The waiter brought the drinks. I drank about half of mine, then excused myself and started in the general direction of the men’s room. I detoured over to the telephone booth, got a couple of bills changed into twenty-five-cent pieces, and called Emory G. Hale at the hotel in New Orleans.
I had to wait less than three minutes while the operator put the call through; then I heard Hale’s booming voice.
Central sweetly told me to start depositing twenty-five-cent pieces, and my quarters played a tune on the gong in the pay box.
It took a second or two for the sound of the gongs to get out of my ear. I heard Hale saying impatiently, “Hello. Hello. Hello. Who is this calling? Hello.”
“Hello, Hale. This is Donald Lam.”
“Lam! Where are you?”
“Los Angeles.”
“Well, why the devil didn’t you report? I’ve been worried sick about you, wondering if you were all right.”
“I’m all right. I’ve been too busy to get near a telephone. I’ve got Roberta Fenn located.”
“You have?”