Malone shook his head. "You can't," he said. "I'll call you."
"I will wait with anxiety," Lynch said. "But it had better be before eight. I get off then."
"If I can make it," Malone said.
"If you can't," Lynch said, "call me at home." He gave Malone the number, and then added, "Whatever information I get, I can keep for my own use this time, can't I?"
"Hell," Malone said, "you've already got all the information you're going to get. I just gave it to you."
"That," Lynch said, "we'll see."
"I'll call to collect my money," Malone said.
"Well talk about it later," Lynch said. "Farewell, old pal."
"Flights of angels," Malone said, "sing thee to thy rest."
Malone replaced the microphone and headed for the door. Halfway there, however, he stopped. He hadn't had any tequila in a long time, and he thought he owed it to himself. He felt he had come out ahead in his exchange with Lynch, and another medal was in order.