scared as bad as I’ve ever been. You were sleeping, and I didn’t wake
you. Didn’t tell you about it later because I didn’t see the point of
worrying you and because -.. well, it seemed childish to put much stock
in a dream. I haven’t had the nigh mare again. But since then-Friday,
Saturday, yesterday I’ve had moments when a strange anxiety sort of
shivered through me, and I think maybe some bad thing is coming to get
you. And now, out there in the office, Frank said he’s mixed up in a
bad thing, a real bad thing, that’s heavy, and right away I made the
connection. Julie, maybe this guy is the bad thing I dreamed about.
Maybe we shouldn’t take it.
She stared at Bobby-in-the-mirror for a moment, wondering how to
reassure him. Finally she decided that, because the roles had reversed,
she should deal with him as Bobby would deal with her in a similar
situation. Bobby would not resolve to logic and reason-which were her
tools-but would charm and humor her out of a funk.
Instead of responding directly to his concerns, she said, long as we’re
getting things off our chests, you know who bothers me? The way you sit
on my desk sometimes while we’re talking to a prospective client. With
some clients, it might make sense for me to sit on the desk, wearing a
short skirt, showing some leg, ’cause I have good legs, even if I say so
myself But you never wear skirts, short or otherwise, and you don’t have
the gams for it, anyway.”
“Who’s talking about desks?”
“I am,” she said, turning away from the mirror and looking at him
directly.
“We leased a seven-room suite instead of an eight-room to save money,
and by the time the rest of the staff was settled had only one office
for ourselves, which seemed ok because There’s plenty of room in there
for two desks, but you say you don’t want one. Desks are too formal for
you. All you need is a couch to lie on while making calls, you say, yet
when clients come in, you sit on my desk.”
“Julie-”
“Formica is a hard, nearly impervious surface, but sooner or later
you’ll have spent so much time sitting on my desk, it’ll be marked by a
permanent imprint of your ass -.”
Because she wouldn’t look at the mirror, he had to turn away from it,
too, and face her.
“Didn’t you hear what I said about the dream?”
“Now, don’t get me wrong. You’ve got a cute ass, Bobby, but I don’t
want the imprint on my desktop. Pencils will keep rolling into the
depression. Dust will collect in it.”
“What’s going on here?”
“I want to warn you that I’m thinking of having the top of my desk
wired, so I can electrify it with a flick of a switch. You sit on it
then, and you’ll know what a fly feels like when it settles on one of
those electronic bug zappers.”
“You’re being difficult, Julie. Why’re you being difficult?”
“Frustration. I haven’t gotten to stomp or crush any bad guys lately.
Makes me irritable.”
He said, “Hey, wait a minute. You’re not being difficult.”
“Of course I’m not.”
“You’re being me!”
“Exactly.” She kissed his right cheek and patted his left. “Now, let’s
go back out there and take the case.”
She opened the door and stepped out of the bathroom.
With some amusement, Bobby said, “I’ll be damned,” and followed her into
the office.
Frank Pollard was talking quietly with Clint, but he fell silent and
looked up hopefully as they entered.
Shadows clung to the corners like monks to their cloisters, and for some
reason the amber glow from the three lamps reminded her of the
scintillant and mysterious light of serried votive candles in a church.
The puddle of scarlet gems still glimmered on the desk.
The bug was still in a death crouch in the mason jar.
“Did Clint explain our fee schedule?” she asked Pollard.
“Yes.”
“Okay. In addition, we’ll need ten thousand dollars as advance against
expenses.”
Outside, lightning scarred the bellies of the clouds. bruised sky