I Will Fear No Evil

22

"—take it that you are offering me your lovely body. Sorry, m'dear. I have no interest in women. Nor in men. Nor in rubber garments or high heels or other toys. I'm a sadist, Miss Smith. A genius sadist who realized quite young that he must become a surgeon to stay out of the clutches of Jack Ketch. Sublimation, y'know. Thanks just the same. A pity, you do have a magnificent body." (Well, Boss, you got turned down. It's a lesson every woman must learn. So you brush your hair and start all over again.)

(Eunice, I'm relieved. But he was entitled to the lagniappe if he wanted it.) "I'm your Galatea, Dr. Boyle; I owe you anything you care to name—short of sawing off my skull. The debt remains on the books. All I was offering was symbolic down-payment. But you don't respond like a typical Australian—nor sound like one, either."

"Oh, that. I'm a fake, dear. From the Sydney slums into a sadists' finishing school—a stylish British boarding school, a ‘public' school right out of the second drawer. Then on to the University of London and the best surgeons in the world. Put your pretty robe on and I'll be going. I say, would you mind having that extraordinary slow-motion somersault filmed in stereocinema for my archives?"

"Where shall I send it, Doctor?"

"Jake Salomon knows. Keep your pecker up, m'dear, and try to live a long time; you're my masterpiece."

"I'll certainly try."

"Do. Ta ta!"

An unidentified flying object roughly disc-shaped was reported to have landed in Pernambuco and its humanoid crew to have visited with local yokels; the report was denied officially almost faster than it reached the news services. The number of licensed private police in the United States reached triple the number of ‘public peace officers. Miss Joan née Johann Smith received over two thousand proposals of marriage, more than that number of less formal proposals, one hundred eighty-seven death threats, an undisclosed number of extortion notes, and four bombs—not any of which she received in person as they were diverted to Mercury Private Courier Service under procedures set up years earlier. The waldoes of one package-opening bunker had to be replaced; the other bombs were disarmed.

The Postmaster General died from an overdose of barbiturates; the career Assistant Postmaster General declined an interim appointment and put in for retirement. A woman in Albany gave birth to a "fàun" which was baptized, dead, and cremated in eighty-seven minutes. No flowers. No photographs. No interviews—but the priest wrote a letter to his seminary roommate. The F.B.I. reported that recidivism was up to 71%, while the same rate figured only on major felonies—armed robbery, rape, assault with a deadly weapon, murder, and attempted murder—had climbed to 84%. The paralysis at Harvard University continued.

"Jake, the last time you refused to marry me, you did promise me a night on the town if we won."

Mr. Salomon put down his cup. "A delightful lunch, my dear. As I recall, you told me at the time that a nightclub check was no substitute for a marriage license."

"Nor is it. But I haven't nagged you about marrying me since you accorded me the honor of first concubine. Uh... erase ‘first.' I have no idea what you do with your time when you're not here. Well, I don't have to be ‘first.'"

(Twin, never crowd a man about sex. He'll lie.) (Pussy cat, ‘I'm not crowding Jake about sex; I'm confusing the issue. He's going to take us nightclubbing and we're going to wear that lush blue-and-gold job—it's meant to be seen, not just modeled for Winnie and put away.)

"Eunice, surely you don't think I have anyone else?"

"It would be presumptuous of me to have an opinion, sir. Jake, I've stayed close to home all during this hearing—a little shopping, mostly with Winnie along. But now we've won and I see no reason to be a prisoner. Look, dear, we can make it a party of four—a girl for you and a boy for me—and you can come home early and not lose any sleep you don't want to."

"You surely don't think that I would go home and leave you at a nightclub?"

"I surely think I can stay up all night and celebrate if I want to. I'm free, over twenty-one—my God, am I over twenty-one!—and can afford a licensed escort. But there is no reason to keep you up all night. We'll call Gold Seal Bonded Escorts and fill out our party. Winnie's been teaching me what the kids call dancing—and I've been teaching her real dancing. Say, maybe you'd rather escort Winnie than some dollikin picked out of a catalog? Winnie thinks you're wonderful."

"Eunice, are you seriously proposing to hire a gigolo?"

"Jake, I'm not going to marry him, I'm not even going to sleep with him. I expect him to dance with me, smile, and make polite conversation—at about what a plumber charges. This is doom?"

"I won't have it."

"If you won't—and Heaven knows I would rather be on your arm than that of a paid escort—will you take a nap? I'll get a nap, too. Do you need help to get to sleep? Money Hums, I mean, not horizontal calisthenics. Although we have that in stock, too."

"1 don't recall saying that we were going out. Nor is there anything to celebrate, Eunice. We haven't won until the Supreme Court rules on it."

"We have plenty to celebrate. I'm legally me—thanks to you, darling—and you no longer have to report as my conservator; my granddaughters have lost on all points. If we hold off celebrating until the Supreme Court maunders over it, we might both be dead."

"Oh, nonsense! You know I'm about to leave for Washington; I expect to be able to arrange for an early spot on the calendar. Be patient."

"Patient' is what I'm not, dear. Surely, you'll arrange it; you always do arrange things—and the Administration owes me that and will expect more from me. But, Jake, your jet might crash—"

"That doesn't sway me, it's my death-of-choice. Since my genetic background doesn't permit me to hope for heart failure, I've been counting on cancer. But a crash is still better. Anything but a long, slow, helpless dying."

"You're rubbing my nose in the mistake I made, sir. Will you let me finish? You once pointed out that you had only ten or twelve years, based on the actuarials—whereas I had at least half a century. Not true, Jake. My life expectancy is null."

"Eunice, what the devil are you talking about?"

"The truth. Truth you have conveniently forgotten—but which I am aware of every golden second. I'm a transplant, Jake. A unique transplant. No statistics apply to me. Nobody knows, no one can guess. So I live each wonderful day as all eternity. Jake my beloved master, I'm not being morbid—I'm being happy. When I was a little boy there was a prayer Mama taught me. It goes— "Now I lay me down to sleep;

"I pray the Lord my soul to keep. "If I should die before I wake, "I pray the Lord my soul to take.

"It's like that, Jake. I had not used that prayer in almost ninety years. But now I use it... and go happily to sleep, unworried about tomorrow." (Twin! You lying little bitch! All you ever say is a Money Hum.) (It's the same thing, Puss. A prayer means what you want it to mean.)

