“How the hell do I know? Have you any idea where he is?”
“No.”
“Will you go find him?”
Durkin lifted helpless hands and dropped them.
“He’s your pet, not mine,” Chisholm said savagely. “Get him and bring him in, and I’ll offer him a new contract. That will be a contract. Beat it!”
Durkin left through the door he had entered by.
Wolfe grunted. “Sit down, please,” he told Chisholm. “When I address you I look at you, and my neck is not elastic. Thank you, sir. You want to hire me for a job?”
“Yes. I want—”
“Please. Is this correct? Four of your best players, drugged as described by Doctor Soffer, could not perform properly, and as a result a game is lost, and a World Series?”
“We’re losing it.” Chisholm’s head swung toward the window and back again. “Of course it’s lost.”