Cotton took plane tickets out of his suit coat pocket, checked them.
Brenda was putting on a black lamb’s-wool coat, which looked as if it were made of Brillo pads.
Cotton punched in a number on his desk telephone.
“I want to confirm my reservations on the eleven-fifteen flight to Miami,” he said into the telephone. “Uh-huh. Thanks.”
He hung up and put the tickets back into his inside suit coat pocket.