. The bartender bustled over
and eyed him speculatively.

_"Tequila con limon,"_ he said negligently.

"Ah," the bartender said. _"Si, senor."_

Malone waited with ill-concealed impatience. At last it arrived,
Malone took the small glass of tequila in his right hand, with the
slice of lemon held firmly between the index and middle fingers of the
same hand, the rind facing in toward the glass. On the web between the
thumb and forefinger of his left hand he had sprinkled a little salt.
Moving adroitly and with dispatch, he downed the tequila, licked off
the salt, and bit his teeth into the lemon slice.

It felt better than good; it felt wonderful. He hadn't had such a good
time in years.

He had three more before he left the Xochitl.

Then, noticing the time, he moved in a hurry and got out of the bar
before temptation overcame him and he started ordering still more. It
was nearly six o'clock, and he had to meet Dorothy at Topp's.

He hoped he could find it.

He headed downtown toward 42nd Street, turned right and, sure enough,
there was a big red sign. It said Topp's. Malone beamed his approval
at it. It was just where it ought to be, and he was grateful.

He pushed open the glass door of the place and went in.

The maitre d'hotel was a chunky man with a pleasant face, a receding
hairline and, some distance back on his head, dark curly hair. He
beamed at Malone as if the FBI agent were a long-lost brother. "Table
for one, sir?" he said.

"No," Malone said, peering into the place. It was much bigger than he
had expected. "No," he said again. "I guess I'll just have a drink at
the bar."

The maitre d' smiled and bowed him to a bar stool. Malone sat down and
looked the place over again. His first glance had shown him that
Dorothy wasn't there yet, but he saw no harm in making sure. _Always
be careful of your facts_, he admonished himself a little fuzzily.

There were a lot of women in the place, but they were all with
escorts. Some of them had two escorts, and Malone wondered about them.
Were they drunk, or was he? It was obvious that someone was seeing
double, but Malone wasn't quite sure who.

He stared at his face in the bar mirror for a few seconds, and ordered
a bourbon and soda when a bartender came over and occluded the image.
The bartender went away and Malone went on studying himself.

He wasn't bad looking for an FBI agent. He was taller than his father,
anyway, and less heavily built. That was