“Gil Vine, Pat.”
“Your chickadees have flew, Gilbert. They tried t’get room service, but you know we ain’t had room service on Sundays here since FDR was a freshman.”
“Ouww! They went out for scup scoff?”
“Well, yeah. But not together. Little Goldilocks, the looker with the glamorous gams — say, I just remembered who she looks like — that Millett babe—”
“Set a day.”
“She does, though. Well, she comes kitin’ down th’ stairs an’ out, an’ grabs a cab. About th’ time her taxi is pullin’ away, the other one bounces out of the elevator and chases after her. What kind of ring-around-a-rosie goes on, huh, Gil? You wouldn’t get th’ Brulard messed up in no scandal, nothin’ like that, would you?”
“Everything sweet and clean, Pat. But I’ll make you a small side bet.”
“What about?”
“Ten bucks says you can’t locate the hackie who took Little Goldilocks away — and find out where he took her.”
“That ain’t a bet. That’s a new pair of kicks. Sure. Where you want me to call you?”