“I haven’t a damned thing against you, Freeman. In fact, I always liked you. There’s nothing personal about this, excepting you called me something that we don’t call friends where I come from.”
Together they brushed off Freeman’s trousers.
“The stenographer is back,” said Robert. “I’ll send her for collars and court plaster. Never mind, I’ll pay.”
Fifteen minutes later, washed, combed, in clean collars and with Freeman’s cut lip neatly concealed by plaster, they set out to find McCall.
XXXVII
McCall was walking impatiently back and forth in front of the hotel, smoking a cigarette, when Robert and Freeman arrived.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Oh, we’ve met before. Trick Track Tribe. I mean Dearborn Publicity Bureau.”
Freeman grinned sheepishly.
“Yes, we’ve met.”
Robert’s attention was diverted by the appearance of a taxi, driving up to the curb. The door opened and a black man stepped out. A black man!