I told room service to send up a double order of ham and eggs and a fresh pot of coffee.
Amos came out while I was eating breakfast.
He had a blanket wrapped around him like a toga.
He shuffled over to the table and looked down at me.
"Who stole my clothes?"
In the daylight, he didn't look as bad as he had the night before.
"I threw them out," I said. "Sit down and have some breakfast."
He remained standing. He didn't speak. After a moment, he looked around the apartment.
"Where's the girl?"
"Sleeping," I said.
"She was up all night, taking care of you."
He thought about that.
"I passed out?" It was more a statement than a question. I didn't answer. "I thought so," he said, nodding.
Then he groaned. He raised his hand to his forehead, almost losing his blanket.
"Somebody slipped me a Mickey," he said accusingly.
"Try some food. It's supposed to have vitamins."
"I need a drink," he said.
"Help yourself.
The bar's over there." He shuffled over to the bar and poured himself a shot. He drank it swiftly, throwing it down his throat.
"Ah," he said. He took another quick one.
Some color flooded back into his gray face.
He shuffled back to the table, the bottle of whisky still in his hand, and slumped into the chair opposite me. "How'd you find me?"
"It was easy. All we had to do was follow the trail of rubber checks."
"Oh," he said. He poured another drink but left this one standing on the table in front of him.
Suddenly, his eyes filled with tears.
"It wouldn't be so bad if it was anyone but you."
I didn't answer, just kept on eating. "You don't know what it is to get old. You lose your touch."
"You didn't lose it," I said. "You threw it away." He picked up the whisky glass.
"If you're not interested in my proposition," I said, "just go ahead and drink that drink."
He stared at me silently for a moment. Then he looked at the small, amber-filled glass in his hand.
His hand trembled slightly and some of the whisky spilled on the tablecloth.
"What makes you such a do-gooder all of a sudden?"
"I'm not," I said. I reached for my coffee cup and smiled at him. "I haven't changed at all. I still think you're the world's champion prick.
If it was up to me, I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole. But Forrester wants you to run our Canadian factory.
The damn fool doesn't know you like I do. He still thinks you're the greatest."
"Roger Forrester, huh?" he asked. Slowly the whisky glass came down to the table. "He tested the Liberty Five I designed right after the war.
He said it was the greatest plane he ever flew."
I stared at him silently.
That was more than twenty years ago and there had been many great planes since then. But Amos remembered the Liberty Five.
It was the plane that set him up in business.
A hint of the Amos Winthrop I had known came into his face.
"What's my end of the deal?" he asked shrewdly.
I shrugged my shoulders.
"That's between you and Roger," I said.
"Good."
A kind of dignity came over him as he got to his feet. "If I had to deal with you, I wouldn't be interested, at any price." He stalked back to his bedroom door. He turned and glared at me. "What do I do about clothes?"
"There's a men's shop downstairs. Call them and have them send up what you want."
The door closed behind him and I reached for a cigarette.
I could hear the faint murmur of his voice on the telephone. Leaning back in the chair, I let the smoke drift idly out through my nose.
When the clothing arrived, I had them leave it in his bedroom.