Johnny said, “Fine!” and slapped him briskly on the back. Walked back into the bar, sat down, got one more bottle, and nursed it, like the first three. He would make it last as long as he could. It was the last one, either way. There was too much to do. Just _what_ was to do, he wasn’t sure yet. The first step was Kutler. After that he’d know. But for Kutler, he needed his wits. If the sleepy man didn’t show by the time the bottle was gone, he’d have to find some other way to get hold of Phil. Or make up his own mind, without Phil. But he was goddam tired of sitting around waiting--for nothing. It was just about time to go get-- _What? What you goin’ to get, boy? What’s_ to _get?_ Good question. But it didn’t matter much. Just so long you could sit on your ass, that’s all. _Rather get knocked onto it, hey, boy?_ Not very damn likely! _Tough guy! ????_ Maybe. _Yeh. I remember. Did some fancy gettin’ and goin’ before, hey man?_ He stood up. Carried his bottle to the bar. Stood a moment indecisive. Put the bottle down, waved to the barman and walked out. Find the sleepy man ... find Harbridge ... find Kutler ... find Lee. And there you were. Simple, when you came right down to it. Let ’em have their spaceships and cootie-bugs and truth drugs and politics and screw ’em all. Including the pall-bearers. Let ’em play their games. Johnny Wendt didn’t care. Let ’em have anything they wanted, except _one_ thing.... _The one thing is you, Lee. Lisa, Love, Lee, I want you._... He strode out of the dim bar into the sunlight, arms swinging, teeth white in laughter against the tan of his face. A sad-faced woman in black gown and mantle scurried out of his way, crossing herself fervently. _Drunk or devil or what?_ he wondered. _What does she think I’ll do? Damn fool dames don’t even know a crazy man from_-- _From what?_-- His laughter shouted in the street. --_from a crazy-in-love man. That’s what!_ The woman peeked back around the edge of her veil, and her face looked a little less sad. _If I had a damn rose I’d throw it at her!_ He felt clean all over. Only _where_ in Hell was Sleepy keeping himself? _Mexcity--Monday, October 3, 1:45_ P.M. (_C.S.T._) “For you--” The congressman handed the desk phone to the doctor with as much flourish as if it were a saber or pistol. Phil took it as cautiously. “Yes?” “Kutler? This is Jed Harbridge.” “Oh?” Then he realized there was no point in playing mum; McLafferty would be recording it all, anyhow. “Just wanted to let you know: I’ve got an urgent call for you here.” There was still nothing to say but “Oh?” The more so, knowing Mac _must_ be recording. Let Harbridge decide how much to say; he _knew_ his way around this rat race. “If you’re not tied up for lunch, maybe you could get over now?”