He wanted to sit down for a bit, and the nearest place was the little bar halfway between Madison Avenue and Grand Central Station. He went in and ordered a beer.
What the hell had happened? He'd had too much to drink on several occasions, but he'd never gone to sleep in one city and awakened in another. Dr. Kamiroff must have put him on the plane; the biochemist didn't drink much, and had probably been in better shape than Bethelman had been.
He glanced at his watch. Two-fifteen! Wow! The city editor would be wondering where he was.
He went to the phone, dropped in a dime, and dialed the city desk. When the editor's voice answered, he said: "Hickman, this is Bethelman; I'm sorry I'm late, but—"
"Late?" interrupted Hickman, "What're you talking about? You've only been gone half an hour. You sick or something?"
"I don't feel too good," Bethelman admitted confusedly.
"That's what you said when you left. Hell, man, take the rest of the day off. It's Friday; you don't need to show up until Monday if you don't want to. Okay?"
"Yeah," said Bethelman. "Sure." His mind still didn't want to focus properly.
"Okay, boy," said Hickman. "And thanks again for the tip. Who'd have thought Baby Joe would come in first? See you Monday."
And he hung up.