“That damn lawyer wasn’t worth his salt. Served a couple of papers, and then didn’t know what to do next-like a bum card player who plays all of his aces, and then crawls under the table.”
“How did you happen to get him?” I asked.
“I didn’t get him. For Heaven’s sake give me credit for some sense! I’d never get a boob like that.”
“Ashbury?” I asked.
She poured out two slugs of whisky, then corked the bottle, started to put it away, and said, “Hell, I’m twice as big as you. I need twice as much to keep me going.” She added another two fingers to her glass. “Well,” she said, “here’s how.”
I nodded, and we drank.
“That Ashbury is a good guy,” she said. “He rang me up as soon as the officers loaded you in the car. He figured there was a plane waiting. He told me to get hold of this lawyer, explain what was happening, and go out to the airport armed with the necessary papers, so that we could be on the job.”
“How did you know which airport?” I asked.
“Hell, lover, do I look as dumb as all that? I found out what charter planes were out, what field this flyer had taken off from, and put through a telephone call to the field up north to be notified as soon as he left there; then I rounded up the lawyer, and we all went down. So you got that little blonde in your pocket, too? My God, Donald, how they fall for you is—”
“Be your age, Bertha,” I said. “She didn’t fall for me.”