."

      "Bourbon and soda," Malone said, and gave the bartender a grin, too, just to make sure he didn't feel left out. The sun was shining—although it was evening outside—and the birds were singing—although, Malone reflected, catching a bird on Forty-second Street and Broadway might take a bit of doing—and all was well with the world.

      There was only a tiny, nagging disturbing thought in his mind. It had to do with Mike Fueyo and the Silent Spooks, and a lot of red Cadillacs. But he pushed it resolutely away. It had nothing to do with the evening he was about to spend. Nothing at all.

      After all, this was supposed to be a vacation, wasn't it?

      "Well, Mr. Malone," Dorothy said, when the drinks had arrived.

      "Very well indeed," Malone said, raising his. "And just call me Ken. Didn't I tell you that once before?"

      "You did," she said. "And I asked you to call me Dorothy. Not Dotty. Try and remember that."

      "I will remember it," Malone said, "just as long as ever I live. You don't look the least bit dotty, anyhow. Which is probably more than anybody could say for me." He started to look at himself in the bar mirror again, and decided not to. "By the way," he added, as a sudden thought struck him. "Dotty what?"

      "Now," she said. "There you go doing it."

      "Doing what?"

      "Calling me that name."

      "Oh," Malone said. "Make it Dorothy. Dorothy what?" He blinked. "I mean, I know you've got a last name. Dorothy Something. Only it probably isn't Something. What is it?"

      "Francis," she said obligingly. "Dorothy Francis. My middle name is Something, in case you ever want to call me by my middle name. Just yell: 'Hey, Something,' and I'll come a-running. Unless I have something else to do. In which case everything will be very simple: I won't come."

      "Ah," Malone said doubtfully. "And what do—"

      "What do I do?" she said. "A standard question. Number two of a series. I do modeling. Photographic modeling. And that's not all—I also do commercials on 3-D. If I look familiar to you, it's probably because you've seen me on 3-D. Do I look familiar to you?"

      "I never watch 3-D," Malone said, crestfallen.

      "Fine," Dorothy said unexpectedly. "You have excellent taste."

      "Well," Malone said, "it's just that I never seem to get the time—"

      "Don't apologize for it," Dorothy said. "I have to appear on it, but I don't have to like it. And, now that I've answered your questions, how about answering some of mine?"

      "Gladly," Malone said. "The inmost secrets of the FBI are yours for the asking."

      "Hm-m-m," Dorothy said slowly. "What do you do as an FBI agent, anyhow? Dig up spies?"

      "Oh, СКАЧАТЬ