“I’ve got to go out for a couple minutes, Julie,” I told her. “I’ll be back at four, right on the button. Okay?”
She tilted her head; the blue eyes measured me. “Maybe there won’t be much left of you by then.”
“Forget it,” I said. “This is strictly business.”
“Of course,” she said. “Business. Well, have fun—just the same.”
I shrugged and went up the steps to the street and walked along toward the alley where I’d parked the Caddy. There weren’t many people cruising the Village tonight, and what few there were seemed pretty well lushed. Tourists, mostly. But one of the drunks who passed me was no tourist. He shambled by without looking at me, and I almost didn’t recognize him. His name was Ed Farr. He’d been a top-drawer song-writer once, a handsome guy with a lot of friends. But not now
