Greenwich by Howard Fast

I’m being rotten.”
    â€œOh, no. Absolutely not—I mean not rotten—I mean maybe you feel rotten but you’re not being rotten.”
    She turned to smile at him and kissed his cheek. “I do love you, Davey. I spent the last hour with Dr. Ferguson’s daughter. He had a three-way bypass today, more than five hours, and I was one of the scrubs. Do you know Dr. Ferguson?”
    â€œSeth Ferguson? Sure. He’s been our family doctor since I was born, I guess. One of an old dying breed. I hope he’s all right.”
    â€œStart the car, Davey. I want to get away from here.”
    He nodded and turned the key. “I wanted to take you to dinner tonight, but I’m down to seven dollars and forty cents. I get paid tomorrow, but that doesn’t help me tonight. We have a houseful of food at home. You want to come and pick and choose?”
    â€œI have a pot of soup in my fridge, good soup. Soup and bread—would that satisfy you?”
    â€œBread and water—a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou, of course—I love you, Nell, why won’t you marry me?”
    â€œBecause you’re dirt poor, and you don’t even have a rich father. That’s a mortal sin here in Greenwich.”
    â€œI have enough for a bottle of wine. And if I go to your place, can I stay over?”
    â€œWe’ll see,” Nellie said.

Eight
    H ugh Drummond was not a sentimental man, and there were those who said he was incapable of any sentiment whatsoever, but they had never seen him with his dogs. He loved dogs passionately, British bulldogs, one of which now slept comfortably in a big leather armchair in his office. The dog’s name was Churchill, and a large inscribed portrait of Mr. Churchill—the man, not the dog—hung on one of the walls of his office. On his desk were two other inscribed portraits, Ronald Reagan and George Bush. Drummond had once been Colonel Drummond, but that was in the past.
    He now stood facing the big window, through which he could see the Capitol Building, gleaming in the June sunshine, his back to the two other men in the room. He always felt a quiver of personal pride when he looked through the window at the Capitol. If someone had the temerity to ask him what was his line of work, he might well have nodded at the big building, which would pose a conundrum he had no desire to explain.
    One of the two other men in the room, Curtis by name, said, breaking a rather long silence, “That’s a magnificent rug. Where did you buy it?”
    â€œLisbon.”
    â€œI would have thought Marrakech.”
    â€œNo, Lisbon.”
    The third man in the room held his silence, wondering why in hell they were talking about a rug; there were more important things to discuss. Nevertheless, the talk about the rug turned his attention to other things in the big office, the glass case of flintlock muskets, the huge leather-covered couch—well, Drummond was a big man, at least two hundred and fifty pounds—and seeing the bulldog, he said to himself, Of course, Bulldog Drummond, and then searched his memory as to who Bulldog Drummond was. Well, someone, he decided, and returned to the problem at hand.
    â€œColonel?”
    Drummond turned slowly. “You got an itch, Larry?”
    â€œCall it that.”
    â€œWhat itches you?”
    â€œCastle.”
    Drummond looked inquiringly at Curtis, who shrugged. Curtis was a fat old man with white hair. He had once been a handsome young man with blond hair, but that was all long ago.
    â€œCongress,” Curtis said, as if that single word explained everything.
    â€œI am aware of that,” Drummond said.
    Larry spoke quietly, trying to contain his anger. You couldn’t really argue with Drummond, much less actually get angry at him. “I’m on a very hot seat. Did you see the Post today? Or the New York Times ?”
    â€œYou’re worried about the press conference that