“Oh, I do,” Malone said.
“Because things are terrible,” Manelli said. “And they’re getting worse every day. You should only know.”
“Don’t worry,” Malone said. “Things will be straightened out pretty soon.” He hoped, as he went out the door and down the corridor, that he was telling the truth there, at least. He’d sounded fairly confident, he thought, but he didn’t feel quite so confident. The secretary was busy on the switchboard when he came out into the anteroom, and he went by without a greeting, his mind busy, churning and confused.
He felt as if his head were on just a little crooked. Or as if, maybe, he had a small hole in it somewhere and facts were leaking out onto the sidewalk.
If he only looked at the problem in the right way, he told himself, he would see just what was going on.
But what was the right way?
“That,” Malone murmured as he hailed a cab for the ride back to 69th Street, “is the big, sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. And how much time do I have for an answer?”
11
“Boyd?” the agent-in-charge said. “He went out to talk to Mike Sand down at the ITU a while ago, and he hasn’t come back yet.”
“Fine,” Malone said. “I’ll be in my office if he wants me.”