Danny continued to stare at Adam, who was now focusing his attention on the girl. “You’re down here on this integration business, aren’t you?” he asked, finally.

“That’s right.”

“You figure there’s anything you can do?”

“Yeah, I figure.”

“What?”

“Well, if you want to know, why don’t you stop by the courthouse tomorrow night about seven?”

“How come?”

“You’d like to see this thing stopped, wouldn’t you?”

Danny Humboldt said nothing for a while. Impassively he took a drag on his cigarette. Then, in a quiet tone, he said, “You damn right.”

“I thought so. Well, Danny, look: I promised Ella I wouldn’t do any work tonight. So would you—you and Lucy here—do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Let all the kids know about the meeting. Get them to come.”

Danny said, “I guess I can do that.”

“It would mean a lot.”

“Okay,” Danny said, still staring.

The girl said that she would tell as many people as she could.

“I appreciate it. But I don’t want you-all working for nothing. Would either of you get sore if I paid you ten dollars? It’s from the Organization.”

Danny looked at the five-dollar bill for a moment. “Why not?” he said, pocketing the bill.

“Good. Now you’re on the team. Oh-oh, here comes Ella. No more business.”

“How about you and her, anyway?” Danny asked. “How come you—”

Lucy said, “Oh, you be quiet.”

“It’s simple, Danny. I’m working with her father on this thing.”

“With Tom McDaniel?”

Breathing hard, Ella fell heavily into the chair. George Humboldt was grinning all over his face. “Did we show ’em?” he said, “or did we show ’em, you know what I mean? Wow! You know?”

For the next two and a half hours Adam Cramer spoke of Hollywood, of the studios, of stars he had met; particularly of his five years of university training. Four years at UCLA and a year in Switzerland, studying philosophy, criminal medicine—he didn’t go into it deeply, only skimming over the interesting parts.

He spoke of the sunny, white-glazed slopes, so ideal for skiing, of Fastnacht, and of the complaisance of the Swiss females.

“I was doggone glad to get back to America, I can tell you that,” he said, at the conclusion of his rambling story. “Foreigners are the same all over. Except that there weren’t many Jews in Switzerland, that was one thing, anyway . . .”

Then, suddenly, the clock showed 10:00, and he turned to Ella. “I’m afraid it’s that time. If I’m going to get any co-operation from your father, I’d better scoot you home.”

“See you on the battleground tomorrow,” George said, managing somehow to keep the cigarette between his lips as he spoke.

His brother said: “If I see Hank later on, I’ll give him your regards.”