I caught a cab, and it took the driver less than ten minutes to drive the six miles from my apartment on Dupont Circle to Tony’s place in Arlington. I paid the driver, tipped him lavishly for not getting us killed, and exited the vehicle.
When my legs were finally steady—the man had driven like a maniac—I walked up the path to the building and let myself in, then nodded to the old man who operated the elevator when I stepped into it.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Sebring,” he said as he closed the doors.
“Same here, Joe.”
“I just brought your dad and other brother up to Mr. Anthony Sebring’s floor.”
Hmm. “How are your wife and children?”
“Doing good. That boy of mine is going into the Marines. His ma is worried, but I’m proud of him.”
“Tell him I wish him the best.”
“I will, thanks.”
