Phyllis propped herself up on one elbow and yawned while her husband said, “Mike Shayne talking, Mr. Sorenson. Hold it a minute, please.” He laid the receiver down and sat up, poured himself a drink from the bedside decanter.
Phyllis’s eyes widened. “Who is it, Michael?”
“Just New York.” He made a gesture of dismissal, took time to light a cigarette and settle back comfortably before lifting the telephone again. He said, “Go ahead,” and after listening for a time, “I understand, Mr. Sorenson, but I’m afraid it isn’t going to be quite that simple. I don’t mind saying I was deeply hurt when you jumped at the chance to break our contract yesterday. Cut to the quick, I might say. In the new contract you’d better double my annual retainer…”
Вы читаете The Uncomplaining Corpses
