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Show 43 Malone's circular chatter did not distract him today, it tightened him up. "You're too quiet," said Malone. "That's the way people get when they've made a mistake. There's no sparkle in your eye." Fogarty could see it coming. Malone leaned forward; narrowed his eyes and poked his finger into Fogarty's chest. "I saw your eviction notice," he said, "in her mailbox." But that wasn't it. Fogarty knew there was more. "So what," he said, "were you doing in her mailbox?" "Obviously, I was delivering the mail." "Then she got a letter." "You bet she got a letter," said Malone. "She got a letter which suggested its contents might well mean a large sum of money." Malone paused; poked again, though not as hard. "And it was not simply addressed to a Sparkle." Fogarty breathed as deeply as he could. He did not trust Malone, you couldn't trust an anarchist; but he trusted himself even less. "You are not, however, going to tell me who it was to, or who it was from, is that correct?" "To do so would be to betray the trust the public has placed in me," said Malone, "as well as to divulge privileged information which is a federal offense on my part. I'll tell you for a drink." Fogarty sighed, got the bartender's attention, pointed at Malone's empty glass, and settled back. Malone waited for his whiskey to arrive, stirred down the ice with his finger, then licked the finger, finally sipped from the |
