white terry robe. Buttoned down the front. She is barefoot. Nudges him with a knee.
“Skooch over,” she says.
He moves to one side. She lies down on his lounge. Close to him.
“We’ll fall off,” he warns.
“So?” she says. “Who cares?”
He laughs. Puts his drink down on the tiles. Pulls her closer to him.
“Not if we cuddle,” he says. “Do you like to cuddle?”
“I love to cuddle. My favorite sport.”
“After tennis?”
“Before tennis.”
He kisses the tip of her nose. Thinking that sometimes it’s grand to be foolish.
“Full moon,” he says. “Almost.”
“Do you sprout fangs? Thick hair on the backs of your hands? Howl?”
“How did you know?”
She presses closer. They are on their sides. Entwined. Stares locked. Enraptured. Suddenly, without warning, he begins to weep. Silently. Tears plop from his eyes. He tries to pull away. She will not release him.
“Sorry,” he says. Voice choked.
“It’s all right, Harry,” she soothes.
He reaches down for his brandy. Takes a deep belt. Inhales.
“What brought that on?” he asks. “I don’t know.”
She strokes his face. Wipes away tears with a knuckle.
“I did it all the time,” she says. “At first. After a while it stops.”
“I feel like an idiot.”
“No. Just human. You’re not a werewolf after all.”
He smiles. Holds her face. Kisses her forehead. Cheeks. Nose. Closed eyes. Her lips.
“Oh…” he breathes, “you’re so good for me, Ev.”
“Yes,” she says. “And you for me.”
“Partners in sorrow.”
“Partners in hope.”
He unbuttons the top of her robe. Her breasts are full. Tanned. Pinkish nipples. He bends his head. Tongue busy.
“You don’t like the other one?” she asks.
He laughs. “You’re too much. I love the other one.”
Proves it.
“Harry,” she says, “what are you doing with all your clothes on?”
“Out here?” he asks.
“Why not? No one can see.”
“Except God,” he says. Undressing.
“He’ll approve,” she says.
18
I n Cleveland, the Department’s comptroller, a viperish man, is examining regional vouchers. Sees immediately that the Southeast Region is over budget. Reviews their expenditures. Finds that the Harry Dancer operation accounts for most of the overrun.
He finally locates the Chairman in the War Room. Planted before a national map on a Plexiglass wall. Lights indicate ongoing actions. Operators sit at a battery of consoles, updating intelligence. An oversized digital counter shows number of current campaigns, and daily, weekly, monthly, annual failures and successes.
“A moment of your time, sir,” the comptroller says. Bending to whisper.
“What?” the Chairman says. Jerking his leonine head around. “Oh, very well. What is it, Acheron?”
“The Southeast Region is dreadfully over budget, sir. Mostly due to a single campaign. Harry Dancer.”
The Chairman snaps his fingers at the floor supervisor.
“Nick,” he calls, “bring me an update on Harry Dancer. Southeast Region.”
In a moment the supervisor comes running. Trailing a long computer printout. The Chairman scans it swiftly.
“Progressing well,” he says. “Let it run.”
“You approve the expenditures, sir?” the comptroller says. Nervously.
The Chairman looks at him. “I approve. Do you wish a written and signed authorization?”
“Oh no, sir, that won’t be necessary. I would just like to call the Chairman’s attention to our current cash-flow problem.”
“Don’t tell me we’re going broke?”
“Ha-ha,” the comptroller tries to laugh. Cracking his face in a bleak smile. “Nothing like that. Our endowment is more than adequate. And current contributions are on target. It’s just that we’re a bit strapped for cash at the moment.”
“That’s your problem, isn’t it, Acheron?” the Chairman says. “I know I can depend upon you to solve it in your usual efficient manner. I can depend on you, can’t I?”
“Oh yes, sir. Absolutely,
“Skooch over,” she says.
He moves to one side. She lies down on his lounge. Close to him.
“We’ll fall off,” he warns.
“So?” she says. “Who cares?”
He laughs. Puts his drink down on the tiles. Pulls her closer to him.
“Not if we cuddle,” he says. “Do you like to cuddle?”
“I love to cuddle. My favorite sport.”
“After tennis?”
“Before tennis.”
He kisses the tip of her nose. Thinking that sometimes it’s grand to be foolish.
“Full moon,” he says. “Almost.”
“Do you sprout fangs? Thick hair on the backs of your hands? Howl?”
“How did you know?”
She presses closer. They are on their sides. Entwined. Stares locked. Enraptured. Suddenly, without warning, he begins to weep. Silently. Tears plop from his eyes. He tries to pull away. She will not release him.
“Sorry,” he says. Voice choked.
“It’s all right, Harry,” she soothes.
He reaches down for his brandy. Takes a deep belt. Inhales.
“What brought that on?” he asks. “I don’t know.”
She strokes his face. Wipes away tears with a knuckle.
“I did it all the time,” she says. “At first. After a while it stops.”
“I feel like an idiot.”
“No. Just human. You’re not a werewolf after all.”
He smiles. Holds her face. Kisses her forehead. Cheeks. Nose. Closed eyes. Her lips.
“Oh…” he breathes, “you’re so good for me, Ev.”
“Yes,” she says. “And you for me.”
“Partners in sorrow.”
“Partners in hope.”
He unbuttons the top of her robe. Her breasts are full. Tanned. Pinkish nipples. He bends his head. Tongue busy.
“You don’t like the other one?” she asks.
He laughs. “You’re too much. I love the other one.”
Proves it.
“Harry,” she says, “what are you doing with all your clothes on?”
“Out here?” he asks.
“Why not? No one can see.”
“Except God,” he says. Undressing.
“He’ll approve,” she says.
18
I n Cleveland, the Department’s comptroller, a viperish man, is examining regional vouchers. Sees immediately that the Southeast Region is over budget. Reviews their expenditures. Finds that the Harry Dancer operation accounts for most of the overrun.
He finally locates the Chairman in the War Room. Planted before a national map on a Plexiglass wall. Lights indicate ongoing actions. Operators sit at a battery of consoles, updating intelligence. An oversized digital counter shows number of current campaigns, and daily, weekly, monthly, annual failures and successes.
“A moment of your time, sir,” the comptroller says. Bending to whisper.
“What?” the Chairman says. Jerking his leonine head around. “Oh, very well. What is it, Acheron?”
“The Southeast Region is dreadfully over budget, sir. Mostly due to a single campaign. Harry Dancer.”
The Chairman snaps his fingers at the floor supervisor.
“Nick,” he calls, “bring me an update on Harry Dancer. Southeast Region.”
In a moment the supervisor comes running. Trailing a long computer printout. The Chairman scans it swiftly.
“Progressing well,” he says. “Let it run.”
“You approve the expenditures, sir?” the comptroller says. Nervously.
The Chairman looks at him. “I approve. Do you wish a written and signed authorization?”
“Oh no, sir, that won’t be necessary. I would just like to call the Chairman’s attention to our current cash-flow problem.”
“Don’t tell me we’re going broke?”
“Ha-ha,” the comptroller tries to laugh. Cracking his face in a bleak smile. “Nothing like that. Our endowment is more than adequate. And current contributions are on target. It’s just that we’re a bit strapped for cash at the moment.”
“That’s your problem, isn’t it, Acheron?” the Chairman says. “I know I can depend upon you to solve it in your usual efficient manner. I can depend on you, can’t I?”
“Oh yes, sir. Absolutely,
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