But one look at the shrieking mob trying to sardine itself into the Seventh Avenue subway entrance had convinced him it was better to walk. Bucking the street crowds was bad enough. Bucking the subway crowds was something Malone didn't even want to think about.
He let himself into his room, and was taking off his shoes with a grate
ful sigh when there was a rap on the door of the bathroom that connected his room with Boyd's. Malone padded over to the door, his shoes in one hand. "Tom?" he said.
"You were expecting maybe Titus Moody?" Boyd called.
"O.K.," Malone said. "Come on in."
Boyd pushed open the door. He was stripped to the waist, a state of dress which showed the largest expanse of chest Malone had ever seen, and he was carrying the small scissors which he used to trim his Henry VIII beard. He stabbed the scissors toward Malone, who shuffled back hurriedly.
"Listen," Boyd said, "did you call the office after you left this afternoon?"
"No," Malone admitted. "Why? What happened?"
"There was a call for you," Boyd said. "Long Distance, just before I left at five. I came on back to the hotel and waited until I heard you come in. Thought you might want to know about it."