“Five kids. A wife. She came here looking for him, about eight. The police don’t hurry to notify those people.”
“I’d like her name and address.”
The intern wrote it down, after searching in a file. “How much steam has Hitler got left?”
Jimmie shrugged. “Does it matter?”
There was a pause. “I see what you mean.”
“Still, it would be worth a lot to American character, I think, if every city and town in the country was bombed once. Just once. Be a big rebirth of fundamental qualities. Cheap—at the price. As I heard a woman say last night, ‘We kill more people with cars than the British lost to bombs—and we don’t get upset!’ It’s a happy thought, Heiffler—especially on this occasion. Good night.”
CHAPTER VII
WEDNESDAY PASSED—and a Friday.
Jimmie knew he was going to count the weeks in that fashion. He would keep doing it, at least until he was sure beyond all doubt that Audrey was not going to the home of Dan, the music teacher, two nights in every seven, or until he was sure that she had stopped going there.
His family was preoccupied with Biff. Biff was better. He’d written two very amusing letters for the Daily Dispatch. One was about having your legs broken. The other was about pretty nurses.