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Betty put her hands on her hips. She was wearing lime green stretch pants, a white blouse, and no shoes. “You know where the liquor is. You all go on in the livingroom and I’ll get your wife undressed and tucked into bed. Don’t look like she’s gonna be waking up anytime soon.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“And take off your shoes.”

After I got my shoes off, I mixed two drinks and gave one to Sylvia. “Drink it,” I said. “It’ll help your shakes.”

She nodded and drank. We sat in the livingroom until Doctor Lambert knocked on the door. He nodded at me. “Who’s the patient?” he asked.

“My wife. She’s in the bedroom.”

He went in, carrying his doctor’s bag, and I sat there on the couch and stared at the white rug. Sylvia said nothing. The doctor and Betty came out in a quarter of an hour.

“I can’t determine what they gave her,” he said. “But it was an injection — in her right arm. She’s in no danger, but the best thing to do would be to let her sleep. I estimate she’ll be out for another four or five hours at least.”

“You sure she’s all right?”

“Yes.”

“Take a look at this one then,” I said, nodding my head at Sylvia.

“Has she been hurt?”

“In a way,” I said. “But it’s mostly fright. She doesn’t like herself very much either.”

The doctor’s dark face was impassive. “Go take a look at your wife,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do for your friend.”

I went back into the bedroom and looked down at the oval bed where Fredl lay sleeping, the covers drawn up to her chin. She stirred slightly, but not much. I stood there for what seemed to be a long time and looked at her and I found myself smiling. I put my drink down on the dresser, then went back to the bed, bent down, and kissed Fredl on the forehead. She didn’t stir. I stood there for a while longer, just looking at her and smiling until my jaws seemed to grow stiff, then I picked up the drink and went back into the livingroom.

Dr. Lambert was handing Sylvia a capsule and a glass of water. “Some people,” he said to me, “seem to think that liquor is the cure for everything.”

I looked at the drink in my hand and then took a swallow. “I’ve known it to brighten a few dark moments,” I said.

“It’s a depressant,” he snapped. “Not a stimulant.”

“I didn’t think she needed a pep pill.”

“She needs to sleep,” the doctor said testily, “not to brood. This will help her sleep.”

“She can sleep on the couch,” Betty said. “You want the floor?” she asked me.

“I have to go,” I said.

“You don’t look too well yourself,” the doctor said. “You look beat.”

“I’m all right,” I said and waved my drink at him. “I’ll stick to the home remedy.”

“Liver,” Doctor Lambert murmured. “It gets them all in the liver.”

“What about the bill?” I said.

“Three hundred.”

I got my billfold out and paid him. “I’ll drop back by in a couple of hours,” he said.

“Thanks.”

He picked up his bag and moved to the door. “When’s the last time you had a complete examination?” he said.

“Five or six years ago.”

He shook his head. “A picture of health,” he said. “Just yellowing at the corners.”

“Thanks,” I said.

He opened the door and said: “No charge.” Then he was gone.

Betty went into the bedroom and returned with two pillows, some sheets and a blanket. She made up a bed on the couch, talking to herself as she worked. I went over and knelt on one knee by Sylvia. She was staring at her hands in her lap. “Get some sleep,” I said. “You need it.”

She looked up at me. “Are you leaving?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to see him — just once more.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“I don’t think I can sleep.”

“Try.”

She nodded. I rose and walked over to Betty. “Thanks for your help,” I said.

She looked up at me and grinned. It was a wide, white grin with a lot of cynical sauciness in it. “You see Hardman, you tell him he better get me a maid.”

I smiled back at her. “I’ll tell him.”

“Come on, Sylvia,” she said. “Let’s get you to bed.”

I went over to the door and opened it. “They be all right,” Betty said. “I’ll look after them both.”

“Thanks,” I said and left.

I parked Hardman’s Cadillac on I Street and started walking the two blocks to the Roger Smith. It was two o’clock, three-quarters of an hour before Van Zandt’s four-car motorcade was supposed to turn down Pennsylvania at the corner of Seventeenth. I found myself wondering how the old man liked taking a tour of Washington’s sites, believing that he had only forty-five minutes to live.

I was approaching the corner of H and Eighteenth when a figure stepped out of a doorway and said: “You’re late.” It was Padillo.

“I had a couple of things to do,” I said. “It took longer than I thought.”

“There’s a bar around the corner,” he said. “You can tell me about them.”

We walked around the corner and went into a bar that had a surplus of dark oak fixtures. The luncheon crowd was almost gone and a waitress gave us a booth in the rear. I ordered a Scotch-and-water and Padillo said he wanted a martini. When the drinks came and the waitress left, Padillo said:

“We broke the conference call when Hardman said you were taking Fredl and Sylvia to Betty’s.”

“You broke it a little soon.”

“How?”

“Sylvia had to help me kill Magda.”

I told him about it then and he listened as he usually did, without showing much more surprise than if I had been telling him that the electronics stock I had touted to him had taken a turn for the worse.

“Where did Hardman take the other man — the third one?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is Fredl all right?”

“Yes.”

“Sylvia?”

“Not too well. She wants to see you. One more time, she said.”

He nodded and looked at his watch. “Now would be a good time to back out,” he said.

“It would, wouldn’t it?”

“It’s not really our do anymore.”

“No. Fredl’s safe. Sylvia’s all right.”

“We can just walk back to the saloon,” Padillo said. “Might even catch a cab.”

“We could do that.”

“Have a nice quiet lunch with a good bottle of wine.”

“Read about it in the papers tomorrow.”

Padillo looked at me. “But you won’t.”

“No.”

“Why? Because some little girl with puppy-dog eyes saved your life?”

“Don’t knock my excuses. I’ve got better ones than you do.”

Padillo put a couple of bills on the table. “Let’s go. Mush is waiting in the lobby.”

“Which way is Philip Price going to bounce?”

“I have no idea.”

“What do we do?”

“Keep Dymec from shooting Van Zandt.”

“How?”

“By persuasion.”

“Will that work?”

“Let’s find out.”

We walked into the Roger Smith at two-twenty p.m. Mush was sitting in one of the chairs in the lobby, reading The Wall Street Journal through his dark glasses. He nodded his head twice as we walked to the elevator. He didn’t seem to look at us.

I glanced around the lobby. There was no one else I knew. The elevator came and another man got in with us. He pressed the button for the third floor. When he got off, Padillo pressed the tenth-floor button. “Mush has a description of Dymec and Price,” Padillo said. “That nod means that Dymec’s gone up. Price hasn’t shown yet.”

We got off on the tenth floor and walked down to the thick door that said “Roof Garden.” The door was painted a Chinese red and the lettering was in gold. We went through the door and stopped because of the two guns that were aimed at us.