The Agent-in-Charge blinked at him. "What tickets?" he said.
"The Hot Seat tickets," Malone said. "Did you get 'em?"
"I got 'em," the Agent-in-Charge said sourly. "Had to chase all over town and pull more wires than there are on a grand piano. But they turned up, brother. Two seats. Do you know what a job like that entails?"
"I'm grateful," Malone said. "I'm hysterical with gratitude."
"I'd rather track down a gang of fingerless second-story men than go through that again," the Agent-in-Charge said. He looked as if his stomach trouble had suddenly gotten a great deal worse. Malone thought that the A-in-C was considering calling a doctor, and would probably decide to make it the undertaker instead, and save the price of a call.
"I can't express my gratitude," Malone told him. "Where are they?
Where do I pick them up?"
"Box office," the A-in-C said sourly. "I tell you, everybody in
Washington must be nuts. The things I have to go through—"
"Thanks," Malone said. "Thanks a lot. Thanks a million. If there's ever anything I can do for you, let me know and I'll do it." He hung up and went back to the bar, walking very carefully.
"Well?" Dorothy said. "Where do we go tonight? Joe's hot-dog stand? Or a revival of The Wild Duck in a loft on Bleecker Street?"
There was pride in Malone's manner as he stood there on his feet.
There was just a touch of hauteur as he said, "We'll see Hot Seat."