of his window. Head first."
"Oh God, Mike," Becky commented.
"Yeah, oh God. I think that's when I told him to get lost."
Horror and misery were evident in her voice as Becky said, "So that's how you happened to leave the Justice Department."
He smiled thinly and told her, "No, not quite that heroically. I was half crazy for a week or so, but they gave me time to collect myself. And when I did, I had my tail down and firmly captured between my legs. I rode it out, and tried to forget. I couldn't, of course. And . . ." He sighed and got rid of the cigarette. "And I started dragging my feet in one area and another. To put it bluntly, I hit the skids. I kept seeing Leslie in every black person and I filed some briefs in the courts on behalf of a number of them ... and one thing led to another. In '95 I was being considered for the number two job in the new federal police force. And a buddy of mine wanted the job worse. He was the first one to call me an Uncle Mose. Then it all fell in. And that's when I came to Urban." He chuckled drily. "By presidential direction."
"I'll be proud to marry you, Mike," Becky quickly told him.
He kissed her, warmly and slowly, and then he rolled off the bed and got into his clothing. "Stay ready," he said. "Quit your job. Go some place quiet and far away from any Town. How about Connecticut? Your aunt still there?"
She showed him saucer eyes and nodded her head.
"Okay. Go to Connecticut. I'll contact you there. Take some good books and lose yourself until you hear from me. I have a job to do, or a job to at least try to do."
"Something is going on with the blacks, isn't it?" she observed in a frightened voice. "That's why you wanted the passkeys. It's why you came in here all banged up."
He nodded. "I think they might be getting ready to come out of the Towns. You stay clear, way clear. I don't want to lose love again to this insanity."
Her eyes watered and she said, "This may be inappropriate, but that's the nicest speech I've ever heard."
He smiled and told her, "No, I guess it's very appropriate."
"I'll be waiting for you in Connecticut. With my Mailer."
"With your what?"
"The collected works of Norman Mailer."
"Well there's a start," he said. "Mailer knew where it was at."
"Call it a whisper from yesterday, Becky. From an age of guts. Hey. Come on, help me find my stuff. There's a bucket waiting for me in California."
"A bucket of what?" she asked, the puzzlement growing.
"Guts," he said. "A bucket of guts."
CHAPTER 4
It was a large house, in the synthetic early colonial styling—mostly plastics—with huge white columns gleaming in the brilliance of floodlights. Winston set the Avis U-fly down on the oval of the circular drive, cut the engine, and consulted his watch. It was eleven twenty, Mountain Time—so far he'd lost less than half an hour in this sudden inspiration to detour through Colorado; the side-flight from Stapleton Field to the Cherry Hills estate of Jason Tromanno should cost him another half-hour at most, all time considered.
His inspection took in the ornate sweep of grounds surrounding the mansion. Winston was glad that the old man had been able to preserve an acre or two through all his troubles. He walked rapidly along the flagstone footpath, ascended winding plastic steps, and pulled the pendant-type door bell. A little man in a domestic's white jacket responded immediately, a magnificent Doberman on a short leash at his side.
The visitor eyed the big dog uneasily and said, "I'm Winston."
"Identification, please," the other requested.
Winston produced his credentials. The man smiled, and said, "Step in, please. The man is waiting in the library."
The man. Yeah, he still deserved to be called the num.
The little guy in the white jacket was a Tom, not much doubt about that. They went across a foyer along a short hallway, and into the library. The first thing to catch Winston's eye was the nurse; he caught his breath and gazed at her closely, then
"Oh God, Mike," Becky commented.
"Yeah, oh God. I think that's when I told him to get lost."
Horror and misery were evident in her voice as Becky said, "So that's how you happened to leave the Justice Department."
He smiled thinly and told her, "No, not quite that heroically. I was half crazy for a week or so, but they gave me time to collect myself. And when I did, I had my tail down and firmly captured between my legs. I rode it out, and tried to forget. I couldn't, of course. And . . ." He sighed and got rid of the cigarette. "And I started dragging my feet in one area and another. To put it bluntly, I hit the skids. I kept seeing Leslie in every black person and I filed some briefs in the courts on behalf of a number of them ... and one thing led to another. In '95 I was being considered for the number two job in the new federal police force. And a buddy of mine wanted the job worse. He was the first one to call me an Uncle Mose. Then it all fell in. And that's when I came to Urban." He chuckled drily. "By presidential direction."
"I'll be proud to marry you, Mike," Becky quickly told him.
He kissed her, warmly and slowly, and then he rolled off the bed and got into his clothing. "Stay ready," he said. "Quit your job. Go some place quiet and far away from any Town. How about Connecticut? Your aunt still there?"
She showed him saucer eyes and nodded her head.
"Okay. Go to Connecticut. I'll contact you there. Take some good books and lose yourself until you hear from me. I have a job to do, or a job to at least try to do."
"Something is going on with the blacks, isn't it?" she observed in a frightened voice. "That's why you wanted the passkeys. It's why you came in here all banged up."
He nodded. "I think they might be getting ready to come out of the Towns. You stay clear, way clear. I don't want to lose love again to this insanity."
Her eyes watered and she said, "This may be inappropriate, but that's the nicest speech I've ever heard."
He smiled and told her, "No, I guess it's very appropriate."
"I'll be waiting for you in Connecticut. With my Mailer."
"With your what?"
"The collected works of Norman Mailer."
"Well there's a start," he said. "Mailer knew where it was at."
"Call it a whisper from yesterday, Becky. From an age of guts. Hey. Come on, help me find my stuff. There's a bucket waiting for me in California."
"A bucket of what?" she asked, the puzzlement growing.
"Guts," he said. "A bucket of guts."
CHAPTER 4
It was a large house, in the synthetic early colonial styling—mostly plastics—with huge white columns gleaming in the brilliance of floodlights. Winston set the Avis U-fly down on the oval of the circular drive, cut the engine, and consulted his watch. It was eleven twenty, Mountain Time—so far he'd lost less than half an hour in this sudden inspiration to detour through Colorado; the side-flight from Stapleton Field to the Cherry Hills estate of Jason Tromanno should cost him another half-hour at most, all time considered.
His inspection took in the ornate sweep of grounds surrounding the mansion. Winston was glad that the old man had been able to preserve an acre or two through all his troubles. He walked rapidly along the flagstone footpath, ascended winding plastic steps, and pulled the pendant-type door bell. A little man in a domestic's white jacket responded immediately, a magnificent Doberman on a short leash at his side.
The visitor eyed the big dog uneasily and said, "I'm Winston."
"Identification, please," the other requested.
Winston produced his credentials. The man smiled, and said, "Step in, please. The man is waiting in the library."
The man. Yeah, he still deserved to be called the num.
The little guy in the white jacket was a Tom, not much doubt about that. They went across a foyer along a short hallway, and into the library. The first thing to catch Winston's eye was the nurse; he caught his breath and gazed at her closely, then
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