"Joan Eunice, you once told me that you had no religion. So why do you say this child's prayer?"

"As I recall, what I told you was that I had been a ‘relaxed agnostic'—until I was dead for a while. I'm still an agnostic—meaning that I don't have any answers—but I am now a happy agnostic, one who feels sure deep in her heart that the world has meaning, is somehow good, and that my being here has purpose, even if I don't know what it is. As for that prayer, a prayer means whatever you make it mean; it's an inner ritual. What this one means to me is a good intention—to live every moment as Eunice would live it, did live—serenely, happily, and unworried by any later moment including death. Jake, you said you were still worried about Parkinson."

"Somewhat. As a lawyer, I don't see how he can get his hands on it again. But as a shyster at heart—don't quote me!—who has taken part in many a back-room deal, I know that even the Supreme Court is made up of men, not angels met in judgment. Eunice, there are five honest men on that court... and four from whom I would never buy a used car. But of the honest ones, one is senile. We'll see what we shall see."

"So we will, Jake. But don't give Parky a thought. The worst he can do is to strip me of money. Which I wouldn't mind; I've discovered that more money than is needed for current bills is a burden. Jake, I've got enough tucked away that even you don't know about that I'll never miss any meals. Parky can't touch it. As for Parky himself, I've erased him from my universe, and suggest that you do likewise. He's damned by his own I.Q.—leave him to nature."

Salomon grinned. "Okay, I'll try."

"And now' you go do whatever it is you have to do and forget that I tried to inveigle you into a pub crawl." (Twin, you're giving up too easily.) (Who is giving up?)

"Eunice, if you really want to—"

"No, no, Jake! Your heart's not in it. While you are in Washington I may sample the fleshpots of this decadent village but I promise you that I will be closely guarded. Shorty, probably; he frightens people just with his size. Nor will I go alone; Alec told me that he and Mac didn't have much trouble slipp4ng the leash, and Winnie can make a fourth."

"Eunice."

"Yes, dear?'

"1 am like hell going to step aside for those two wolves."

"Why, Jake, you sound jealous!"

"No. God save me from falling prey to that masochistic vice. But if you want to see the seamy side of this anthill, I'll find out where the action is and take you there. Dress for it, girl—I'm going to shake the moths off my drinkin' clothes. Formal I mean."

"Bare breasts?" (Could you have done better, Pussy Cat?) (Pick up the pup, twin. I concede.)

"‘Much too good for the common people.' Unless you intend to paint heavily, plus a lot of that sparkly glitter stuff."

"I'll try to do you proud, dear. But you will take a nap? Please."

"A long nap at once and a dinner tray in my room. H-hour is twenty-two hundred. Be ready or we jump off without you."

"I'm scared. Want help to get to sleep? Me? Or Winnie? Or both?"

"No, I've learned how to do it by myself. Perfectly. Though I admit it's more fun with two pretty little girls chanting with me. You get a nap. I may keep you up all night."

"Yes, sir."

"And now, if I may be excused." Mr. Salomon stood up, bent over her hand and kissed it. "Adios."

"Come back here and kiss me right!"

He glanced over his shoulder. "Later, my dear. I don't believe in letting women be notional." He left.

(Who won that round, Boss?) (He thinks he did, Eunice—and you tell me that's how it ought to be.) (You're learning, twin, you're learning.)

They had been lunching in her lounge. She went into her boudoir, sat down at her stenodesk to phone—picking it; rather than the viewphone because its phone was not a viewphone. She used it with hush, and with ear plugs.

Shortly she was answered: "Dr. Garcia's office."

"This is Mrs. McIntyre's secretary. Is the Doctor in and, if so, can he spare a moment to speak to Mrs. McIntyre?"

"Please hold. I will inquire."

Joan passed the time reciting her meditation prayer, was calm when he answered, "Dr. Garcia speaking."

"Mrs. McIntyre's secretary, Doctor—hush and secure?"

"Of course, Eunice."

"Roberto dear, do you have news for me?"

"‘The Greeks have captured Athens.'"

"Oh! You're ‘certain?"

"No possible doubt, Eunice. But don't panic. You can have a D. and C. at once with no chance of your privacy being breached. I'll get Dr. Kystra, the best possible man and utterly trustworthy. I'll assist, there won't even be a nurse present."

"Oh, Roberto, no, no, no! You don't understand, dear—I'm going to have this baby if it's the last thing I ever do. You've made me terribly happy." (Now we've really got something to celebrate, Boss darling. But don't tell Jake, huh?) (Nobody, just yet. How soon does our belly bulge?) (Not for weeks, if you don't eat like a pig.) (I want pickles and ice cream this instant.) (So don't.)

The Doctor answered slowly, "I misunderstood the situation. But you seemed quite nervous when I took the specimen."

"Certainly I was, dear; I was scared silly that I might not have caught."

"Uh... Eunice, I can't help feeling personally responsible: I know you're wealthy—but a marriage contract can exclude any ‘fortune hunter' possibility and—well, I'm available."

"Roberto, I think that's the sweetest—and bluntest—proposal a knocked-up broad ever got. Thank you, dear; I do appreciate it. But, as you pointed out, I am wealthy— and I do not care what the neighbors think."

"Eunice, I am not simply accepting my responsibility... I want you to know that I do not regard marrying you as a chore."

"Roberto darling, it is not your responsibility. For all you know I've been sweetheart to the regiment." (We've tried, haven't we, twin!) (Don't joggle my elbow, dear; he wants to be noble.) "It's my baby. Who helped me is my business."

‘‘Sorry."

"I meant that you mustn't feel any responsibility. If you did help me, I'm grateful. I'm grateful even if you didn't. Roberto? Instead of trying to make an honest woman out of me—difficult—why don't you remove that implant from Winnie's pretty thigh, then place another sort of implant where it will do the most good... then make an honest woman out of her. Much easier, she leans that way."

"It's a thought. Truthfully it's a thought I've considered quite a lot lately. But she doesn't want to leave you."

"She need not. Oh, she could stop pretending to be my maid, but this is a big old barn, several spare suites. If you get her pregnant, she and I could chum and giggle about it and have our babies almost together. I'll shut up and stop trying to run your life. Two questions—I had planned to go out on the town tonight, to celebrate the good news I expected to hear from you. Must I stick to soft drinks now?"

