Cutlass swallowed the aspirin, picked up his brief-case and met his man in the spacious lobby.
"Sorry to've kept you waiting, Prescott! Hope you didn't have a late deadline to make?"
"No, sir, that's quite all right. Believe me, I'm pleased to have an opportunity for an interview with you at any time of day or night! You've made the best copy coming out of this town in many a column, sir!"
"Well, thank you, Mr. Prescott. I believe in speaking freely to the press—"
"I've a cab waiting right outside, sir."
"Suppose we take my car? A little more privacy, I think—"
Prescott followed the immaculately attired Cutlass through the Statler's front doors to the sleek black limousine waiting at the curb. Its engine was idled to an inaudible purr, and the tonneau door was opened by a uniformed chauffeur as they approached. Cutlass nodded politely to a couple of alert Secret Service men. The Law. Friends now, of course.
Within soundless seconds the luxurious vehicle had pulled into Washington traffic, and it was Cutlass who opened the conversation.
"I thought perhaps you could better obtain what you'd like in somewhat more pleasant surroundings, Mr. Prescott. I've a little place just outside the city—prefer it, I assure you, to the Embassy room!" They both laughed, Prescott a little self-consciously, wondering just what kind of a write-up Cutlass was expecting. As if he didn't know....
"Well sir, if I could get a little background to what happened on the floor this morning, before I attempt to go into too much detail.... Your new tax bill—I understand there was rather, well—some rather spirited opposition this morning—"