“Country, typical country. Scared of telephones. Terrified of long distance.”

“I have something serious to talk over with you.”

“Should have known,” Lubin said. “You’re such a serious bastard. Always were. But insecure. . . . Go ahead.”

“We’ve got a thing brewing here,” Tom said. “It could mean a little trouble or a lot, I can’t say yet. But it’s trouble.”

“Don’t tell me. Mrs. Murgatroyd’s husband is cheating.”

“Herman, goddamnit, shut up and listen, will you!”

“Okay. Go on.”

Tom cocked his head and locked the receiver between his neck and shoulder and lit a cigarette. As quickly as he could, he told Lubin about Adam Cramer, about the speech, about the situation.

When he’d finished, he realized how wild the story must sound to someone in New York. “It’s just starting,” he said, almost apologetically, “and maybe it’ll go nowhere, but I have a feeling. I have a feeling—”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Lubin crisply, the humor gone from his voice.

Tom wiped his palm against his trousers nervously. What did he want Lubin to do? “The kid says he comes from Los Angeles.”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve got a man there, haven’t you?”

“We’ve got a dozen men in L. A. But I don’t get—”

“Is one of them available?”

A bit impatiently, Lubin said, “Sure, of course.”

“Good?”

“Oh, come on now. What the hell is it you’re getting at?”

“News,” Tom said. “A story. The kind your boss goes for. I want you to have a man run down some facts on this Cramer kid—”

“K or C? Real name?”

“C. I think so. I have a hunch something interesting might turn up.”

“Like what?”

Tom hesitated. “I don’t know, Herman,” he said. “It may all be a waste of time; but you can afford to waste a little time, can’t you?”

“I guess so,” Lubin said casually. “Got a man named Driscoll, goes in for this kind of thing. Good boy: took a Pulitzer a few years back on the Nuremberg Trials—not for us. How about this? I’ll give him a ring and tell him to shoot a couple of days, just in case. Okay?”

“No. Let me have until tomorrow. I’ll call you then with something more definite.”

“Do that,” the voice said. “Maybe it’s something.” A pause, and: “Thomas, you’re sure you won’t change your mind about the job? Got a desk all warm for you.”

“Keep it that way,” Tom said. “Before this is over, I may have to change my mind.”

He replaced the telephone slowly. Perspiration coated his body in a thin, dripping film. The call had been a ridiculous impulse, and he seldom yielded to impulse these days. In a way, he was ashamed.

Ashamed? he thought. Why?