Hazard by Gerald A Browne

openers,” she said brightly, handing a cup down to Hazard. It was rose hips tea. She sat beside Kersh, gave him a cheek kiss and glanced disapprovingly at his mug of coffee. “That stuff slows down the sex drive.”
    â€œLast time you said it was bad for the stomach,” Kersh said.
    She shrugged. “One thing bothers another.”
    Kersh ceremoniously poured out what coffee remained in his mug, as though it were poison.
    Hazard turned away and did the same with his cup of rose hips tea. Got away with it, he thought.
    But not really. Keven merely chose not to say anything about it. This time. She told Kersh, “I suppose you’ve heard I was robbed.”
    â€œI had your things moved up to the main house,” said Kersh.
    That set her back. “You didn’t.”
    â€œHad to.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œA matter of morals.”
    Hazard heard Keven’s teeth on the rim of her cup. She seemed irritated enough to take a bite.
    Kersh was amused by her reaction. He let her fume awhile longer before explaining that the move was only temporary, to accommodate the two official visitors from Washington, who would be around that day inspecting.
    Keven almost concealed her relief.
    â€œThey’d never accept love as an explanation for such behavior,” said Kersh.
    Keven jumped on the word. “Love?”
    â€œIs that such an overstatement?”
    â€œOver,” said Keven.
    â€œWay over,” Hazard put in.
    Kersh didn’t believe it. At every opportunity over the past six months he’d been obliquely promoting love between them, hoping they’d oblige by falling hard and deep. His motive was partly scientific. It would help substantiate a theory related to his current project. “Anyway,” he told Keven, “I’ll have your things brought back down as soon as our visitors leave.”
    â€œNo hurry,” said Keven, blasé about it now.
    â€œAll right,” said Kersh, “maybe in a day or two.”
    â€œBy bedtime tonight,” she said quickly.
    At noon Hazard and Keven went up to the main house. Parked in the front drive was a new Chrysler with a federal eagle emblem bolted to its rear bumper. Hazard thought he should get such an emblem to beat the parking tickets. Merely out of curiosity he glanced into the car. There was a half roll of Certs breath mints on the front seat and two Schlitz empties on the floor.
    Keven had gone ahead into the house. Hazard caught up to her in the foyer, a large oval-shaped area with a brown-and-white marble floor and extensive boiserie on the walls and doors. The foyer was unfurnished except for a gray metal office desk, an incongruity that stood as an example of how the once elegant residence had given way to prosaic use. The place reminded Hazard of those British war movies in which an imposing estate was taken over to serve as division headquarters, but not once during the past two years had Hazard ever seen anyone actually seated behind that reception desk. He suspected it was there merely for show. A strategically placed desk, even an empty one, might be reassuring to the sort of people who worked for the government, thought Hazard.
    Such as the two men who now were following Kersh down the wide stairs.
    Introductions and handshakes.
    Mr. Richland and Mr. Whitley.
    Hazard sensed their disapproval of his hair and casual clothes. Smile, he told himself, be good for Kersh’s sake.
    Richland was a district director for the agency. A top man who reported to higher-ups. Whitley was a Southerner who’d been rewarded his spoils in the form of a prominent spot on a federal-appropriations committee.
    Hazard could see right off that both men were drinkers. Their complexions were the giveaway, especially the backs of their necks—blotchy red, as though the capillaries had exploded under alcoholic pressure. And the nearly ocher cast of their eyes was the sum of too many straight bourbons.