Inside, it was cool and air-conditioned, with dark oak booths and a long bar glimmering with dim lights behind the racked tiers of bottles. Music played softly somewhere. There were only a few customers. The long blinds in the window were tilted to shut out the hot glare of the sun. They also shut out the sight of traffic and pedestrians on Cactus Street. Durell ordered beer and sandwiches and counted his money. Ninety-two dollars. Deirdre had no handbag. She was trying to straighten her copper hair with her hands. Even without lipstick or make-up, she looked wonderful. Durell got some change and went into the phone booth at the back end of the bar. A siren screamed past outside. He got the operator, asked for long-distance. Sweat rolled down under his shirt. The receiver hummed. He wanted to jiggle the hook, but he waited. Finally the operator came on and he gave Dickinson McFee's private number in Washington, D.C. The operator asked him to wait.
