Feldt laughed. "Sure, sure. But just to see how it sounds and all." Richie stared at him, not smiling. Feldt turned off his own laughter. He shrugged. "What the hell, Van, 1941. We got a bundle in this one. We're taking no chances. None."
Outside, the secretary's typewriter chattered unevenly. Richie blew a smoke ring. "Okay," he said, feeling suddenly tired, "Any time you say."
Feldt walked to the elevators with him. "Incidentally, Van, I hate to ask, but what's with the sauce problem these days?"
Richie shook his head. "Seven years. Eight now, in fact."
"Oh, great. That's great."
"And for your information, it never was what you'd call a problem."
"Well, the papers and all, y'know. We couldn't tell." The elevator doors hissed open. "Thanks for coming up, fella. See you tomorrow."
Halfway down, the only other man in the car looked up, startled. "Pardon?"
"I said 'son of a bitch'," Van Richie said. "With feeling."