Petite Jeanne could have wept. She had hoped—what had she not hoped? And now—
But no. The man turned to Angelo. “Got a phone here?”
“Yonder.” Angelo pointed a trembling finger toward the corner. There was a strange glow on his face. Perhaps he read character better than Jeanne.
They heard Solomon call a number. Then:
“That you, Mister Mackenzie? Solomon speaking. Is the Junior Ballet there?
“Spare ’em for an hour? In costume? Put on their fur coats and send ’em over.”
“Where?”
“What’s this number?” He whirled about to ask Angelo.
“Six—six—eight.”
“Six—six—eight on the boulevard. Send ’em in taxis. I’ll meet ’em at the sidewalk and pay the fares.