numbers.”
“So am I,” Howard gushed. “It’s rare to find someone who feels about numbers the way I do.” He slipped onto the stool next
to Huxstep. “Maybe we could meet for a quiet supper sometime and compare notes. What do you say?”
“What I say,” Huxstep said, “is you should fuck off.”
Howard smiled smugly. “I like people who play hard to get.”
“I’m not playing hard to get,” Huxstep informed him. “I am hard to get. Beat it.”
Across the bar the Admiral studied his neighbor through lidded, bloodshot eyes. He liked what he saw: the eyebrows plucked
into a pencil line, the cheeks lightly rouged, the gold medallion hanging from a delicate gold chain in the V of the shirt,
the gold studs and the gold cuff links instead of buttons—all the outward signs of a class act. And a body like a Citroën.
So the Admiral talked braininess. “You have a way with words,” he told his neighbor. “May I ask what you wrote your thesis
on?”
“Thesis? What thesis?”
“Your Ph.D. thesis.”
“Ph.D! I have never even set foot in college.”
“You have to be pulling my leg. Your insights could only come from a systematic investigation of philosophy. More power to
you if you are self-taught. You are a bookworm. Own up.”
The Admiral’s neighbor toyed with a gold-plated lipstick. “I used to read
Reader’s Digest
cover to cover.”
The Admiral smiled triumphantly. “I could tell there was more to you than looks.”
Toothacher’s new friend offered a manicured hand. The Admiral seized it eagerly and gave it a conspiratorial squeeze. “My
friends call me Pepper,” he said.
“If you’re Pepper, I’ll be Salt.”
They both laughed, the Admiral at the prospect of burning another candle at both ends, Salt because what had started out as
a dull evening had taken a turn for the better.
The Admiral was about to signal to Yul for refills for himself and his newfound friend when Huxstep came loping over. He nodded
toward a booth in the back of the bar, behind the jukebox. “He’s here,” he mumbled.
The Admiral swiveled on his stool and peered in the direction of the booth. He could make out the figure of a man huddled
in its shadows. The figure raised a hand and saluted him with a weak wave.
Toothacher brushed Salt’s wrist with his fingertips. “Order yourself a refill on me,” he said. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
He hiked his lanky body off the stool, ambled across the crowded room and slid into the booth facing the shadowy figure. “Wasn’t
sure you weren’t dead and buried by now.”
“I hang in there,” chirped E. Everard Linkletter, the Company archivist. “You are looking fit as a fiddle. What lures you
up from the Shangri-la for retired naval officers?”
“If I told you would you believe me?”
“Try me.”
Toothacher batted both eyes in an innocent wink. “I came up to lobby the Secretary of the Navy for a cost of living increase
to my pension.”
Linkletter exploded in laughter. “Come on, Pepper. You used to be able to do better than that.” The archivist brought a menthol
cigarette to his nose and breathed in its aroma. “There was a time when you trusted me with those secrets of yours,” he remarked.
“Someone’s screwed up, hasn’t he? The old fox himself, Rear Admiral J. Pepper Toothacher, has been called in to walk back
the cat.” Linkletter studied Toothacher through dirty eyeglasses. “What are they paying per diem these days, Pepper?”
“Whatever they pay,” Toothacher said morosely, “it’s not enough.” He was thinking of the most recent love letter to Wanamaker,
which had arrived that morning, an epistle so tightly held that there was no security rating on the books that pertained,
or so Wanamaker had pretended when he flatly refused to let the Admiral see it. Whoever was writing the love letters, Wanamaker
had ranted in a voice as scruffy as his office, knew all about Stufftingle and was
“So am I,” Howard gushed. “It’s rare to find someone who feels about numbers the way I do.” He slipped onto the stool next
to Huxstep. “Maybe we could meet for a quiet supper sometime and compare notes. What do you say?”
“What I say,” Huxstep said, “is you should fuck off.”
Howard smiled smugly. “I like people who play hard to get.”
“I’m not playing hard to get,” Huxstep informed him. “I am hard to get. Beat it.”
Across the bar the Admiral studied his neighbor through lidded, bloodshot eyes. He liked what he saw: the eyebrows plucked
into a pencil line, the cheeks lightly rouged, the gold medallion hanging from a delicate gold chain in the V of the shirt,
the gold studs and the gold cuff links instead of buttons—all the outward signs of a class act. And a body like a Citroën.
So the Admiral talked braininess. “You have a way with words,” he told his neighbor. “May I ask what you wrote your thesis
on?”
“Thesis? What thesis?”
“Your Ph.D. thesis.”
“Ph.D! I have never even set foot in college.”
“You have to be pulling my leg. Your insights could only come from a systematic investigation of philosophy. More power to
you if you are self-taught. You are a bookworm. Own up.”
The Admiral’s neighbor toyed with a gold-plated lipstick. “I used to read
Reader’s Digest
cover to cover.”
The Admiral smiled triumphantly. “I could tell there was more to you than looks.”
Toothacher’s new friend offered a manicured hand. The Admiral seized it eagerly and gave it a conspiratorial squeeze. “My
friends call me Pepper,” he said.
“If you’re Pepper, I’ll be Salt.”
They both laughed, the Admiral at the prospect of burning another candle at both ends, Salt because what had started out as
a dull evening had taken a turn for the better.
The Admiral was about to signal to Yul for refills for himself and his newfound friend when Huxstep came loping over. He nodded
toward a booth in the back of the bar, behind the jukebox. “He’s here,” he mumbled.
The Admiral swiveled on his stool and peered in the direction of the booth. He could make out the figure of a man huddled
in its shadows. The figure raised a hand and saluted him with a weak wave.
Toothacher brushed Salt’s wrist with his fingertips. “Order yourself a refill on me,” he said. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
He hiked his lanky body off the stool, ambled across the crowded room and slid into the booth facing the shadowy figure. “Wasn’t
sure you weren’t dead and buried by now.”
“I hang in there,” chirped E. Everard Linkletter, the Company archivist. “You are looking fit as a fiddle. What lures you
up from the Shangri-la for retired naval officers?”
“If I told you would you believe me?”
“Try me.”
Toothacher batted both eyes in an innocent wink. “I came up to lobby the Secretary of the Navy for a cost of living increase
to my pension.”
Linkletter exploded in laughter. “Come on, Pepper. You used to be able to do better than that.” The archivist brought a menthol
cigarette to his nose and breathed in its aroma. “There was a time when you trusted me with those secrets of yours,” he remarked.
“Someone’s screwed up, hasn’t he? The old fox himself, Rear Admiral J. Pepper Toothacher, has been called in to walk back
the cat.” Linkletter studied Toothacher through dirty eyeglasses. “What are they paying per diem these days, Pepper?”
“Whatever they pay,” Toothacher said morosely, “it’s not enough.” He was thinking of the most recent love letter to Wanamaker,
which had arrived that morning, an epistle so tightly held that there was no security rating on the books that pertained,
or so Wanamaker had pretended when he flatly refused to let the Admiral see it. Whoever was writing the love letters, Wanamaker
had ranted in a voice as scruffy as his office, knew all about Stufftingle and was
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