Barbara Payton needed nursing. He was flying out to Chicago and then hopping a train up to Minnesota to babysit the newlyweds. It’d be worth it, honest. Of course he was more than pushing his luck. He really wasn’t in that kind of league. And the chances of getting caught showed this was a sucker’s bet. The sound of his own voice on the phone with the studio made him sick. How could he turn it on so fast, that hot, easy pit-a-pat? What was wrong with him? He touched his face and it was shiny-smooth, cool, like molded plastic, and if you tapped it, there was the soft sound of a perfectly hollow center. On his way to what he hoped would be Iolene’s hideaway, Hop stopped at a dismal-looking diner on Fountain Avenue. He realized he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a meal. Was it with Bix Noonan the previous afternoon? Or had he just had coffee? All he could remember for sure was the stale pretzel grounds and stray peanuts he’d scooped up at the Eight Ball. He sat at a corner table swabbed with coffee stains and made his way through a plate of runny eggs and crushed potatoes, scraping up the last slick yolk with a brittle slice of bacon.
