"Friend of mine," Malone improvised hurriedly. "Bringing them." He gave Dorothy a big smile and climbed down off the bar stool. He managed to find a phone booth, and dialed FBI headquarters on Sixty-ninth Street and blessed several saints when he found that A-in-C was still there.
"Tickets," Malone said.
The Agent-in-Charge blinked at him. "What tickets?" he said.
"The 'Hot Seat' tickets," Malone said. "Did you get 'em?"
"I got 'em," the Agent-in-Charge said sourly. "Had to chase all over town and pull more wires than there are on a grand piano. But they turned up, brother. Two seats. Do you know what a job like that entails?"
"I'm grateful," Malone said. "I'm hysterical with gratitude."
"I'd rather track down a gang of fingerless second-story men than go through that again," the Agent-in-Charge said. He looked as if his stomach trouble had suddenly gotten a great deal worse. Malone thought that the A-in-C was considering calling a doctor, and would probably decide to make it the undertaker instead, and save the price of a call.
"I can't express my gratitude," Malone told him. "Where are they? Where do I pick them up?"
"Box office," the A-in-C said sourly. "I tell you, everybody in Washington must be nuts. The things I have to go through—"
"Thanks," Malone said. "Thanks a lot. Thanks a million. If there's ever anything I can do for you, let me know and I'll do it." He hung up and went back to the bar.