"Say," he asked, "did Milly ever say whether Scott knows that TV commentator Harold MacPherson?"
"You bastard," Shoo said quietly. She tilted her head up toward him, rubbing her cheek on his leg, "Even after dinner?"
"I've got to earn my per diem." By the way, he thought, who does pay for this trip? I guess it'll have to be my contribution to the defense of the Constitution. "Come on, Shoo, I thought you loved political intrigue."
"I do," she pouted. "But there's a time and a place for everything, to coin a cliché. Oh, well. Shoot, Mr. District Attorney."
"Well, did she ever say?"
"She didn't have to. MacPherson and his wife were at one of those little dinners-for-eight where I was. I drew the extra man, and was he a drip! But he was better than MacPherson, at that. Those far-out characters give me the creeps. Besides, he's a single-track bore. Against everything from women's suffrage to Congress."
"Did Scott take to him?" Casey asked.
"Oh, he'd met him before. Yes, they were very chummy. When I said earlier I didn't like your Gentleman Jim I think that's what I meant. I don't have much time for anybody who listens to that maniac MacPherson. He's got the country mesmerized, and he's a regular snake-oil salesman."
"You think Scott and MacPherson are pretty thick?"
"I know they are," she said. "That last time he was here a couple of weeks ago, Milly said Scott spent more time with MacPherson than he did with her."
"Look, Shoo, you really could help me. Who can I talk to who knows MacPherson pretty well? You know, maybe somebody around his shop who feels the way you do about him."
"Morton Freeman's your man," she said without hesitation. "He's one of the writers on the show. Morty makes lots of money, but I know he detests MacPherson and is just waiting for a chance to jump to some other show."
"Could you fix me up to see him tomorrow, maybe at lunch?"
"Sure." Shoo got up and took the evening paper from an end table. She fingered several pages, found what she wanted and folded it for Casey.
"Here," she said. "There have been some rumors about a special MacPherson show this weekend. This column seems to have a little more about it."
Shoo left him with the newspaper while she went to telephone. He turned on the floor lamp, managed to get one of the shades twisted his way, and read the television column she had pointed out.
MAC TO BE OWN SPONSOR? .. . Harold MacPherson, video's angry middle-aged man, is browbeating RBC for a solo hour in the 6-to-7 spot this Saturday night. The political gabster, this colyum hears, is so anxious for the time he's willing to foot the bill himself. He won't tell the network biggies what he wants to do, though he sez-despite his already having a five-a-week news show-that he would use the whole hour for commentary. RBC, which gives away that hour for public-service stuff anyhow, is said to be lending a sympathetic ear.
Best Bet: One round, firm and fully packed hour of Mac's antiadministration opinion on Sattidy eve.
Shoo called from the bedroom. "Rockefeller Center at 12:30 okay? By the skating rink?"
"No," Casey said, "the time's all right, but think of someplace a little less public."
When she returned Shoo hopped onto the sofa, her feet tucked under her. "He'll meet you at The Bowl. That's a little hole-in-the-wall on Fifty-fourth, between Madison and Park. 12:30. You'll know him because he wears big, thick glasses and his hair is always tangled. Very, very, serious all the time."
Casey tore the TV column from the paper. "Have you heard anything about this at the office?" he asked.
She snuggled closer to him as she glanced at the story. "I heard some rumor about it last Monday, but that's all. Yesterday there was a one-line squib in the News. I guess it must be true. Joe is pretty good on the inside stuff in our business. Oh, that awful MacPherson. If I ran RBC, I'd give him five minutes-to pick up his hat and get out."
Shoo reached across and snapped the lamp off, leaving the candle on the dining table as the only light. They had another brandy. The minutes slipped by into an hour. Shoo nipped playfully at his ear lobe. When he put an arm around her and then withdrew it, she promptly pulled it back.
Shoo ran her fingers through Casey's hair and whispered: "I always did like crew cuts. Remember?"
I'm getting too comfortable, Casey thought, getting to like this too well. He could feel a remembered surge in his pulse and found he could not wish it away. As though to break a spell, he excused himself and went to the bathroom.
It had new wallpaper, printed with little Parisian vignettes: news kiosks, Notre-Dame, bookstalls by the Seine, can-can dancers, sidewalk cafes, and of course the Eiffel Tower. Casey winced at this equation of the natural functions of the lavatory with the gay spirit of Paris.
A little too young and self-consciously naughty, he thought. I graduated from that league two years ago.
A small sign, handprinted by Shoo and stuck to the cabinet mirror, caught his eye: "Gentlemen do not open strange medicine cabinets."
Yeah, Shoo, you're a very attractive girl and a very compelling one, but you're also still a very young one. I'm forty-four years old and I ought to know better, and if I stay another ten minutes I'll be here all night.
Back in the living room, he straightened his tie and stretched lazily. He wanted to make the exit a graceful one.
"Time for me to get back to the hotel," he said. "We've both got to go to work tomorrow."
"Liar," she said. "You can sleep till noon and you know the mornings never bother me."
Shoo walked over and pressed against him, circling his neck with her arms. "Way back on the closet shelf there's a toothbrush that you've only used a couple of times," she whispered. "I thought you might need it again someday."
He kissed her, hard, and felt the warm suggestion of her thighs. I'm sorry, he thought, awful sorry, Shoo, but it really ended the night it began, and that was two years ago. They stood close together in silence. Then he pulled away.
She stood with legs apart, her head tipped back, smiling at him with a touch of bitterness.
"And so the married man goeth," she said.
"Yeah, I guess he does, Shoo. Thanks for all the-"
"Don't thank me, Jiggs. I'm not going to thank you."
He opened the door tentatively, embarrassed at the way he was going. She stood in the middle of the dark room, silhouetted against the flicker of the guttering candle. Her arms were folded and her face showed no expression at all.
"Good night, Shoo."
"Good-by, Jiggs," she corrected him softly. "You sweet bum."
He hurried down the hall, anxious to be out in the fresh air. He walked the fifteen blocks to the Sherwood, his thoughts cluttered. The night two years ago, deliberately suppressed all evening, now came rushing back to him in infinite detaiclass="underline" the unexpected sudden passion, her hands on him, her gasps of endearment and urging, her complete and utter absorption in the act of love. And the long, gentle hour afterward when they shared a cigarette and were too drained even to speak.
Thank God for that wallpaper, he thought, or I'd have started something that maybe wouldn't have ended this time.
Casey's thoughts were still in the past as he snapped on the light in his hotel room. The sudden brightness brought him back to the present. On the dresser stood the little framed picture of Marge and the boys that he always took with him when he was traveling.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he picked up the telephone. The operator did not answer immediately.
I might as well call Marge, he thought, just to let her know I'm still alive-and in my own bed, alone.