Put a Lid on It by Donald E. Westlake

there.”
    “Not unless you really want to.”
    “Ha ha,” she said.
    Meehan said, “Tell me about it.”
    Jeffords was so goddam bland. “The problem's gone away,” he said. “Isn't that enough?”
    “Not for me, it isn't,” Meehan said. “They were looking for me because they wanted to know what's the maguffin. Well, I don't
know
what's the maguffin, but I know
where's
the maguffin, and they gotta know I know that much, so why won't they come blundering into my caper, leaving electric tape on doors and handcuffing people to sinks?”
    “It's dealt with,” Jeffords insisted. “Your part is dealt with.”
    “Tell.”
    Jeffords sighed, and then was rescued temporarily by a waiter, bringing their drinks. These two were also clear liquid and ice cubes in short thick glasses, but instead of the page of lime skin they contained a gold sword-shaped toothpick impaling two big green olives. “Ahh,” said Goldfarb to her drink, so Meehan smiled at his, waiting for the waiter to go away.
    Which he did, to be immediately followed by another one, bringing them menus the size of placemats, then hanging around to tell them tonight's specials, which involved a whole lot of words to let them know that tonight they could also have tuna, salmon, or lamb chops. Finally, he went away, and Meehan said, “Tell.”
    “Wait till we order, Francis,” Jeffords said. “Or we'll just be interrupted a lot.”
    “Okay, fine.”
    Goldfarb lifted her glass. “Success,” she said.
    Jeffords lifted his. “Cheers,” he said.
    Meehan lifted his, finding it surprisingly heavy. “Evil to our enemies,” he said.
    “
I'll
drink to that,” Jeffords said, and they all did, Meehan learning to his surprise that he seemed to have ordered gasoline diluted with olive oil.
    “You know, Francis,” Jeffords said, “it's too bad you didn't have that nice jacket and tie when we were first traveling together.”
    “I'm sorry if I was an embarrassment,” Meehan said.
    “No, that's not what I meant,” Jeffords said, and waiter number two came back to take their order.
    Meehan wanted to know why the lamb chops were so special tonight, so that's what he asked for, and when Goldfarb wanted a nice mesclun salad to start he decided he did, too.
    “And the wine list,” Jeffords said. “This will only take a minute,” he assured Meehan.
    A little longer, not much. Waiter number one came back, with a leather-bound book, larger than the menus, that looked as though you should say Mass out of it, and Jeffords paged through it awhile, the waiter hovering, then said, “I think bin two-seventy-one,” and the waiter said, “A very nice choice,” and went away.
    “Do we have to wait for the tasting,” Meehan asked, “and the pouring, and the food arriving, and more water in the water glasses, and the drinks glasses being taken away, and some more wine pouring, and—”
    “All right,” Jeffords said. “All right, you're right. You remember our first flight down to Norfolk.”
    “Sure.”
    “There were two people with us on the plane. Howie Briggs, remember?”
    “I remember Cindy better,” Meehan said, “but sure.”
    “Howie Briggs thought you looked a little strange to be on that plane,” Jeffords said, “which is why it's unfortunate you weren't dressed then as you are now. When he saw the plane's owner at Hilton Head—”
    “Arthur,” Meehan said. “Briggs didn't mention a last name.”
    “Very good,” Jeffords said. “Yes, Arthur.” His mouth turned down. “Arthur is a very large contributor to the president's campaign,” he said, “which gives him close access to much of what we're doing. We now learn—Yes, that's it,” he told the wine bottle next to his face, and held one finger up for Meehan to wait.
    When next he could speak, he said, “We now learn that Arthur, through various multinational business connections, has, what shall I say, divided loyalties. Conflicts of interest. There are other elements, offshore,