The Mordida Man by Ross Thomas Page A

much forehead and the sad eyes of a failed cleric. There was just enough chin and perhaps a bit too much mouth. He mixed the drinks deftly and handed one to Dunjee, then raised his own glass and said, “To suicide, mate. I’m thinking you might drink to that this morning.”
    â€œI might,” Dunjee said, formed the ten one-hundred-dollar bills into a small fan with one hand, and held them out to the man. There was a moment of hesitation before the man took the money and stuffed it down into his pants pocket.
    â€œYou overpaid, you know.”
    â€œI know,” Dunjee said. “What’s your name?”
    â€œHarold Hopkins, sir, and notice how nicely I handle me aitches.”
    Dunjee nodded wearily, moved over to an armchair, and sank down into it. Hopkins sat on the edge of the bed. “I really love that bitch,” he said. “Ain’t that awful?”
    Dunjee closed his eyes and leaned his head back. “How long were you inside, Harold?”
    â€œShows a bit, does it?”
    â€œA bit. You’re way too pale, even for London.”
    â€œSomething fell off a lorry. I did fifteen straight without remission. Got out a fortnight ago.”
    â€œWhat fell off the truck, Harold?”
    â€œA pearl necklace. Some gold and platinum bits and pieces. A few diamonds.”
    â€œI’m looking for somebody,” Dunjee said, his eyes still closed.
    â€œAnd who might that be?”
    â€œA thief.”
    â€œShame—an American gentleman like you.”
    â€œI’m looking for a good one, Harold,” Dunjee said and opened his eyes.
    After several moments Hopkins said thoughtfully, almost with dignity, “I’m a good one,” and somehow Dunjee knew that he was.

11
    When Thane Coombs, the Director of Central Intelligence, came into his large seventh-floor office in the Agency’s Langley headquarters, he had to wake up the big bald-headed man who sat slumped asleep in the bolted-down armchair.
    Six of the bolted-down chairs, all identical, formed a semicircle around Coombs’s desk. They were the first thing he had ordered after being sworn in as DCI. The radius of the semicircle formed by the chairs was exactly six feet—which, Coombs had calculated, was exactly the distance needed to keep him from smelling the breath of others. As DCI, Coombs saw no reason why he should have to. He had a sensitive nose and wanted to use it to smell his roses—not breaths that reeked of cigarettes, alcohol, and decaying teeth, and especially not poor digestion brought on by ambition and fear and bad marriages.
    As he walked over and snapped his fingers in the big man’s left ear, Coombs wrinkled his nose because he could smell whisky and cigarettes and garlic and Scope and probably just a trace of marijuana. It was how the big man nearly always smelled.
    The sleeping man’s name was Alex Reese, and he awoke instantly without apology, but with his inevitable comment, “Must have dozed off there for a moment.”
    Reese could sleep anywhere, anytime, and often did. He stood six-four and weighed 270 pounds, and a lot of it, although not all, had settled around his gut. He was a man who scoffed at all gods and demons, held most of mankind in utter contempt, and wasn’t particularly fond of animals. Nine years of his life had been spent with the FBI and twelve with the CIA. He drank a fifth of cheap whisky a day, much of it before noon, and had been hired by the CIA four times, fired three, and given two medals in private ceremonies, only to see them snatched back and locked away in the name of national security. He was forty-four years old, thrice married and divorced, and was now sexually inclined toward teen-age girls, whom he pursued shamelessly. Had it not been for his mind, he would have been impossible. His mind was extraordinary.
    Coombs went behind his desk and sniffed suspiciously. “Tell me something,” he said. “Do you