"Not at all. Shortly we'll put you on a diet and limit your drinking. But tonight you could get stinking drunk and the only effect would be a hangover. You don't lose a baby that easily... as millions of women have learned."

"May not get stinking but I may soak up several glasses of bubbly. Last question— if you're able to sign off, would it suit you to lose a night's sleep helping me celebrate?

Officially it's to celebrate our court victory. That ‘the Greeks have captured Athens' will stay secret a while longer."

"Uh—"

"You sound fretted, dear."

"Well, to tell the truth I have a date with Winnie."

"Oh! I expressed myself badly. 1 have a date with Jake; I hope that you and Winnie can make it a four. I wasn't asking you to spend a night with me in that sense—although I certainly would not be averse if it could be managed some other time without hurting our Winsome. The moments you and I have been able to steal have been too short, dear. I think you are a man it would be sweet to be leisurely with."

"I know that you are such a woman, Eunice."

"Go along with you, you tell that to all your female patients. Doctor, you are a delightful wolf. Will you wait ten minutes before phoning Winnie? I have a favor I want to ask of her."

"Ten minutes."

"Thank you, Roberto. Off."

Joan switched to the house intercom. "Winnie? Are you busy, dear?"

"Just reading. Be right in."

Joan met her at their connecting door. "Nothing much, hon. I want you to call O'Neil and tell him that I wish to speak to Finchley. In my lounge. Sure, I could phone O'Neil myself, sweet, but I want it to look more formal."

"Sure, Joanie. Do I stay and chaperon?"

"Winsome, you know darn well that all I ever want is fake chaperonage—and sometimes a jigger. This time I don't need a jigger—but I do want to ask Finchley something privately and he will speak more freely if you aren't around. So let him into my lounge, come tell me he has arrived, and don't come back in. Go on into your own room and close the door. Then stay there—you are going to receive a phone call in about eight minutes."

"I am?"

"Yes, and a nice one. You and I and Jake and Dr. Garcia are going nightclubbing tonight."

"Oh!"

"And when we get home just keep him here the rest of the night and I'll see to it that Jake doesn't twig. Or does he know who ‘Bob' is?"

"Uh... yes, he does. I told him."

"It may still suit dear Doctor to cover up; men are shy. Now skedaddle, dear, and phone O'Neil."

Four minutes later Winnie announced Finchley, and left the lounge. He said, "You sent for me, Miss?"

"Tom Cat, these doors are soundproof; you can stop being formal."

He relaxed a little. "Okay, Pussy Cat."

"So give us a kiss and sit down. That hall door locks itself. Winnie is the only one who could walk in and she won't."

"Pussy Cat, sometimes you make me nervous."

"Oh, piffle." She moved into his arms. "I do have a question to ask you—advice that I want. You can discuss it with O'Neil and get his advice, and any of the guards. But it is your advice I want; the rest is cover-up."

"Woman, quit talking and shove me some mouth."

Joan did so, a long thorough kiss. Presently he said hoarsely, "You don't have much on under this."

"I don't have anything on under it. But don't get me distracted, Thomas Cattus; let me get my question in. I'm going nightclubbing tonight—Jake and me, Winnie and Dr. Garcia. They're going to want to take us to cubes. I want to see rough places. I figure you know where they are."

"Mmm...Eunice, the up-high places are all in bad turf."

"Well, are they safe once we're inside? And can one get inside safely?"

"Uh... there's one, has its own inside parking and as good armor as the doors you have. Look, I'll bring up a list, addresses and so forth, and everybody's suggestions. But I'll star my own."

"Good. Thank you, Tom Cat."

"God, but you feel good. Do we have time? Can I lock that other door?"

"If I'm not worried about Winnie, why should you be? Grab a pillow and put me on the floor."

The party made rendezvous in Joan's lounge. Jake Salomon had elected to dress with ultra old-fashioned formality: maroon tuxedo jacket and trousers, with white turtleneck. The silky knit made a splendid background for his gold ankh necklace. Dr. Garcia was just as formal in modern mode: scarlet tights boldly padded, stretch-fit white mess jacket with jabot of pearls and black lace. Little Winifred wore her new emerald dress with floor-length skirt—no body paint as Joan had advised but blushes caused her skin to change again arid again from extremely fair to rosy glow. On her forehead in caste-mark position was a single emerald.

Jake looked at her. "Little one, what holds that solitaire in place? Insurance?"

She blushed again but answered saucily, "It's on' a corkscrew, sir. Shall I unscrew it and show you?"

"No, I'm afraid you might be telling the truth."

"Never in mixed company, sir. Actually it's the adhesive we use on bandages. Won't come loose even with soap and water but alcohol takes it right off."

"Then be careful not to spill your drinks that high."

"Oh, I don't drink, Counselor; I learned my lesson long ago. I'll be drinking Cuba Libre without the ‘libre' and screwdrivers with no drive to them."

"Doctor, let's leave her at home; she's just a chaperon."

"Would you make me stay home, Counselor? Just for not drinking?"

"Just for calling me ‘Counselor' if you do it again. And for calling me ‘sir'. Winifred, men my age do not care to be reminded of it by pretty little girls. After sundown my name is Jake."

"Yes, Counselor," Winifred answered meekly.

Jake sighed. "Doctor, someday I hope to win an argument with a woman."

"If you do, tell Dr. Rosenthal. Rosy is writing a book on the difference in mental processes between male and female."

"A dreamer. Eunice, does that thing cover you any better when you stand up? And what is it?"

"It's a hula skirt, "Jake. And it does." Joan Eunice was wearing a floor-length skirt, with her torso covered with a myriad glittering stars. They faded out gradually at neck and shoulders. The skirt was ‘thousands of gold nylon threads overlying more thousand~ of deep blue threads.

As she was seated, the mass of threads fell away from her graceful legs. Now she stood up; the threads fell back into a solid curtain. "See, Jake? A plain gold skirt. But when I move"—she walked—"the blue underneath keeps flashing through."

"Yes, and you, too. Panties?"

"A rude question. The Polynesians never heard of pants until the missionaries corrupted them."

"That's not a responsive answer—"

"Wasn't meant to be."

"—but as long as you are standing, let's get rolling."

