five-thirty that morning and slumped into a chair. He bummed a cigarette from Trippet, puffed on it moodily, and then held his hands out in front of him. He stared at them for long moments.
âGoddamn, youâre good, Knofer,â he said softly. âYouâre really good.â
In his late thirties, the doctor was a rake of a man with extraordinarily small bones and a face that wore a look of what seemed to be perpetual exasperation. He also found it difficult to communicate without cursing.
âIt was a bitch,â he said to us finally, and ground out his cigarette on the floor. âA real bitch. I saved the kidâs hands, but he wonât even be able to blow his nose or wipe his ass by himself for a long time to come. What was it, a gang fight?â
âWe donât know really,â Trippet said. âAll we know is that he said that someone slammed a car door on his hands. Twice.â
âSomebody sure had a hard-on for him,â Doctor Knofer said. âHave you talked to the police?â
âNot yet,â I said.
âThe hospitalâs been in touch. Theyâll probably be around to see you tomorrow.â He yawned and looked at his watch. âJesus, itâs five-thirty and Iâve got another one at ten. Who gets the goddamned bill?â
âWe do,â I said.
âFor everything?â
âYes,â I said.
âIâll fix it with that broad in admittance,â he said. âShe was getting ants up her fanny about who was going to pay.â He held out his hands before him and stared at them again. âA real bitch,â he said, âbut goddamn, Knofer, youâre good.â
âWhen can we see him?â Trippet asked.
âTomorrow,â the doctor said. âAround two. Cheer him up, will you? Tell him his hands will be okay. Heâs a goddamned good kid.â
When the doctor had gone, I turned to Trippet. âIâve decided to see the man in Washington.â
He nodded, as if he hadnât expected me to say anything else. âYour new friends are most persuasive.â
âItâs not that,â I said. âItâs not that at all. Angelo Sacchetti has been on my back for two years. You know all about it. Youâve seen me freeze a couple of times. Now they say heâs alive. I think Iâve got to find him unless I want to carry him around with me for the rest of my life.â
Trippet was silent for almost a full minute. âI think,â he said slowly, âthat itâs out of our hands now. I think itâs time to let the police handle it.â
âAll right.â
âYou agree?â Trippet asked. He sounded surprised.
âWhy not?â I said. âI donât want to go to Washington, not now, not even in cherry blossom time. But the police have nothing to do with my going. If they can find the goons who smashed Sydneyâs hands, Iâm all for it. But I already know whoâs ultimately responsible, and heâs in Washington, and thereâs no way in Godâs world that they can ever pin it on him. But I have something that Charles Cole wants, or thinks he wants, and he also has something that I want and that somethingâs Angelo Sacchetti. And perhaps eventually theyâll all pay for Sydneyâs hands.â
âWhich, if not victory, is yet revenge,â Trippet murmured.
âYours?â
He shook his head. âMiltonâs.â
âThen youâre both wrong,â I said. âItâs not revenge Iâm after. They just owe me something. They owe me for Sydneyâthatâs firstâand they also owe me for two years of the sweats and the shakes. Iâd like to collect.â
âHow?â he asked.
âI donât know. I wonât know until I see Cole in Washington and maybe I wonât even know then.â
Trippet chewed on his lower lip for a while and then said: âThey must want you most
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