“Nevertheless,” Malone said.
Manelli hesitated only a second. “Because I like you,” he said, “and to teach you how things operate around here, I could do you a favor.”
“Good,” Malone said patiently.
“In an hour,” Manelli said. “My place. Here.”
The screen blanked out before Malone could even say goodbye.
Malone got up, went out to the corridor, and decided that, since he had time to kill, he might as well walk on down to Manelli’s office. That, he told himself, would give him time to decide what he wanted to say.
He toyed at first with the idea of a nice bourbon and soda in a Madison Avenue bar, but he discarded that idea in a hurry. It was always possible for him to get into a tight spot and have to teleport his way out, and he didn’t want to be fuzzy around the edges in case that happened. Trotkin’s had showed him that, under enough stress, he could manage the job with quite a lot of vodka in him. But there was absolutely no sense, he told himself sadly, in taking chances.
He started off downtown along Fifth. Soon he was standing in front of the blue-and-crystal tower of the Ravell Building.
That made up his mind for him. He checked his watch, mentally flipped a coin and then cheated a little to make the answer come out right. He went inside and stepped into an elevator.
“Six,” he said with decision.