"Bourbon and soda," Malone said, and gave the bartender a grin, too, just to make sure he didn't feel left out. The sun was shining—although it was evening outside—and the birds were singing—although, Malone reflected, catching a bird on Forty-second Street and Broadway might take a bit of doing—and all was well with the world.
There was only a tiny, nagging disturbing thought in his mind. It had to do with Mike Fueyo and the Silent Spooks, and a lot of red Cadillacs. But he pushed it resolutely away. It had nothing to do with the evening he was about to spend. Nothing at all.
After all, this was supposed to be a vacation, wasn't it?
"Well, Mr. Malone," Dorothy said, when the drinks had arrived.
"Very well indeed," Malone said, raising his. "And just call me Ken. Didn't I tell you that once before?"
"You did," she said. "And I asked you to call me Dorothy. Not Dotty. Try and remember that."
"I will remember it," Malone said, "just as long as ever I live. You don't look the least bit dotty, anyhow. Which is probably more than anybody could say for me." He started to look at himself in the bar mirror again, and decided not to. "By the way," he added, as a sudden thought struck him. "Dotty what?"
"Now," she said. "There you go doing it."
"Doing what?"
"Calling me that name."