So there are two reasons why I don't report in detail what Rackham and I said there that afternoon: first, I doubt if it affected the outcome any, one way or another; and second, I don't remember a word of it. Except that I finally said it was time to go, and he got himself a man-sized straight bourbon and poured it down.
We walked the few blocks to my building. As we waited at the curb I kept my eyes peeled for a Chewy sedan, but apparently Roeder had been promoted, either that or the Chewy wasn't used for important guests, for when a car nosed in to us it was a shiny black Cadillac. I got in front with the driver and Rackham joined
Roeder in the rear. They didn't shake hands when I pronounced names. The driver was new to me-a stocky middle-aged number with black hair and squinty black eyes. He had nothing whatever to say to anyone, and for that matter neither did anybody else, all the way to our destination. Once on the Taconic State Parkway a car passed and cut in ahead of us so short that it damn' near grazed our bumper, and the driver muttered something, and I went so far as to glance at him but ventured no words. Anyway my mind was occupied.
Evidently Rackham had been there before with his eyes open, for there was no suggestion that he should take to the floor, and of course I was now a B. We left the parkway a couple of miles south of Millwood, to the right, followed a curving secondary road a while, turned on to another main route, soon left it for another secondary road, and after some more curves hit concrete again. The garage was at a four-corners a little out of Mount Kisco, and I never did know what the idea was of that roundabout way of getting there. In front it looked like any other garage, with gas-pumps and a gravelled plaza, and cars and miscellaneous objects around, except that it seemed a little large for its location. Two men were there in front, one dressed like a mechanic and the other in a summer suit, even a necktie, and they exchanged nods with our driver as we headed in.