"Yes, dear." Joan Eunice put on a matching opaque yashmak, let Jake lay an evening cloak around her shoulders. Jake hooked on a maroon domino which covered his distinctive aquiline nose—he had been too often on video lately and felt that there was no point on concealing Miss J. S. B. Smith's face if his own face broke her cover. The Doctor donned a small white dom­ino—having been asked to help keep the party in character—and Winifred wore a filmy green harem veil that was only a symbol, being of the same material as her skirt.

As they entered the lift Joan Eunice said, "Where are we going, Jake?"

"Woman, you aren't supposed to ask. The Gaslight Club, as a starter."

"It sounds like fun," Joan agreed. "A piano player with sleeve garters and such?"

"And derby hat and fake cigar—he can sing and play anything written a hundred years back. Or fake it."

"I want to hear him. But, Jake, since this is to celebrate my uhuru, would you indulge me a little?"

"Probably. Show your openers."

"There's a club I've heard about...and while you were napping, I reserved a table for four for twenty-two thirty.

I'd like to try it."

"Winnie, you haven't been coaching her enough. Eunice, you're not supposed to be capable of making such a decision—less than the dust beneath my chariot wheels and all that. All right, where is this dive? What's its name? We'll try the Gaslight later—there is a waitress there alleged to have the most pinchable bottom in the state."

"Probably foam rubber; Winnie has that distinction. It's the Pompeii-Now, Jake—I have the address in my purse."

Mr. Salomon's eyebrows appeared over his domino.

"We won't need it, Eunice. That box is in an Abandoned Area."

"Does that matter? They have inside parking and assured me that they are armored against anything short of a nuke bomb."

"We would still have to get there and back."

"Oh, I have confidence in Finchley and Shorty. Don't you?" (Twin, that's a crotch chop. Not nice.) (Big sister, do you want to go to the Gaslight and listen to bad piano and watch Jake pinch bottoms? If so, say so.) (I just said it wasn't nice.) (So you phrase the next answer. Jake's a tough case.)

"Joan Eunice, when I take a lady out for the evening, we go in my car. Not hers."

"Whatever you say, Jake; I was trying to be helpful. I asked Finchley and he said there was a route in that the—what do they call it?—the Organization—keeps open. No doubt Finchley can tell Rockford."

"I call it the, Mafia. If there is an acceptably safe route, Rockford knows it; he's the most expert driver in town—more experienced than your boys, he drives more."

"Jake, you don't want to go there. So let's go to the Gaslight. I want to try sticking a pin in that rubber fanny."

They went to the Pompeii-Now.

There was no trouble getting inside and the club had a card lounge for its patrons' mobile guards. The maitre d'hôtel led them to a ringside table across from the orchestra, swept a "Reserved" sign from it. "Will this be suitable, Mr. ‘Jones'?"

"Yes, thank you," agreed Salomon. Two silver-bucket stands with champagne appeared as they sat down; the maître d'hôtel took a magnum from the sommelier and displayed it to Salomon, who said, "That's a poor year for Pol Roger. No Dom Perignon ninety-five?"

"At once, sir." The sommelier hurried away. The maître d'hôtel asked, "Is there anything else not to your liking, sir?"

Joan Eunice leaned toward Jake. "Please tell him that I don't like this chair. It was designed by Torquemada."

The floor manager looked upset. "I'm sorry Madame feels that way about our chairs. They were supplied by the number-one hotel and restaurant supply company."

"As may be," Joan answered, "but if you think I'm going to spend an evening perched on a shooting stick and pretend that it's fun, you are mistaken. Jake, we should have gone to the Gaslight."

"Perhaps, but we're here now. Just a moment, dear. Maître d'hôtel—"

"Yes, sir."

"You have an office here, no doubt."

"Why, yes, sir."

"With a desk and a chair. Probably a padded swivel chair with arms and an adjustable back. A man who is on his feet as much as you are wants a comfortable chair when he does sit down."

"I do have such a chair, sir, and—while it's hardly suitable for a dining room—Madame is welcome to it if it pleases her. I'll send for it."

"One moment. In a club with so many activities—you have a gaming room, do you not, and other things?—I feel sure that it is possible to round up four such chairs."

"Uh, I'll try, sir. Although our other patrons might find it odd if we supply one table with special chairs."

Mr. Salomon looked around. The place was less than half filled. "Oh, I imagine that if you explained to anyone who asked just how expensive such special service is, he might not want it. Or you might find it possible to accommodate him, too, if he is willing to pay. I think those guards pretending to be waiters standing around the edge of the room can handle anyone who is unreasonable."

"All our staff are guards, sir—in a crunch. Very well, sir, if you will be patient a few moments your party will all have desk chairs." Quickly he distributed wine cards and drug lists, and left.

Roberto and Winifred were already dancing. Joan leaned toward Jake again and said, "Jake, will you buy this place for me?"

"Does it attract you that much?"

"No, I want to make a bonfire out of these chairs. I had forgotten what indignities nightclubs expect their customers to put up with."

"You're spoiled."

"I intend to be. Jake, much of what is wrong with this world would be righted if the customer screamed every time he feels cheated. But I'm not out to reform the world tonight; I simply want a comfortable chair. The cover charge—I checked it when I made reservations for ‘Mr. Jones'—is high enough to buy a decent chair. What are these other activities'? A whorehouse upstairs, maybe?"

"Eunice, see those three tables of beautiful people over in the corner? Attractive men and women, all young, all smiles, no frowns, and each with a champagne glass that may hold ginger ale? It's high odds that, if the Greeks had a word for it, they have a price for it."

"Why, one of those girls doesn't look more than twelve."

"She may not be that old. Who's going to check on her age, in an Abandoned Area? I thought you weren't going to reform the world tonight, my dear?"

"I'm not. If the government can't police these areas, I certainly cannot. But I hate to see children exploited." (Twin, that pretty child may have an I.Q. of eighty and no other possible profession—she may think she's lucky. Proud of her job. And seeing where she is, she's either got an implant or cut tubes—not like that cheerleader I told you about.) (Eunice, doesn't it bother you?) (Some, chum, but only some. People usually are what they are because it suits them—I learned that from Joe. The girl's mother may be one of the other pretties there—two gets you seven. Want to rescue them both?) (Oh, shut up, darling; let's have fun.) (I'm willing.)

