I directed my hacker to my apartment, and grabbed the phone in the bubble. The Mobile Operator got me Vito Passarelli at his home. He sounded as if he had already retired.
"This is you know who," I said. "It's late, I know, but we'd better talk before morning. My apartment is the safest spot I can think of. I'm in the Directory."
"Now?"
"Now."
I beat His Honor to my apartment by long enough to hang up my jacket, turn the ceiling on to a dim but friendly glow and get out a bottle of Scotch. Judges don't drink bourbon.
I let Passarelli in when the buzzer sounded. "I'm reasonably sure there are no microphones in this place," I said. "This Mary Hall thing is getting hot—we'd better start taking precautions."
"Always," he said, running a hand over his balding head. His eyes saw the bottle and asked me a question. I threw some of the Pinch Bottle over ice and handed it to him, taking mine neat.
"Here's to crime," he said, sipping the liquor. "What happened?"
I poked a finger at my favorite easy-chair, which Passarelli took. I stood in front of him, still holding my drink. "I got myself in a jam."
"You're talking to the wrong man," he said coldly. "Get yourself a lawyer—a good Lawyer."