one good thing. As a matter
of fact, Malone told himself, he was really a pretty good-looking guy.

So why did women keep him waiting?

He heard her voice before he saw her. But she wasn't talking to him.

"Hello, Milty," she said. "How's everything?"

Malone turned around to get a look at Milty. He turned out to be the
maitre d'. What did he have that Malone didn't have? the agent asked
himself sourly. Obviously Dorothy was captivated by his charm. Well,
that showed him what city girls were like. Butterflies. Social
butterflies. Flitting hither and yon with the wind, now attracted to
this man, now to that. Once, Malone told himself sadly, he had known
this beautiful woman. Now she belonged to someone else.

He felt a little bit sad about it, but he told himself to buck up and
learn to live with his tragedy. He drank some more of his bourbon and
soda, and then she noticed him.

He heard her say, "Oh. Excuse me, Milty. There's my man." She came
over and sat down next to him.

He wanted to ignore her, just to teach her a lesson. But he had
already turned around and smiled at her, and she smiled back.

"Hi," she said. "Did you get the tickets?"

_Tickets._

Malone knew there was something he'd forgotten, and now he knew what
it was. "Oh," he said. "Sure. Just a second. I've got to check up."

"Check up?"

"Friend of mine," Malone improvised hurriedly. "Bringing them." He
gave Dorothy a big smile and climbed down off the bar stool. He
managed to find a phone booth, and dialed FBI headquarters on 69th
Street and blessed several saints when he found that the A-in-C was
still there.

"Tickets," Malone said.

The Agent-in-Charge blinked at him. "What tickets?" he said.

"The _Hot Seat_ tickets," Malone said. "Did you get 'em?"

"I got 'em," the Agent-in-Charge said sourly. "Had to chase all over
town and pull more wires than there are on a grand piano. But they
turned up, brother. Two seats. Do you know what a job like that
entails?"

"I'm grateful," Malone said. "I'm hysterical with gratitude."

"I'd rather track down a gang of fingerless second-story men than go
through that again," the Agent-in-Charge said. He looked as if his
stomach trouble had suddenly gotten a great deal worse. Malone thought
that the A-in-C was considering calling a doctor, and would probably
decide to make it the undertaker instead, and save the price of a
call.

"I can't express my gratitude," Malone told him. "Where are they?