Malone scratched his head, found out that his head still hurt and put his hand down again. "What work?" he said.
"For three days," Boyd said, "I've been taking this blonde chick all over New York. Wining her. Dining her. Spending money as if I were Burris himself, instead of the common or garden variety of FBI agent. Night clubs. Theaters. Bars. The works. Malone, we were getting along famously. It was wonderful."
"And tonight—" Malone said.
"Tonight," Boyd said, "was supposed to be the night. The big night. The payoff. We've got a date for dinner—T-bone steak, two inches thick, with mushrooms. At her apartment, Malone. She will probably—"
"You'll have to break it," Malone said sympathetically. "Too bad, but it can't be helped now. You can pick up a sandwich before you go."
"A sandwich," Boyd said with great dignity, "is not my idea of something to eat."
"Look, Tom—" Malone began.
"All right, all right," Boyd said tiredly. "Duty is duty. I'll go call her."
"Fine," Malone said. "And meanwhile, I'll get us a little insurance."
"Insurance?"