"Yes," I continued. "The Ravick story's finished. But we still have the Anton Gerrit story, and I'm going to work on it right now."
20
FINALE
They had Tom Kivelson in a private room at the hospital; he was sitting up in a chair, with a lot of pneumatic cushions around him, and a lunch tray on his lap. He looked white and thin. He could move one arm completely, but the bandages they had loaded him with seemed to have left the other free only at the elbow. He was concentrating on his lunch, and must have thought I was one of the nurses, or a doctor, or something of the sort.
"Are you going to let me have a cigarette and a cup of coffee, when I'm through with this?" he asked.
"Well, I don't have any coffee, but you can have one of my cigarettes," I said.
Then he looked up and gave a whoop. "Walt! How'd you get in here? I thought they weren't going to let anybody in to see me till this afternoon."
"Power of the press," I told him. "Bluff, blarney, and blackmail. How are they treating you?"