“How soon can you get copy through?” “Tomorrow...what is your deadline?”
Leatherman thought for a moment.” Nineteen hundred hours.”
“Thank you. Bonsoir M'sieu.”
“Bonsoir.” Leatherman dropped the receiver with a click, waited a second, picked it up again and dialled a number.
“Hullo, Charlie boy?”
“Hi, what’s cooking good-looking?”
“Can you arrange imediately for a friend for eighteen hundred hours at Trocadéro Tabac tomorrow evening?”
“Sure—likes and dislikes?”
“That’s easy. Obispo.”
“Got you. He likes slim, dark, tanned that is.” ”Affirmative. But a total vike. No touchy, only plenty lookee, know what I mean.”
”He likes long hair?”
”A must. I admire your taste, sir.”
”Don't mention it. It’s a talent I have. Age?”
“Young, fresh imperative.”
“Contributing to the delinquency of French minors again?”
Leatherman smiled. “Pipe down, Charlie and get on the line. Eighteen hundred at Trocadéro Tabac, corner table.”
“Roger.” There was a click and the line went dead.
Leatherman walked into the kitchen. He broke a large fresh egg into a crystal tumbler, doused it with Worcester sauce, vinegar and salt before swallowing it with a gulp. It is only of psychological value, but I’ll need even that little support if Obispo the Vike is to be kept happy.