The Whip Hand
The shine boy patted my toe. I paid him and eased into the waiting room.
There was no excuse for putting it off any longer, so I checked my billfold. As I'd figured, I was short. Much too short. I read the signs ringed around the walls showing fares to various places. L. A. to San Francisco. L. A. to Seattle. L. A. to Chicago. L. A. to Dallas. That one appealed to me. It fit. It was the farthest point my billfold would reach.
I couldn't think of anybody I knew in Dallas. It was big, I'd heard; and I didn't want to drop into a whistle-stop.
It wouldn't do to be remembered by any ticket clerk, so I returned to the men's room.