“But I don’t want to go to bed, Mamma.” The dimple in his chin deepened as he pouted. “If Aunt Tildy’s coming, I want to stay up.”
I told him, “She won’t be here until morning, son, I promise you.” Might be quite a bit later than that, I told myself.
He stamped upstairs finally, hollering questions at me every third step. “When’d Aunt Tildy leave New York?”
“Was that bad man still bothering her?”
“Had I seen the Stack O’ Jack show last night?”
Last night? It seemed more than thirty hours since that pair of hands had played We Won’t Go Home Until Morning.
Mrs. Marino brought a decanter and glasses by way of rapprochement.
“Perhaps you’d prefer a highball, Mister Vine?”
“Thanks. No. Straight across the board.” I was ready for a stimulant. “Your sister’s in a pretty desperate fix, Mrs. Marino.”
“I know. I wanted to go to New York to be with her, but she didn’t think the authorities would permit it. And now this awful news on the radio about Dow Lanerd; Tildy must be absolutely stricken.”