"Walton, what in hell . . .?"
Jack O'Donnell and Joyce Hanson had been working through the ten-pound Christmas catalog known as the Sunday Times—she was up to Arts & Leisure and he'd advanced as far as Business—when my call interrupted their mutually agreed-upon vow of silence. Now that her apartment in the West Seventies had become Jack's weekend hideaway, his escape from phones and conferences, the number was as carefully guarded as a Minuteman launch code.
The time was shortly after noon. He'd just braved a foot of snow and sleet to retrieve the paper and a couple of fresh croissants, while Joyce was still recovering from a two A.M. session editing a speech one of his staffers had drafted for some
ILGWU holiday blowout the following week. Since he was still chewing over Noda's ominous phone call, wondering what to do, the last person on earth he wanted to hear from right now was Dai Nippon's lawyer, even if it was me.
"Feel like coming down for a Bloody Mary? An academic lady we both know is here, and we've happened across something you might find interesting. Very interesting."
"Care to elaborate?"
"It's a little complicated, Jack. How about coming down?"
He glanced out the frosted kitchen windows, puzzling what in blazes was up, then finally agreed.
"Keep the coffee hot."
"You've got it."