“No.”
“Have a drink, then. Don’t get married. You get all wrapped up in someone. They’re your very life. And then the first thing you know, they get killed in an auto camp. Have a drink. What do you want? Bourbon and 7-Up? Scotch and soda? Ginger ale and rye? Or…”
“Scotch and soda,” I said.
Charlton walked over to the dresser and said to Sellers, “You can’t drink, you’re on duty. That’s your hard luck.”
He splashed liquor into glasses with an unsteady hand and said, “Anyhow, the guy’s civilized. He drinks Scotch and soda.”
Sellers said, “You could have hired this man to shadow your wife.”
“That’s right,” Carlton proclaimed. “I sure as hell could. There’s lots of things I could have done. There’s lots of things I could do. I’m on the eleventh floor. I could make a parachute out of a sheet and jump out of the window. Want to see me try it?”
Sellers didn’t say anything.
Carlton grinned, and said, “What’s your angle in the racket, Lam?”
“No angle,” I said. “Old Beagle over here just picked me up and is taking me along to let people look me over. He thinks he’s going to discover something.”