She said, smiling up at him. “Right. The boss already told me to get in touch with Secret Service and let them know we're pulling out. What happened to Susan Self?”
Larry looked at her. “How'd you know about Susan?”
Her tone was deprecating. “Remember? You had me cut some tapes on you and that hulking Steve Hackett grilling the poor kid.”
Larry snorted. “Poor kid, yet. With her tastes for living-it-up, and that father she has, she'll probably spend the rest of her life getting in Steve's hair as a counterfeit pusher.”
“What are they going to do with her? She's just a child.”
The agent shrugged. “I feel sorry for her, too, LaVerne. Steve's got her in a suite at the Greater Washington Hilton, until things are cleared up. They don't want the newspapers to get wind of this until they've got that inventor father of hers and whatever he's cooked up to turn out perfect reproductions of Uncle Sam's money. Look, I won't be leaving until tomorrow. What'd you say we go out on the town tonight?”
“Why, Larry Woolford! How nice of you to ask me. Poor Little, Non-U me. What do you have in mind? I understand Mort Lenny's at one of the night clubs.”
Larry winced. “You know what he's been saying about the administration.”
She smiled sweetly at him.
Larry said, “Look, we could take in the Brahms concert, then—”