“That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said in the last ten minutes,” Sandy muttered under his breath. He pulled out his wallet and counted the money in it. “Not quite six dollars,” he announced. “How much have you got with you?”
Ken checked. “Eight dollars and some change.”
“All right. I’ll take command of this phase of the action. Ever since I saw our friend there eating that doughnut and drinking that hot coffee—while we were freezing out in the cold—I’ve wanted to pay him back. And I know just the way to do it.”
They both still felt stiff and bruised from their leap to the dock, but the comparative warmth of the cab and the greater warmth of the station had thawed them slightly. They walked almost briskly toward the largest of the station’s many restaurants. Sandy led the way inside and chose a table in full view of anyone standing outside the big window overlooking the busy arcade.
Ken, shielding himself behind a large menu, stole a look through the glass. “He’s there.”
“Good.” Sandy grinned. “He’s going to love this. I could tell from the way he was eating in the cabin that he really enjoys his food.” He looked up at a waiter who had hurried to their table. “We’ll start with clams on the half shell,” he said. “Then soup—onion, I guess. And then a sirloin for two—very rare. With it we’d better have some....”
When the waiter headed for the kitchen a few minutes later he had a slightly glazed expression on his face.
“I take it we’re not really going back to Brentwood,” Sandy said over the clams. “That act of buying the tickets in a loud voice was just an act?”
Ken looked at him innocently. “Of course we could go back tonight—but then we’d miss the basketball game.”
Sandy lifted an eyebrow at him. “I see. And what else would we miss?”