Their next client was a heavyset young woman with a bad complexion and a red nose. She ventured through the door as if she was afraid that the two men would bite her. In one plump hand she held a handkerchief which looked as if it had seen recent use. Wiz decided that was a bad sign.
Llewllyn didn’t seem to notice. He rose and made a sweeping bow to their client. “Come in young lady. Please sit and tell us what has brought you to us.”
The young woman twisted her hanky and bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she said in an undertone. “It’s such a small thing, really.”
Llewllyn’s smile grew even brighter. “There is no problem too small for us, dear lady. We are here to serve your every wish. Please be seated and tell us about it.”
Thus encouraged the girl eased herself down into the chair.
“Well, I, I hardly know where to begin.”
“Begin wherever you feel like, dear lady,” Llewllyn said gently. “The magic will tell me the rest.”
“There is the young man,” the girl said in a low voice.
“Ah,” Llewllyn nodded. “A special young man? Perhaps one who does not notice you?”
“How did you know?” the girl asked.
“Magic tells me many things. But do go on.”
“Well,” the girl relaxed in her chair, “he’s our neighbor you see . . .”
By the time Wiz left fifteen minutes later Llewllyn and the girl were head-to-head across the table. He hadn’t given her any advice that Wiz could see, just a lot of encouragement, but she seemed to think he had the answer to everything from her love life to the riddle of Dark Matter-or she would have if she’d known what Dark Matter was, Wiz thought.
Obviously his new assistant had a future in this end of the business. Now if Wiz could just keep him from bilking the customers or trying to practice unauthorized magic, he’d have one less thing to worry about.
That morning the director of the FBI had a lot of things to worry about. As her assistants filled her in on Clueless Pashley’s latest exploit, she stubbed out her cigarette and lit a new one. She was back up to a pack-and-a-half a day and headed rapidly for two packs. Her fingers were stained, her breath stank, she had burn holes in her clothes and twice she had nearly set her desk on fire when she missed an ash tray.
“Where is this clown now?” she asked Paul Rutherford when he finished his report.
“The local office bailed him out,” her assistant said. “They’ve got him stashed in a safe house to keep him away from the newspapers.”
This was a public relations disaster.
“Senator Halliburton’s office called this morning. His committee wants to hold hearings on violating civil rights in national security cases. This Judith Conally and the science fiction writer are going to be his star witnesses.”
A public relations disaster and a political nightmare, the director amended. “Could this get any worse?”
“Only if Pashley gets back out on the street,” Rutherford ventured. The director glared at him and he wilted. “Uh, no ma’am, I don’t think it’s likely to get much worse.”
Unbidden a snatch of a country song came into the director’s head. You gotta know when to hold ‘em, and know when to fold ‘em. She hated country music.
“All right.” She mashed out the half-smoked cigarette. “Settle!”
“Settle?”
“That writer’s case against us. Tell the Justice Department to settle with him. And settle with this Conally woman. Make apologies, blame it on a rogue agent. But settle.”
“Ma’am,” Rutherford said carefully, “that sets a very bad precedent.”
“It will set a worse precedent if the director of the FBI murders an agent,” she growled. “Just pay whatever it takes.”
Seventeen: Invitation To an Auto-de-Fe
At — Bullshit Is Our Most Important Product
graffiti on the lavatory wall at a major consultantcy
Wiz got home just after noon to find the mayor sniffling on his doorstep. At first Wiz thought someone had died. Then His Honor produced a well-used handkerchief from his sleeve and blew his nose again.