“You wanted out?” Walker leaned forward, unwilling to believe what he had heard. “Are you trying to tell me that you arranged your discharge?”
Millet shrugged. “Why, of course. Nobody ever has bothered to ask me about that up to now, but I certainly did arrange it. It wasn’t hard, you know. All I had to do was set up some sort of relationship with a so-called security risk, and I was on my way out.”
“Why . . . that’s damned near treason.”
If you ever get to drinking beer in your favorite saloon and meet a scared little guy who wants to buy you the joint, supply you with fur coats and dolls and run you for Congress—listen well! That is, if you really want the joint, the fur coats, the dolls and a seat in Congress. Just ask Mike Murphy . . . .