The Mordida Man by Ross Thomas Page B

ever bathe?”
    â€œEvery Saturday night,” Reese said and then added because it was so old and awful, “whether I need it or not.” After that he laughed his nerve-racking laugh which lay somewhere between a sea lion’s honk and an old fox’s sly bark.
    Coombs sighed and sat down. Reese tried to hitch his bolted-down chair closer to Coombs’s desk. The movement jarred the papers from his lap and they fell to the floor. Reese went down on his hands and knees to retrieve them. “What do you want to bolt these fucking chairs to the floor for anyway?” he said as he sat back down. “Afraid somebody’s gonna crack a fart?”
    Coombs closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. “Just read what you have.”
    Reese picked up a legal-size sheet of paper from his lap and began reading an excerpt from a White House press conference that had been held twenty-two minutes before. He read in a bass monotone that was totally without inflection.
    â€œâ€˜Los Angeles Times: Mr. President, five days ago the Libyan delegation abruptly canceled its tour and flew back to Tripoli. My understanding is that the tour was canceled because your brother refused to let the Libyans go on a gambling junket to Las Vegas. Would you care to comment on that?’
    â€œâ€˜President: Not really. [Laughter.] I will say that I very much doubt that Bingo would ever try to prevent anyone from doing anything he wanted to do—especially gambling. As you know, my brother is something of a free spirit.’ [Laughter.]
    â€œâ€˜United Press International: Mr. President, Frank Milroy, the Las Vegas Chief of Police, says your brother called him from Los Angeles to arrange maximum security for the Libyan delegation. But then the delegation never showed. Chief Milroy has been unable to reach your brother. My question, sir, is can you tell us where your brother is, or if he somehow offended or insulted the Libyan delegation?’
    â€œâ€˜President: That’s two questions. First, Bingo doesn’t check in with me; I check in with him. [Laughter.] I heard from him indirectly a few days back. He did not in any way offend the Libyan delegation, which, I understand, canceled the tour for reasons of its own.’
    â€œâ€˜Chicago Sun-Times: Could you tell us what those reasons were, Mr. President?’
    â€œâ€˜President: I’m afraid you’ll have to ask the Libyan delegation that.’”
    â€œHe got off easy,” Reese said as he put the paper back on his lap, took out a cigarette, lit it with a paper match, looked around for an ashtray, and, finding none, dropped the match on the carpet.
    Coombs raised himself from his chair just enough to peer over the edge of his desk and make sure the match was out. As he sat back down, he said, “Quite remarkable. He managed to get through it without actually lying. What else?”
    Reese didn’t seem to hear the question. He was scratching his crotch and gazing up at the ceiling. “You know what? I think I got crabs.”
    â€œGive me strength,” Coombs whispered.
    Reese went on scratching earnestly until he smiled and sighed.
    â€œAhh! That’s better.” He looked at Coombs then, and the smile vanished. “You gave me this stack of shit when—five days ago? Yeah, five. You gave it to me because I don’t leak and because I’m the only one who might bring it off. Well, I’ve come up with a few juicy items, but before we go into them I wanta talk about the payoff. I want London.”
    â€œImpossible.”
    â€œFuck it then,” Reese said and started to rise.
    â€œRome.”
    Reese sat back down. “London or nothing.”
    â€œWhy not Rome? The climate is more salubrious, the food is infinitely better, the work is more rewarding. I’d far rather be chief of station in Rome than London.”
    â€œPussy,” Reese said. “They’ve got fourteen-,