But he tore his mind away from the happy past and concentrated, instead, on the miserable present. He decided for the last time that he was not going to ask Dorothea for the book—not just yet, anyhow. After all, it wasn't as if he needed the book; he knew his own name, and he knew Lynch's name, and he knew the names on the second page. And he didn't see any particular need for a picture of a red Cadillac, no matter how nicely colored it was.
So, he asked himself, why embarrass everybody by trying to get it back?
Of course, it was technically a crime to pick pockets, and that went double or triple for the pockets of FBI agents. But Malone told himself that he didn't feel like pressing charges, anyhow. And Dorothy probably didn't make a habit of pocket-picking.
He sighed and glanced at his watch. It was fifteen minutes of six.
Now, he knew what his next move was going to be.
He was going to go back to his hotel and change his clothes.
That is, he amended, as soon as he finished the drink that Ray was setting up in front of him.
XIII.
By the time Malone reached the Statler Hilton Hotel it was six-twenty. Malone hadn't reckoned with New York's rush-hour traffic, and, after seeing it, he still didn't believe it. Finding a cab had been impossible, and he had started for the subway, hoping that he wouldn't get lost and end up somewhere in Brooklyn.