"It's your baby," Lansberg said, shaking his head. "All I have to say is it's a hell of a way to earn ten bucks."
Karnes grinned and dropped the thing back in his coat pocket.
By the time that evening had rolled around, Karnes was beginning to get just a little bored. He and Lansberg had been in and out of the New York office in record time. Then they had spent a few hours with New York's Finest and the District Attorney, lining up a net to pick up all the little rats involved.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait.
Karnes slept a couple of hours to catch up, read two magazines from cover to cover, and played eight games of solitaire. He was getting itchy.
His brain kept crackling. What's the matter with me? I ought to be thinking about this Brittain fellow instead of—
But, after all, what did Brittain matter? According to the records, he was born Alex Bretinov, in Marseilles, France, in nineteen sixty-eight. His father, a dyed-in-the-wool Old Guard Communist, had been born in Minsk in nineteen forty.
Or had he been wound up, and his clockwork started in January of nineteen fifty-three?
The radio popped. "Eighteen. Alert. Brittain just left his place on foot. Carson, Reymann following. Over."
Lansberg dropped his magazine. "He seems to be heading for the Big Boy—I hope."