A waitress came past, refilled their glasses. She was pretty and was dressed in sandals, cosmetics, and careful depilation. She smiled and moved on. "Jake, is she one?"

"Couldn't say, I don't know the house rules. Shocked, Eunice? I told you not to come here."

"Shocked at skin? Jake dear, you forget that my generation thinks nothing of nudity."

"Hrrmph! One more remark like that and I'll call you ‘Johann' the rest of the evening."

"I'll be good. Mostly. Darling, our waitress suddenly reminded me of the Chesterfield Club. Kansas City in the

palmiest days of the Pendergast machine. Nineteen-thirty-four."

"In nineteen-thirty-four I was barely out of diapers, Eunice. It was something like this?"

"Not as much fake swank and lower prices even allowing for inflation. But otherwise much the same. It specialized in complete nudity even at high noon at the ‘Businessman's Lunch.' Just up the street from the Federal Reserve Bank. Jake, she's headed back. Find out for me."

"How? I don't even have a hat to tip."

"Simply ask her, dear, ask her if she's available. Slip her ten dollars as you do; she won't be insulted."

The waitress came back, smiled, and said, "Have you looked over our drug list? All illegal drugs at the controlled international prices plus twenty-five percent. Guaranteed pure, we obtain them from government sources."

"Not for me, thank you, dear. Eunice? Want a trip?"

"Me? I don't even take aspirin. But I want a steady supply of champagne. And I could use a sandwich, or something. Chiquita, is there a kitchen?"

"There is always a gourmet chef on duty, Ma'am; it says so at the bottom of your wine card. Anything from snacks to Maine lobster. Would you like to see a menu?"

"No, thank you. Maybe a big platter of little sandwiches for all of us, Jake. And don't forget that other matter."

Joan Eunice saw Jake get out a ten-dollar bill. It disappeared and Joan decided that the girl must have folded it with one hand and palmed it. Jake spoke to her in a voice lower than the music.

She smiled and answered clearly. "No, sir, I'm not even allowed to dance with customers—and I'm not in that branch of the business; I'm married. But I can arrange it." The waitress glanced toward the ‘beautiful people' and looked back. "For you sir? Or for both of you?"

"No," Jake answered. "It was just curiosity."

"My curiosity," Joan put in. "I'm sorry, dear; ‘I shouldn't have made him ask you."

"Ma'am, a high roller can be as inquisitive as be wishes. Baby needs shoes." She smiled. "Twins. Boys. Two years old. I was licensed for two and now I'm arguing with the Board as to whether twins use up my license. Since twins are okay under a one-baby license. I'd like to have a little girl, too."

"Jake, be a high roller again; I want to ask" —Joan leaned forward, read the girl's name written or tattooed above her left breast—"Marie another question."

"He's paid for more than one question, really, Ma'am." But a second note disappeared as quickly as the first.

"Marie, do you live inside the turf? With kids?"

"Oh, goodness, no! My husband would never permit that. An armed bus picks me up after supper and delivers me home around breakfast time. Most of us use it. Except—" She indicated the exception by inclining her head toward the corner. "My husband is on night shift at Timken—we match up pretty well."

"Who takes care of your twins at night? Nursery?"

"Oh, no, Mama lives with us. No huhu. Actually, Ma'am, this is a good job. I've been a waitress where I had to wear uniforms—and the work was hard and the tips were small. Here the work is easy and the tips are usually high. Oh, sometimes a customer gets drunk and gropy, but I don't bruise all that easily—and drunks are often the highest tippers. Never any trouble; the guards watch everything." She smiled at Joan. "You could get a job here in two seconds, Ma'am. All it takes is a friendly manner and a good figure—and you've got both."

"Thank you, Marie."

"I'd better go, the maitre d' is bringing a party to another of my tables. ‘Scuse, please—sandwiches will be right in." The girl left. Joan said, "Jake, would you say that she has found her niche?"

"Seems so. As long as she keeps her figure and saves her money. She doesn't pile up Social Security points here; this doesn't count as a job under the rules, it's off the map."

"She doesn't pay income tax?"

"Oh, certainly! The fact that her income doesn't exist, legally, means nothing to revenooers. Though she may hold out a good portion—I would. My dear, do you want to try this music?"

"Jake, I thought you didn't dance?"

"I don't dance this modern stuff. But I can try, if you want to. I wonder if that combo can play Rock? This new stuff has so little beat I don't see why they call it dance music."

Joan chuckled. "Fm so much older that I despised Rock instead of lilting it. Swing was my' era, Jake, and on back clear to the Bunny Hug—though I didn't learn to dance until the fox-trot crowded out the rest."

"I can fox-trot, I'm not all that young. But I doubt if that bunch of disappointed harpists can play one. Eunice, can you tango?"

"Try me, just try me! Learned it when Irene Castle was alive—and with this new body I'm eight times as good as I was then. Been teaching it to Winnie. Do you have a firm lead?"

"Firm enough for you, wench. I'm going to flag the maitre d'—it's possible that they can play one. It's the only tempo that has stayed evergreen through all the passing fads."

"Of course, Jake. Because the tango, danced correctly, is so sexy that you ought to get married afterwards. See if they can play one."

But they were interrupted by busboys arriving with four swivel chairs and Joan decided that it would be polite to sit in hers a while, since she had made a fuss over chairs. Then sandwiches arrived and more champagne and she found she wanted both—bubbly to make her tiddly and sandwiches to soak it up so that she wouldn't get tiddly too fast. Roberto and Winifred, returned to the table; Winnie said, "Oh, food! Good-bye, waistline! Bob, will you love me when I'm fat?"

"Who knows? Let's operate and find out," he answered, reaching for a sandwich with one hand and champagne with the other.

"Winsome, pour that Coke into the wine bucket and have champagne."

"Joanie, you know I mustn't. My Nemesis."

"But this time there's food to go with it... and not the other hazards."

Winifred blushed. "I'll get drunk. I'll get silly."

