Boyd sniffed the air for a second, his face wrinkled. Then he looked down at his cigarette again. “By God,” he said, “you’re right, Ken. It does smell like a cigar.” He came over to Malone’s desk, looked around for an ashtray and didn’t find one, and finally went to the window and tossed the cigarette out into the Washington breeze. “How are things, anyhow, Ken?” he said.
“Things are confused,” Malone said. “Aren’t they always?”
Boyd came back to the desk and sat down in a chair at one side of it. He put his elbow on the desk. “Sure they are,” he said. “I’m confused myself, as a matter of fact. Only I think I know where I can get some help.”
“Really?” Malone said.
Boyd nodded. “Burris told me I might be able to get some information from a certain famous and highly respected person,” he said.
“Well, well,” Malone said. “Who?”
“You,” Boyd said.
“Oh,” Malone said, trying to look disappointed, flattered and modest all at the same time. “Well,” he went on after a second, “anything I can do—”
“Burris thought you might have some answers,” Boyd said.
“Burris is getting optimistic in his old age,” Malone said. “I don’t even have many questions.”