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ENDOWMENT POLICY When Denny Holt checked in at the telephone box, there was a call for him. Denny wasn't enthusiastic. On a rainy night like this it was easy to pick up fares, and now he'd have to edge his cab uptown to Columbus Circle. "Nuts," he said into the mouthpiece. 'Why me? Send one of the other boys; the guy won't know the difference. I'm way down in the Village." "He wants you, Holt. Asked for you by name and number. Probably a friend of yours. He'll be at the monument-black overcoat and a cane." "Who is he?" "How should I know? He didn't say. Now get going." Holt disconsolately hung up and went back to his cab. Water trickled from the visor of his cap; rain streaked the windshield. Through the dimout he could see faintly lighted doorways and hear jukebox music. It was a good night to be indoors. Holt considered the advisability of dropping into the Cellar for a quick rye. Oh, well. He meshed the gears and headed up Greenwich Avenue, feeling low. Pedestrians were difficult to avoid these days; New Yorkers never paid any attention to traffic signals, anyway, and the dimout made the streets dark, shadowy canyons. Holt drove |
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