"I mean there are ways. All you've got to do is sneak yourself into the public eye. Once that happens, the public asks questions. What happened to Tanker Bell? Why isn't he fighting the Champ? Know what I mean?"
"Don't you think they're askin' questions now?"
"Sure. But they ain't doin' it en masse. See?"
"Yeah," said Charlie Jingle softly. "Yeah. What I gotta do is hit Pugs, Inc. where they ain't got control of the situation. Where they don't have their stooges workin' to keep things quiet."
"Now you've got it," said the Commissioner, grinning.
"Okay. See you around," said Charlie, and started out.
"Take care," warned the Commissioner. But by that time Charlie Jingle was on his way.
At one o'clock of that afternoon, Charlie Jingle boarded a coast-to-coast rocket. Fifty-five minutes later, at ten fifty-five A.M. West Coast Time, Charlie Jingle set foot on the pavement of Los Angeles' Municipal Rocket-Port, hopped a cab, and got out on the lot of Galaxy Films. His business there took him two hours and twelve minutes, by which time he hopped another cab, was born back to the Rocket-Port, and bought a return ticket on the eastbound Rocket, scheduled for takeoff at five P.M.
Charlie found a few hours on his hands. He chose to divert himself at the Jet-Car Races in Culver City. He dropped forty dollars on the first two races, and had just bought another ticket when, as he walked away from the betting window, he saw a familiar profile marking possibilities on a racing sheet with a well-chewed pencil. He nudged up to Rabbit Markey, and in a half-whisper, asked: