Excerpt: ..."My goodness. And modest, too. Tell me, how do you do, Mr. Malone?" "Me?" Malone said. "Very well, so far." He finished his drink. "And you?" "I work at it," she said cryptically. "May I have another drink?" Malone gave her a grin. "Another?" he said. "Have two. Have a dozen." "And what," she said, "would I do with a dozen drinks? Dont answer. I think I can guess. But lets just take them one at a time, okay?" She signaled to the bartender. "Wally, Ill have a martini. And Mr. Malone will have whatever it is he has, I imagine." "Bourbon and soda," Malone said, and gave the bartender a grin too, just to make sure he didnt feel left out. The sun was shining (although it was evening outside), and the birds were singing (although, Malone reflected, catching a bird on 42nd Street and Broadway might take a bit of doing), and all was well with the world. There was only a tiny, nagging, disturbing thought in his mind. It had to do with Mike Fueyo and the Silent Spooks, and a lot of red Cadillacs. But he pushed it resolutely away. It had nothing to do with the evening he was about to spend. Nothing at all. After all, this was supposed to be a vacation, wasnt it? "Well, Mr. Malone," Dorothy said, when the drinks had arrived. "Very well indeed," Malone said, raising his. "And just call me Ken. Didnt I tell you that once before?" "You did," she said. "And I asked you to call me Dorothy. Not Dotty. Try and remember that." "I will remember it," Malone said, "just as long as ever I live. You dont look the least bit dotty, anyhow. Which is probably more than anybody could say for me." He started to look at himself in the bar mirror again, and decided not to. "By the way," he added, as a sudden thought struck him. "Dotty what?" "Now," she said. "There you go doing it." "Doing what?" "Calling me that name." "Oh," Malone said. "Make it Dorothy. Dorothy what?" He blinked. "I mean, I know youve got a last name. Dorothy Something. Only it probably isnt Something....