“Yes.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“No.”
Bertha walked over to the telephone, jerked the receiver up, said to the operator, “Mr. Lam wants to talk with Emory G. Hale in New Orleans. You’ll find him at the Monteleone Hotel. It’s a person-to-person call. He’ll talk with no one else... What’s that?... Yes, I’m — yes, I know. It’s Mr. Lam’s room. He wants to talk... Yes, of course he’s here.”
She held the phone so tight I could see the skin stretched white across her knuckles. She said, “Very well,” and turned to me.
I said, “What is it?”
“They want you to okay the call.”
I made no move toward the telephone.
She shoved the instrument at me. “Okay that call”
I continued to smoke.