likes the building and you’ve come to a final decision that you want the deal to go through.”
“I love it,” Hortense said.
“Then it’s all yours, Sam. See that O’Connor is paid, and for God’s sake, check all the stock that Lucas turns in for those subsidiary companies. I don’t say he’d forge duplicates—”
“ I do.”
“Let’s both say it, then.”
“Mr. Garrett, it’s all under control.”
“O.K., take it away.”
Mr. Garrett looked at his watch, motioned to the waitress for the check, then got up and followed her to the desk to pay it. When he came back, Sam asked him: “You’ll be here tomorrow?”
“I hadn’t expected to be. I have to be getting back. If something comes up, call me and—”
“You’re going back tonight?” Hortense asked, surprised.
“It’s not too late. I’ll have the road to myself.”
“Well, don’t wake me by calling me up.”
“Do I ever? How did you get here, by the way?”
“Taxi.”
“Lloyd, would you see her home?”
“Be only too glad, of course.”
Mr. Garrett had left his car in the ARMALCO garage. As soon as we were out on the street, he flagged a cab to take him there. He kissed Hortense, got in, and drove off. Same Dent flagged a cab, kissed her, and drove off. By then, I had told her where I was parked, but without saying a word, we knew we weren’t calling a cab. We swung hands and started walking down Seventeenth Street by the light of the moon, carefree, goofy, and happy just from knowing we would be together that night. We hardly said anything driving out or in the apartment, hanging her coat up, or having our first kiss of the evening.
She insisted on scrambling some eggs, “because you didn’t have much to eat, and I love cooking for you.” So we ate her little supper, went to bed, and for awhile were close. Then, stretched out on top of me, she whispered: “Did you hear what he said? ‘Lloyd, will you see her home?’ This is my home.”
“Well, except for the wall decorations, it—”
“The stomach, not the apartment!”
“Oh. Then, it has a beautiful tenant.”
“Tenant?”
“Well—mate.”
“Wife, I think you mean.”
“I wish I did, but I don’t. You have a husband already.”
“You’re the only husband I have or ever expect to have.”
“I tell it like it is.”
She rolled off me, and I said: “However, I love you.”
“Then act like it.”
I acted like it, and after some time, she was topside again, kissing my neck.
12
I N WILMINGTON, WASHINGTON, AND various places, things now began to accelerate. Next in our order of business was the application we had made to I. R. S. for a tax-exempt status. To sit in with us on that, Sam brought in a tax lawyer, a character named Kaufman, who was a bit of a stuffed shirt, but was a shark on tax law, which was what we hired him for. Around Sam’s age, he was grossly overweight. Kaufman insisted that we work in his office on Sixteenth and C because his reference books were there, so I would walk there every day from the Garrett Building on Massachusetts. The reason I had to sit in was that I knew what the Institute would be doing. So day after day, for the supplemental booklet we would submit, I dictated to Kaufman’s secretary a detailed account of our projected activities, so every possible thing would be covered and we wouldn’t hit any snags later just by failing to include some material in our application—“to acquire, repair, and shelve books, pamphlets, periodicals, manuscripts, and source material of all kinds”; “to employ researchers, technicians, scholars, consultants, and librarians for the assistance of scholars writing biography or writing anything which, in the judgment of the director, contributes to biographical study”; “to employ persons qualified to prepare indices for the assistance of scholars writing biography”; “to acquire, operate, and maintain recorders and employ technicians to maintain them, such recorders
“I love it,” Hortense said.
“Then it’s all yours, Sam. See that O’Connor is paid, and for God’s sake, check all the stock that Lucas turns in for those subsidiary companies. I don’t say he’d forge duplicates—”
“ I do.”
“Let’s both say it, then.”
“Mr. Garrett, it’s all under control.”
“O.K., take it away.”
Mr. Garrett looked at his watch, motioned to the waitress for the check, then got up and followed her to the desk to pay it. When he came back, Sam asked him: “You’ll be here tomorrow?”
“I hadn’t expected to be. I have to be getting back. If something comes up, call me and—”
“You’re going back tonight?” Hortense asked, surprised.
“It’s not too late. I’ll have the road to myself.”
“Well, don’t wake me by calling me up.”
“Do I ever? How did you get here, by the way?”
“Taxi.”
“Lloyd, would you see her home?”
“Be only too glad, of course.”
Mr. Garrett had left his car in the ARMALCO garage. As soon as we were out on the street, he flagged a cab to take him there. He kissed Hortense, got in, and drove off. Same Dent flagged a cab, kissed her, and drove off. By then, I had told her where I was parked, but without saying a word, we knew we weren’t calling a cab. We swung hands and started walking down Seventeenth Street by the light of the moon, carefree, goofy, and happy just from knowing we would be together that night. We hardly said anything driving out or in the apartment, hanging her coat up, or having our first kiss of the evening.
She insisted on scrambling some eggs, “because you didn’t have much to eat, and I love cooking for you.” So we ate her little supper, went to bed, and for awhile were close. Then, stretched out on top of me, she whispered: “Did you hear what he said? ‘Lloyd, will you see her home?’ This is my home.”
“Well, except for the wall decorations, it—”
“The stomach, not the apartment!”
“Oh. Then, it has a beautiful tenant.”
“Tenant?”
“Well—mate.”
“Wife, I think you mean.”
“I wish I did, but I don’t. You have a husband already.”
“You’re the only husband I have or ever expect to have.”
“I tell it like it is.”
She rolled off me, and I said: “However, I love you.”
“Then act like it.”
I acted like it, and after some time, she was topside again, kissing my neck.
12
I N WILMINGTON, WASHINGTON, AND various places, things now began to accelerate. Next in our order of business was the application we had made to I. R. S. for a tax-exempt status. To sit in with us on that, Sam brought in a tax lawyer, a character named Kaufman, who was a bit of a stuffed shirt, but was a shark on tax law, which was what we hired him for. Around Sam’s age, he was grossly overweight. Kaufman insisted that we work in his office on Sixteenth and C because his reference books were there, so I would walk there every day from the Garrett Building on Massachusetts. The reason I had to sit in was that I knew what the Institute would be doing. So day after day, for the supplemental booklet we would submit, I dictated to Kaufman’s secretary a detailed account of our projected activities, so every possible thing would be covered and we wouldn’t hit any snags later just by failing to include some material in our application—“to acquire, repair, and shelve books, pamphlets, periodicals, manuscripts, and source material of all kinds”; “to employ researchers, technicians, scholars, consultants, and librarians for the assistance of scholars writing biography or writing anything which, in the judgment of the director, contributes to biographical study”; “to employ persons qualified to prepare indices for the assistance of scholars writing biography”; “to acquire, operate, and maintain recorders and employ technicians to maintain them, such recorders
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