“You tell me, sunshine.”
“Don’t worry about Tinker’s civil rights or liberties,” McCorkle told Haynes. “If you go knocking on his door in the small hours, he won’t open it unless it’s to tell you to buzz off.”
“Maybe he still thinks there’s such a thing as the right to privacy,” Erika said.
“Privacy vanished with the arrival of the driver’s license, the Social Security number and the credit card,” Haynes said.
“What about the right to be left alone?” she said.
“It no longer exists—if it ever did.”
“And you think that’s just wonderful, don’t you?”
“You haven’t a clue to what I think,” Haynes said.
“I think I’ll go home,” McCorkle said before his daughter could either reply or explode. He rose, looked at her and asked, “Coming?”
“You bet,” she said.
The four of them stood silently just inside the Willard lobby, waiting for Erika’s aging Cutlass to be brought around from the hotel garage. She stared at Pennsylvania Avenue through the glass door, ignoring the three men. They in turn ignored her silent rage.
When her car arrived, Haynes said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Why?” she said and pushed through the glass door.
McCorkle gave Haynes a small baffled smile and hurried after his ride home.
Padillo watched them go, turned to Haynes and asked, “Hungry?”
Haynes had to think about it. “Yes.”
“Let’s eat then.”
By 9 P.M. there were only a dozen or so diners left in Mac’s Place. The bar, however, was lined with drinkers, quietly stoking up for the Monday to come. Padillo chose a booth instead of his regular table near the kitchen. He and Haynes were just settling into it when Herr Horst slow-marched over to announce that Tinker Burns had been in twice, demanding to see either Padillo or McCorkle.
“Sober?” Padillo asked.
“Sober-mean.”
“Any message?”
“I believe he intends to do you both grave bodily harm.”
Padillo nodded, as if at old news, and asked, “What’s good tonight?”
“The duck,” Herr Horst said. “With wild rice and an exceptionally tasty cucumber and limestone lettuce salad.”
Padillo looked at Haynes. “You like duck?”
“Duck’s fine.”
“An aperitif, Mr. Haynes?” Herr Horst asked.
“A vermouth, please.”
Herr Horst looked inquiringly at Padillo, who said he’d like a sherry.
After the drinks were served and Haynes took his first sip of vermouth, he said, “Hamilton Keyes says he knows you.”
“He drops by now and then.”
“For conversation or food?”
“He likes to talk about wine, but never about his job or his wife.”
“What’s wrong with his wife?”
“Nothing—except that when I knew her a long time ago she was still Muriel Lamphier.”
“Lamphier as in Crown-Lamphier?”
Padillo nodded.
“What’s a long time ago?”
“Seventeen, eighteen years back.”
“What happened?”
“Why?”
Haynes smiled his inherited smile. “Just routine.”
“You seem a hell of a lot more routinely interested in Mrs. Keyes than Mr. Keyes.”
“I’m interested in money. It makes me curious. I’m especially curious about a guy who walks into my hotel room and in front of a witness offers me three quarters of a million for all rights to some memoirs that he hasn’t
