connubial and reproductive sex. Nonetheless, Polly was running with His Holiness's pontification in a big way, issuing a blizzard of paper. Her wine people were beside themselves. Her beer people were passing peach pits. The head of Gutmeister-Melch had spent thirty minutes reaming her out for not having "gotten him" to say the same thing about beer.
"I told him it wasn't us who did it. It was the Italian producers. They saw the plummeting U.S. consumption figures and worked it through one of the cardinals."
"It's hard to see what the pope could say good about beer," Bobby Jay said. "It's not like the Good Lord changed water into beer at Cana. And they weren't hardly drinking beer in the upper room at the Last Supper."
"Then my distilled spirits people called to bitch."
"What do they expect," Nick said, "that he's going to come out for scotch?"
"No, they just—it's a zero-sum game. We're in declining volumetrics, and they're all totally paranoid. They see anything good happen to wine or beer and they think, Less for us. I spend over half my time keeping them from killing each other, when they should be protecting each other's backs."
"Well, cheers anyway," Nick said, raising his glass. "Nicely done, even if you didn't have anything to do with it. Say, do either of you guys know a Heather Holloway, works for the Moon? She wants to do a piece on me."
"Heather Holloway? Oh yeah," Bobby Jay said. "Irish type, reddish hair, big green eyes, great skin. Amazing tits."
"Tits?" Polly said. "Why are her tits relevant?"
"Humh," Bobby Jay said through his food. "World-class honkers on a reporter interviewing a male of the species are relevant, believe you me."
"I thought Jesus freaks didn't talk locker-room."
"I am not a 'Jesus freak.' I do not accost strangers on street corners. I do not play the guitar. I am a born-again Christian. And I shoot," Bobby Jay said, "to kill."
"You're going to end up just like that guy in Waco. Praising the Lord, passing the ammo, and shooting ATF agents. I get very nervous around guns and religion."
Nick said, "Is there anything else you can tell me about her, aside from what size bra she wears?"
Bobby Jay said that Heather Holloway had come to one of SAFETY 's press conferences, in which Mr. Drum called for building more jails. It was part of SAFETY 's offensive strategy: instead of sitting still and being a punching bag for liberals who didn't want criminals to have guns, they went after liberals for releasing people who had shot people in the first place. Heather had charmed the socks off Drum, and had written a more or less antigun-control piece—the Moon being a conservative paper—but she had taken issue with Drum for insisting that a prior history of mental illness ought not to disqualify a person from buying a handgun. So Drum suspected her of liberal tendencies.
"What's the focus of her piece?" Polly asked. "Tobacco fighting back?"
"She says it's for a series on the New Puritanism. Maybe the Moon's looking for some tobacco advertising."
"You be careful," Bobby Jay said. "Just pretend it's some ugly old harelip interviewing you."
"Bobby, I think I can handle a good-looking girl reporter."
"Seen it happen again and again. They come in, bat their pretty eyes at you, cross their legs a few times, and before you know, it's 'I shouldn't really be telling you this' and 'Would you like to see our confidential files?' Beware of Jezebels with tape recorders."
"Bobby Jay, you've got to lay off the breakfast prayer groups. You're getting kind of weird."
"All I'm saying is that most men, confronted with a babe reporter, talk too much."
"Well thanks for the advice."
"Hundred bucks says you end up spilling the company beans all over the floor so bad you need a Wet-Vac to clean up. You in for a piece of the action, Ms. Steinem?"
"I think Nick can manage."
"A hundred each says he commits at least one major indiscretion." "You're on," Nick said.
"Done," Polly said. "Damnit," she said,
"I told him it wasn't us who did it. It was the Italian producers. They saw the plummeting U.S. consumption figures and worked it through one of the cardinals."
"It's hard to see what the pope could say good about beer," Bobby Jay said. "It's not like the Good Lord changed water into beer at Cana. And they weren't hardly drinking beer in the upper room at the Last Supper."
"Then my distilled spirits people called to bitch."
"What do they expect," Nick said, "that he's going to come out for scotch?"
"No, they just—it's a zero-sum game. We're in declining volumetrics, and they're all totally paranoid. They see anything good happen to wine or beer and they think, Less for us. I spend over half my time keeping them from killing each other, when they should be protecting each other's backs."
"Well, cheers anyway," Nick said, raising his glass. "Nicely done, even if you didn't have anything to do with it. Say, do either of you guys know a Heather Holloway, works for the Moon? She wants to do a piece on me."
"Heather Holloway? Oh yeah," Bobby Jay said. "Irish type, reddish hair, big green eyes, great skin. Amazing tits."
"Tits?" Polly said. "Why are her tits relevant?"
"Humh," Bobby Jay said through his food. "World-class honkers on a reporter interviewing a male of the species are relevant, believe you me."
"I thought Jesus freaks didn't talk locker-room."
"I am not a 'Jesus freak.' I do not accost strangers on street corners. I do not play the guitar. I am a born-again Christian. And I shoot," Bobby Jay said, "to kill."
"You're going to end up just like that guy in Waco. Praising the Lord, passing the ammo, and shooting ATF agents. I get very nervous around guns and religion."
Nick said, "Is there anything else you can tell me about her, aside from what size bra she wears?"
Bobby Jay said that Heather Holloway had come to one of SAFETY 's press conferences, in which Mr. Drum called for building more jails. It was part of SAFETY 's offensive strategy: instead of sitting still and being a punching bag for liberals who didn't want criminals to have guns, they went after liberals for releasing people who had shot people in the first place. Heather had charmed the socks off Drum, and had written a more or less antigun-control piece—the Moon being a conservative paper—but she had taken issue with Drum for insisting that a prior history of mental illness ought not to disqualify a person from buying a handgun. So Drum suspected her of liberal tendencies.
"What's the focus of her piece?" Polly asked. "Tobacco fighting back?"
"She says it's for a series on the New Puritanism. Maybe the Moon's looking for some tobacco advertising."
"You be careful," Bobby Jay said. "Just pretend it's some ugly old harelip interviewing you."
"Bobby, I think I can handle a good-looking girl reporter."
"Seen it happen again and again. They come in, bat their pretty eyes at you, cross their legs a few times, and before you know, it's 'I shouldn't really be telling you this' and 'Would you like to see our confidential files?' Beware of Jezebels with tape recorders."
"Bobby Jay, you've got to lay off the breakfast prayer groups. You're getting kind of weird."
"All I'm saying is that most men, confronted with a babe reporter, talk too much."
"Well thanks for the advice."
"Hundred bucks says you end up spilling the company beans all over the floor so bad you need a Wet-Vac to clean up. You in for a piece of the action, Ms. Steinem?"
"I think Nick can manage."
"A hundred each says he commits at least one major indiscretion." "You're on," Nick said.
"Done," Polly said. "Damnit," she said,
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