"Roberto, will you promise this poor child that, if she passes out, you'll get her home safely?" (What's safe about home, twin? You ought to hang out a red light.) (Nonsense, Eunice! Our man won't marry us—so what do you want me to do? I don't give myself to men I don't respect—and I've got years to make up for. I'm nearly ninety-five years old—and knocked up—and healthy—and can't hurt anyone physically and won't hurt anyone socially... a man's pride or anything else. Why shouldn't I be ‘No-Pants' Smith'?)' (‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much.' Boss, your Bible-Belt background is chafing you again. Certainly sex is no sin—but you don't really believe it.) (I do so! Always have. I've been almost enough of a busybody to keep you happy. Why do you needle me?) (Beloved Boss. You've shown amazing talent for juggling eggs and I've enjoyed every second of it and I hope you have, too.) (You know I have. So much I'm scared of losing my judgment. My caution, rather, Eunice, I never dreamed how much more it is, to be a woman. It's our whole body.)

The cabaret was crowded now; the lights changed and the floor show began—two comics. Joan listened, tried to look amused, and tried to amuse herself by trying to remember how long ago she had heard each "new" gag. She could see only one improvement in the routines: The "dirty" story of her (his) youth had disappeared. Being based on shock of breaking taboo, the dirty story had bled to death when there were no more taboos. There was sex humor—the comics used plenty of it; sex remained forever the most comical thing on a weary globe. But it was harder to work out real comedy than it once had been simply to shock. But she applauded the comics as they left. There was a black-out and the dance floor changed instantly into a farmyard scene—she found herself more intrigued by trying to guess the mechanics of that "magic" than she had been by the comics.

The farmyard set was used for one of the oldest (possibly the oldest, she decided) of all sex stories, and it was done in stylized, very old symbols in both costume and props: the Farmer, the Farmer's Daughter, and the City Slicker with his Hundred-Dollar Bills. It was pantomime, with theme music from the orchestra.

She whispered to Jake, "If she's a farm girl, I'm Adolf Hitler."

"What do you know about farms, my dear?"

"Plenty, for a city boy. On one nearly every summer when I was a kid. Followed the harvest in high school and college—good money, plus occasionally a farm girl. Always was a peasant at heart—wanted the biggest manure pile in the valley...and got it, save that it was cash. Jake? Couldn't we buy an abandoned farm? A simple little place, with drawbridge and moat, and our own plant and water supply? Get out of this dying city?"

"If you say to, dear. Getting bored with this? Want to move on?"

"Not during their act, dear." (I'm curious to see how he fakes it.) (Me, too!)

To her surprise the entertainers did not fake it. Money caused the "farm girl" to go from offended, to coy, to consent, to active cooperation, with a haystack as locale of consummation—and actor and actress made certain that the audience could see that it was in no way faked. Winifred blushed to her waist and never took her eyes off it.

The ending had a variation that Joan-Johann conceded was new to her-him. As motions grew vigorous and the orchestra kept time to loud squeals and grunts, the "Farmer" showed up (as. expected) with pitchfork. But the hay caught fire, apparently from the action, and the "Farmer" dropped his pitchfork and grabbed a seltzer bottle conveniently at hand on an empty table and doused his "Daughter" and the "City Slicker" in putting out the fire—aiming first at the apparent source of the fire.

Joan decided that it rated applause. Winifred hesitantly joined in, then clapped hard when Roberto did. Jake joined in but was interrupted. "What is it, Rockford?"

Joan turned her head, surprised. Jake's driver-guard was looking very upset. "Mr. Salomon—I've got to speak with you."

"You are. Speak up."

"Uh—" Rockford tried to make it just to his employer but Joan watched his lips. "That crazy fool Charlie has gone got hisself killed."

"Oh, for God's sake! Where? How?"

"Just now. In the guards' lounge. Not drunk. This is a tight joint, they won't let a guard drink. We were playing stud and Charlie kept needling this Polack. No excuse and I told him to knock it off. But he didn't. Polack got sore, but tried to avoid a showdown. Charlie kept crowding him and—oh, what's the use; the Polack broke his neck. Before I could get around to that side of the table." Rockford said, "Boss? Seeing where we are, I could dump him. Best, maybe?"

"Of course not. I have to report it, the body has to go to the morgue. Damn it, Rocky, I'm his parole officer."

"Yeah, but maybe you don't know about it? He skipped. Dropped out."

"Shut up." Salomon turned to Joan. "My dear, I'm terribly sorry."

"Jake, I should never have asked you to take me into an A.A."

"That has nothing to do with it. Charlie was a congenital killer. Rockford, get the maitre d'. No, take me to the manager. Friends—Bob, Winnie—stay here please, I've got to take tare of something."

Garcia said, "I caught most of it. Take me with you, Jake. I can certify death—and it's smart to get that done at once."

"Uh... who's going to stay with the girls?"

Joan put her hand on Jake's arm. "Jake, Winnie and I are safe—lots of guards. I think we'll go to the powder room. I need to, Winnie probably does, too. Coming, Winnie?"

The party was over but it was two hours before they were home; too many details—tedious ones rather than legal complications, as Dr. Garcia certified death, and he, the manager, Mr. Salomon, and Rockford endorsed the certificate that death had occurred in an Abandoned Area at the hands of a party or parties unknown—in fact unknown, as the cardroom was empty save for the body.

There was no point in inquiries; it had happened in an Abandoned Area and was not a crime de facto nor in any practical sense de jure. Nor did anyone weep; even Rockford did not like his driving partner, he simply respected him as a fast gun in a crunch. To Garcia Jake groused that he should have known better than to try to rehabilitate a congenital—and got no sympathy, as Garcia believed that such creatures should be exterminated as soon as identified.

Both tried to keep the grisly aspects from the ladies.

Winifred and Joan Eunice spent an hour alone at the table, fiddling with champagne and trying to look amused, while the men tidied up the mess. But Joan helped on one point: The body had to be sent to the morgue and Jake was unwilling to leave it to the management, he was certain they would dump it. Nor was he willing to send Rockford without someone to ride shotgun. So a phone was brought to Joan and she called O'Neil—was answered instantly and she wondered if her Chief ever slept.

Finchley and Shorty were on duty; O'Neil said they would be rolling at once. But Joan ordered him to ‘have them first pick up Fred, to ride shotgun for Rockford. As an afterthought she told O'Neil to have the night pantryman place a cold supper and a case of chilled champagne in her lounge—the "night on the town" had turned out a dismal flop; she was darned if she would let it stay that way. Charlie was better dead and his death did not rate one crocodile tear. Ten thousand human beings had died around the globe in the hour since his death—why weep over a worthless one? (Eunice, what happens to a kark like Charlie after he's dead?) (I'm no authority, Boss. Maybe the bad ones die dead—like a potter destroying damaged work. Ask the Front Office.)

