ON THE OTHER SIDE OF the East River, in a hotel that fell considerably below Mooney’s recent, brief standards of excellence, Mooney cautiously tipped a bellboy, ushered him out, locked the door behind him and, utterly exhausted, flopped on one of the twin beds.
Harse glanced at him briefly, then wandered over to the window and stared incuriously at the soiled snow outside.
“You were fine, Harse,” said Mooney without spirit. “You didn’t do anything wrong at all.”
“Ah,” said Harse without turning. “So?”
Mooney sat up, reached for the phone, demanded setups and a bottle from room service and hung up.
“Oh, well,” he said, beginning to revive, “at least we’re in Brooklyn now. Maybe it’s just as well.”
“As well. What?”
“I mean this is where you wanted to be. Now we just have to wait four
