'Yes!'
Then, Merrill, she would ask what in hell you'd brought a flashlight for.
You asshole, Merrill ...
That was, in fact, what Trumper said when the federal men, if that's who they were, steered him out of the elevator at the tenth floor of the Warwick Hotel in New York City.
A well-dressed couple who were waiting for the elevator observed the men guiding Trumper down the hall. One of the Feds said, 'Good evening.'
'Good evening,' the couple mumbled warily.
'You asshole, Merrill,' Trumper said.
They took him to room 1028, a two-room suite on the corner which looked up the Avenue of the Americas to the park. From the tenth floor, New York certainly looked like fun.
'You asshole,' Trumper said to Arnold Mulcahy.
'Give him a shower, boys,' Mulcahy told his men. 'Make it very cold.' They did. They brought Trumper back to the room wrapped in bath towels, his teeth chattering, and sank him like a sash weight into a voluptuous chair. One of the men even hung up Trumper's espionage suit, and another found the envelope with the hundred-dollar bills in it. That was handed to Mulcahy, who then asked all the men to leave.
Mulcahy had his wife with him, and they were both dressed up. Mulcahy was in a formal dinner shirt with black tie, and his wife, a motherly, fretful sort of person, wore an evening dress which looked like an old prom gown. She examined Trumper's suit as if it were the hide of a freshly skinned beast, then asked him sweetly if he'd like anything - a drink? a snack? But Trumper's teeth were still chattering too much for him to talk. He shook his head, but Mulcahy poured him some coffee anyway.
Then Arnold counted the diminished money in the envelope, whistling softly and shaking his head. 'My boy,' he said, 'you certainly have a hard time adjusting to a new situation.'
'That's only human, Arnold,' Mulcahy's wife said. He silenced her with a businesslike look, but she didn't seem to mind being excluded from the conversation. She smiled at Bogus and told him, 'I care as much for Arnold's boys as if they were my boys, too.'
Trumper didn't say anything. He didn't think he was one of Arnold Mulcahy's 'boys' but he wouldn't have put money on it.
'Well, Trumper,' Arnold Mulcahy said, 'I can't seem to get rid of you.'
'I'm sorry, sir.'
'I even gave you a head start,' Mulcahy said. He recounted the money and shook his head. 'I mean, I got you home again and gave you a little pocket liner - that wasn't even part of the deal, you know, boy?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You went to see your wife,' Mulcahy said.
'Yes, sir.'
'Sorry about that,' Mulcahy said. 'Maybe I should have told you.'
'You knew?' Trumper asked. 'About Couth?'
'Yes, yes,' Mulcahy said. 'We had to find out who you were, didn't we?' He took a large manila folder off his dresser, sat down and thumbed through it. 'You can't blame your wife, boy,' he said.
'No, sir.'
'So here you are!' said Mulcahy. 'Embarrassing, really. I took some responsibility for you, you see. And you stole a chauffeur! And came back in no condition to be left alone ...'
'I'm sorry, sir,' Trumper said. He really was sorry. He sort of liked Arnold Mulcahy.
'You cost that poor chauffeur his job, boy,' Mulcahy said. Trumper tried to remember Dante: dimly he recalled some strange heroics by him.
Mulcahy took about five hundred dollars out of the envelope, then handed the rest back to Trumper. 'This is for the chauffeur,' he said. 'It's the least you can do.'
'Yes, sir,' Trumper said. Rudely, he counted his remaining money; there were eleven hundred dollars the first time he counted it, but the second time there were only nine.
'That will get you back to Iowa,' said Mulcahy. 'If that's where you're going ...'