“Hair-raising thrills and high-speed adventure.”
Bonnie nestled closer and settled in for the night. Augustine was severely tempted to stroke her hair, or kiss the top of her head, or trace a finger along that famous velvet slope of her neckline. But, with idiotic decency, he held back.
Mrs Max Lamb fell asleep long before he did. Shortly after midnight, the telephone began to ring in the kitchen. Augustine didn’t get out of bed to answer it,
because he didn’t want to wake his new friend. He probably could have moved her gently to one side of the bed, but he didn’t even try.
She was sleeping so soundly, and he felt so good.
SEVENTEEN
Bonnie Lamb rolled over at three in the morning, freeing Augustine to rise and answer the phone, which had been ringing intermittently for hours.
Naturally it was Bonnie’s husband in New York. Augustine anticipated a lively exchange.
“What’s going on!” Max Lamb demanded. “Bonnie’s fine. She’s asleep.” “Answer me!” “She left you several messages. She wasn’t up to the airplane trip-”
“Wake her, please. Tell her it’s important.” As he waited, Max Lamb reflected over the unalloyed rottenness of his long thankless day. The NIH press conference declaiming the hazards of Bronco cigarets made CNN, MTV and all the networks, followed of course by prominent barbs in the Leno and Letterman monologues. The wiseass MTV coverage was particularly aggravating because it struck directly at young female smokers, a key market component of Bronco’s booming sales growth. Front-page stories were expected the following morning in the Times, the Wall Street Journal and the Washington Post. The word “disaster” was insufficient to describe the crisis, as the splenetic chairman of Durham Gas Meat &c Tobacco adamantly insisted on a total advertising embargo against all publications reporting the NIH findings-which was to say, all newspapers and magazines in the United States. The atmosphere at Rodale &c Burns was sepulchral, due to the many millions of dollars that the agency stood to lose if Bronco’s print ads were yanked. Max Lamb had spent the better part of the afternoon attempting to contact DGM&T’s chairman in Guadalajara, where he was receiving thrice-daily injections of homogenized sheep semen to arrest the malignant tumors in his lungs. Workers at the clinic said the chairman was taking no calls, and refused to patch Max Lamb through to the old geezer’s room.
And if that wasn’t enough, Max now had to deal with a flighty, recalcitrant wife in Florida.
Bonnie’s voice was husky from sleep. “Honey?” she said.
Max gripped the receiver as if it were the neck of a squirming rattlesnake. “Exactly what’s going on down there!”
“I’m sorry. I need a few more days.”
“Why aren’t you at the motel?”
“I fell asleep here.”
“With the skulls? Jesus Christ, Bonnie.”
When Max Lamb got highly agitated, he acquired a frenetic rasp that his coworkers likened to that of an asthmatic on amphetamines. Bonnie didn’t blame her husband for getting upset that she was with Augustine. Trying to explain was pointless, because she didn’t yet comprehend it herself. Her attempted seduction-that she understood too well. But the urge to go road-tripping with the governor, the lack of interest in returning home to begin her new marriage … confusing emotions, indeed.
“I still don’t feel very well, Max. Maybe it’s exhaustion.”
“You can sleep on the plane. Or in a damn motel.”
“All right, honey, I’ll get a room.”
“Has he tried anything?” /
“No!” Bonnie said sharply. “He’s been a perfect gentleman.” Thinking: I’m the one you’ve got to worry about, buddy boy.
“I don’t trust him.” Max Lamb’s normal vibrant voice had returned, indicating a beneficial drop in blood pressure.
Bonnie decided it was safe to point out that if it weren’t for Augustine, Max would still be kidnapped.
That provoked a grinding silence on the other end. Then: “There’s something not right about him.”
“Oh, and you’re perfectly normal, Max. Driving hundreds of miles to take movies of wrecked houses and crying babies.”
A movement by Augustine caught Bonnie Lamb’s attention. With a mischievous grin, he produced three plump grapefruits and began to juggle, dancing barefoot around the kitchen. Bonnie covered her mouth to keep from giggling into the phone.