I sat up. “Fan me with a blowtorch,” I said.
But I didn’t nod. In fact, I didn’t move. When I realized what I’d said, I held my neck so rigid that it hurt, and didn’t quite breathe for fear I’d swing that pendulum.
Very gingerly, so as not to tilt it, I reached up and took off the headband and put it down on the floor.
Then I got up and felt myself all over. There were probably bruises, but no broken bones. I picked up the drink and drank it. It was a good drink, but I mixed the next one myself. With three-quarters gin.
With it in my hand, I circled around the headband, not coming within a yard of it, and sat down on the bed.
“Charlie,” I said, “you’ve got something there. I don’t know what it is, but what are we waiting for?”
“Meaning?” said Charlie.
“Meaning what any sensible man would mean. If that darned thing brings anything we ask for, well, let’ s make it a party. Which would you rather have, Lili St. Cyr or Esther Williams? I’ll take the other.”
He shook his head sadly. “There are limitations, Hank. Maybe I’d better explain.”
“Personally,” I said, “I would prefer Lili to an explanation, but go ahead. Let’s start with Yehudi. The only two Yehudis I know are Yehudi Menuhin, the violinist, and Yehudi, the little man who wasn’t there. Somehow I don’t think Menuhin brought us that gin, so—”