(I don't know its wavelength, sweetheart. Maybe you can tell me this—How can I get this party rolling again?

Look at Winnie—drinking champagne but not smiling.)

(Boss darling, I recommend more champagne and Money Hums, mixed fifty-fifty.) (Eunice, I thought you didn't approve of liquor?) (Never said that, Boss. I didn't drink because I didn't need it. But nothing is good or bad in itself, just in its effects. Try it. Can't hurt, might help.) So when at last the four reached the big, ugly fortress, Eunice insisted that they go to her lounge for a nightcap and a snack. "Who knows? We might feel like dancing yet. Roberto, has Winnie introduced you to our relaxing routine? The Money Hum?"

"I've tried to teach it to him, Joanie. But Bob is a dreadful cynic."

"Jake, let's uncynic Robert. I've thought of a new way to recite it. Sit in a circle and pass around a loving cup. Three recite while one drinks, and pass the cup to the next one."

"I vote Yea," Jake answered. "Doctor, if you want to be cynical, go do so by yourself—you can have the guest bed in my suite. We'll form a triangle instead."

"I had better stay to keep the party orderly."

"Very well, sir. But one unseemly word while we are at our devotions—and you will be severely punished."

"How?"

Joan Eunice answered, "By having to down the loving cup unassisted, of course, and then start it again."

Joan Eunice woke up feeling rested but very thirsty. She glanced at the ceiling, saw that it was after ten and thought idly of turning on floor lights as a gentle preliminary to stronger light.

Then she realized that she was not alone. Should she wake Jake—gently—for a pleasant good morning? Or slide out softly and sneak back to her room and hope not to be seen? Or did it matter? Was she already a topic of gossip in her own house?

Better not wake Jake in any case; the poor darling planned to go to Washington tonight. She started to slide out of bed.

The man by her reached out and pulled her to him. She at once gave in, went soft and boneless. "Didn't know you were awake, dear. I meant to—Roberto!"

"You were expecting Santa Claus?"

"How did you get here?"

"You invited me."

"I did? Well, yes, I did. I mean I told you that you were welcome in my bed, quite a while back. But where's Jake? Did he go to sleep on us? And what about Winnie?" She thumbed on the floor lights, saw that she was, as she was beginning to suspect, in her own bed.

"Winnie's next door. In her bed. With Jake."

"Good God, Roberto—I've finally spent a night with you. And don't remember it." (I do! Whee.') (Well, I don't, Eunice, Not in detail. Confused.) (You're a drunken little bitch, Boss. But we had fun.) (I'm sure we did. I wish I remembered it.)

Dr. Garcia sighed. "Ah, well. I should not complain."

"It's coming back to me," she lied. "Just disoriented as I woke up. You were especially sweet to me."

"You didn't think so when I wouldn't let you go to bed with your makeup on."

Joan allowed enough general illumination to come on to let her see herself, noted that the star sequins were gone as well as body paint they had adhered to. She had not scrubbed it off herself; ergo, someone else had. Not Winnie—Winnie had been potted as a palm. "That's part of what I meant by ‘especially sweet', Roberto. Not many men would take such good care of a drunken wench. Was I hard to handle?"

"Not really. But you were pretty tight."

"Too tight?"

"Not too tight. Just pleasantly so."

"I'm not sure I understand that and don't think I want to. Roberto darling, even if I did fuss over it, thank you for washing me. Only a slut leaves paint on when she goes to bed. I'm a tart but I don't want to be a slut." (Hi, slut!) "And thank you most of all for a wonderfully sweet night. I hope I wasn't too drunk to make it sweet for you, too."

"Eunice, you would be more woman passed out cold than most can manage at their best."

"I'm glad you said ‘would be' rather than ‘are.' But, Roberto, I'm uneasy. Not about you and me, dear, but about Winnie. Does this affect that thought you've been considering? About Winnie, I mean."

"On the contrary, Eunice, it was Winnie's idea—her notion of how to celebrate our engagement—"

"Wait a moment! Am I engaged to you?"

"Eh? No, no—I'm engaged to Winnie."

"Oh. Roberto, I would happily marry you, you would make a numero-uno espöso. But I don't need one, and Winnie does. Did I know this last night? About you two?"

"You seemed to. You said that was why you wouldn't wait to scrub off your sparklers—you wore right-now about it."

"Roz. I remember being terribly eager but I seem to have drawn a blank as to why. Roberto? Did I spill the news about the ‘Greeks capturing Athens'?"

"I don't think so, Eunice. Not when I was around. I'm fairly sure Winnie doesn't know it."

"I'll tell Winnie; it's Jake I want to keep in the dark."

"Eunice? Did Jake do it? Capture Athens and the Parthenon as well."

"Watch that Hippocratic Oath, dear. Parthenogenesis might be the answer. Let me keep this up in the air a while longer. You say this was Winnie's idea? After you told her you would marry her?"

"Yes."

"How did she ever get up her courage to propose? I've been urging her to but she's so damn' shy. Dutch courage?"

"Yes. But my own. Sure, she's shy—but under her blushes Winnie is as rugged as a nurse has to be. She said All right—if I would let her tie it down tight that she is no angel. I told her I had no use for angels, in bed or out. She said she hoped I meant that, because she was about to ask Jake to sleep with her."

"Roberto, I missed a lot of this. How much champagne did I drink?"

"Who counts? Jake kept opening bottles and we kept passing the loving cup around. While reciting that amphigory. You got your share. We all did."

"Uh... am I engaged to Jake?"

"Not that I know of."

"That's good. Because when Jake finds out I'm knocked up, he's going to be noble. Just as you were, dear, but Jake will be much more difficult. And I've discovered that I don't need a husband; I just want loving friends. You. Jake. Winnie. Some others. People who'll love me as I am, clay feet and all—not because of a contract. Did Jake make any fuss over the sleeping arrangements?"

"Uh, truthfully I don't think anyone was displeased with Winnie's suggestion. Jake picked Winnie up under one arm and announced that he was reenacting the Rape of the Sabines."

"The faithless old darling."

"So I picked you up and carried you in and scrubbed you and you squealed and protested and told me that was a hell of a way to run a rape."

"Mmm, I think I was right. ‘In vino veritas."

