The car was rolling slowly along — gathering speed. Far up ahead I could hear the mellowed whistle of the locomotive drifting back across the roofs of the air-conditioned cars. The aisle was a dim mist of green curtains swaying with the motion of the train. Here and there, heads stuck out as curious passengers wondered what the commotion was about.
I stared at Kleinsmidt. “What’s the idea?” I asked.
“You’re going back, Lam.”
“Back where?”
“To Las Vegas.”
“When?”
“Right now.”
I said, “Guess again. I’m going to be in Los Angeles at exactly eight-thirty in the morning.”
He looked at his watch. “I got on at Yermo at two-thirty,” he said. “We stop briefly at Barstow at three-ten. You’re going to be dressed and off the train then.”
“This is the kind of co-operation I get in return for giving you a break, I suppose.”