I rang the switchboard. “This is Mr. Dark in Fifteen Eleven. There’s a message light.” I tossed the folded Playbill on the coffee table and jerked my tie loose. “Yes, sir, here it is. Please call Mr. Myerson. He didn’t leave a number, sir.” “That’s all right, I know the number. Thanks.” I cradled it before I emitted an oath. Childishly I found ways to postpone making the call: stripped, showered, counted my travelers’ cheques, switched the television on and went around the dial and switched it off. Finally I made a face and rang through to Myerson’s home number in Georgetown. “Charlie?” I said, “I’m on vacation. I didn’t want to hear from you.” “How was the play?” “Dreary. Why don’t they write plays with real people in them any more?” “Charlie, those are real people. You’re out of touch.” “Thank God. What do you want?” I made it cold and rude. “Oh I just thought you might be lonesome for my voice.” “Has Hell frozen over?” Then I said, “If it’s an assignment you can shove it somewhere with a hot poker.