"So now I'm going to put a pillow over your fac4 so that you can't squeal and protest."

"You won't need a pillow; just put your hand over my mouth if I'm noisy. But all these doors are soundproof."

"You think I don't know it? When I lived here for most of a year? Miss Johann Smith, I know more about your house than you do."

"Oh, you bastard! Call me ‘Eunice.' Or put a pillow over my face so I can't hear you, Roberto—I'm so happy that you're going to marry our Winsome."

"So am I, Eunice. Now shut up."

"Yes, sir." (Unh! Eunice, nobody ever tells me anything.) (Shut up, twin, and pay attention to what you're doing!)

Joan Eunice reached for the intercom by her bed, tapped it for Cunningham, then reached for Roberto's hand.

"Yes, Miss?"

"Cunningham, I want breakfast for four, served in my lounge."

"Yes, Miss."

"Placed in my lounge, rather, with warmers and coolers. No service. I have no idea when Mr. Salomon and Dr. Garcia will wake up, but I want to be hostessish and ready to serve them myself when they do. But Winnie and I want to eat." She winked at the doctor, squeezed his hand.

"Certainly, Miss."

"They need their sleep. Tell me, Cunningham—you've known me a long time. Have you ever pinned one on?"

"Pardon me, Miss?"

"Go on a luau, get so fried you can't find the floor with both feet. Drunk and disorderly."

"I have sometimes—in the past—come down with that ailment."

"Then you know what a delicate condition we are in—Winnie and myself at least and I have reason to believe that the gentlemen will not be in much better shape. But there was excellent excuse."

"I heard about the trouble, Miss. Too bad."

"Cunningham, I did not mean Charlie. This may be callous of me... but he was a bully who picked a fight, and lost."

"Oh. If I may say so, Miss, he was not liked belowstairs. Uh, we really did not like having him in the house."

"I know. I would have put a stop to it long ago except that he worked for Mr. Salomon, not me—and I owe Mr. Salomon a great deal. No, the ‘excellent excuse' was something else. We were celebrating an engagement."

Cunningham said cautiously, "Should I offer congratu­lations, Miss?"

"Yes, but not to me. Dr. Garcia is marrying Winifred."

"Oh! That's fine, Miss. But we'll miss her."

"I am hoping that we will not have to miss her. This is a big house, Cunningham, much too large for one person. Or for two whenever Mr. Salomon can be persuaded to honor us. Not often enough, that is to say—but the Counselor is afraid that he will cause gossip about me."

"Uh, may I speak plainly, Miss?'

"Any time you don't, Cunningham, I shall be offended."

"Mr. Salomon is a fine gentleman. But if he worries about that—well, it's silly, that's all I can say. The staff do not gossip about his presence. They respect him."

"Perhaps you can tell him, he won't listen to me. But today I'm simply concerned that he sleep as late as possible. He must go to Washington tonight; you know. When you bring up breakfast, don't go past his door; go around the other way. You can't disturb me or Winnie; we are awake. And be certain that Hubert doesn't come fussing around until Mr. Salomon sends for him."

"He won't, Miss; he never does."

"He used to, sometimes, when he was tending me—be a touch noisy when he thought I should be up. So keep him off this floor. Keep everyone off this floor until I call you—that includes all cleaning, everything. Except, of course, that I want you to bring up breakfast—with whatever help you need—promptly."

"Yes, Miss. Perhaps coffee and juice at once?"

"No, we don't want to be disturbed twice; my ears might fall off. You'll find evidence of the debacle in my lounge—a case lot of empty magnums. Remove them—quietly—for Heaven's sake don't bang one against another; I can hear an ant stomp this morning. Pencil ready? We need a simple, nourishing breakfast. At least four cups of coffee each, double orders of orange juice, half grapefruits, either pinks or the big Arizonas, scrambled eggs, poached eggs, some link sausages and breakfast steaks. Better include cold cuts and sliced cheeses. Oh, toast and muffins and jam and such. Flatbread. And a big pitcher of ice-cold milk for cereal, I think this is a cereal morning. Some decent, quiet, well ­brought-up cereal that doesn't snap, crackle, or pop. That's all. Unless you know a remedy for a hangover."

"Well, Miss, when I was tending Mr. Armbrust before I went to work for you, I used to mix something that he thought well of."

"Yes?"

"Silver fizz, Miss, using vodka rather than gin."

"Cunningham, you're a genius. One each, plus largish dividends, in thermos glasses. How soon will breakfast be ready?"

"Can't be sooner than twenty minutes, Miss, even though Della has started the sausages. But I could still fetch up coffee and juice."

"One trip only. Then steal quietly away on stocking feet. This is a hospital zone, Cunningham. Winnie and I need at least twenty minutes to put our eyeballs back in, they're bleeding. I'll expect you not sooner than twenty minutes, not later than twenty-five. Off."

She put down the bedside intercom, said, "Doctor, did I handle that?"

"Eunice, sometimes I think you're not truthful."

"And sometime I'm going to be a hermit and not have to dodge servants. Where are your clothes, Roberto? In the lounge?"

"Yes. I had better get into them."

"Better think again. We've got twenty minutes of privacy, we'll use it."

"Oh, Eunice!"

"Courage, comrade; I'm not a black widow spider. We'll use it to gather up all clothes in the lounge, toss feminine items in here, fast—then take your clothes and Jake's down to his suite—where I'll grab a robe and pajamas and slippers for Jake, and a second set of his for you. If you're a sissy, you'll stay there and put them on. If you're not, you'll stay in skin and come back here with me, and dress when you feel like it. Then I'll switch on a light that tells Winnie I'm awake-better than phoning the love bugs, they might be love-bugging, and even a bug hates to be disturbed at such times. Come on, you bony, hairy, wonderful man. Sixteen minutes—we can do it in twelve, I'll bet."

"Pussy Cat, sometimes you make me nervous."

"Oh, piffle, I own this house. Although I may sell it and buy a nudist resort in California—then run it just for me and my friends. Roberto, I like skin—when it's the wonderful skin I have now. It's meant to be seen and touched—not hidden away in clothes. Did you like our waitress last night?"

"A healthy young woman, apparently."

"Oh, piffle twice. I'll bet you were thinking about her when you took me to bed last night. I know men, darling—I was one, much longer than you've been alive.

Fifteen minutes. Let's move."