Smoke

Loomis-Heimhocker Research Facility, then called that number, and a young woman answered, saying, 'Loomis- Heimhocker Research Facility,' so that part was okay.

He said, 'I'd like to talk to either one of the doctors.' Across the room, Peg, two local phone books under one arm, waved as she left, and Freddie waved back.

'I'm sorry, the doctors have gone away for the weekend.'

Trust doctors to take off early on a Friday. Yanking the hot Khomeini mask up off his head, Freddie said, 'This is kind of an emergency.'

'An emergency?' She sounded doubtful. 'The doctors here are not in regular practice.'

'No, no, I know that. You see, they gave me one of their experimental formulas, about a month ago—'

'They did?' Absolute astonishment.

'You didn't know about that?'

'As a matter of fact, I've — there've been certain things that—' With sudden suspicion, she said, 'Did you have anything to do with our burglary?'

'Uhh . . .' It was so unexpected an accusation he didn't have a real answer at first, but then he said, 'That's part of what I've got to talk to the doctors about. Do you have someplace where I can get in touch with them?'

'Give me your phone number, I'll have them get in touch with you.'

'Miss,' Freddie said, 'I'm not gonna give you my phone number. But I promise you, if you give me a number where I can reach them, they'll thank you. Honest to God.'

There was a long pause, while the young woman thought that over, and then she said, 'All right, I'll take the chance.' And she gave him a number that started with the area code 518, which was the exact same area code as where he was calling from!

It's an omen, he thought, finally a good omen. 'Thanks a lot,' he said. 'I really appreciate this, and so will the doctors.'

'Mm-hm,' she said.

Freddie hung up, and called that number, and a man answered, saying, 'Skeat residence.'

'I'm looking,' Freddie said, 'for Dr. Loomis or Dr. Heimhocker, either one. Makes no difference.'

'Oh, they're not here yet,' Skeat said, if that was his name. There were party sounds in the background. 'They're expected soon.'

'Okay,' Freddie said. 'I'll call back.'

'Why not give me your number, and they can call you when they get here?'

'No, that's okay, I'll be kinda in and out. I'll call back in, what? An hour?'

'Oh, less, I should think. Half an hour.'

'That's what I'll do then,' Freddie said.

'Who shall I tell them called?'

'Tell them — tell them Freddie, from last month.'

'Freddie, from last month,' Robert repeated, intrigued. 'I'll tell them,' he said, and hung up, and went back to the rowdies in the front room.

This group now were the stay-overs, the weekend guests. The actual party would begin at around five, when the first of the other guests would arrive, a mixed bag of straight and gay, New Yorkers mostly, though some West Coast film people as well, all with country places within an hour's drive of here.

Much frolicking would take place in the pool, and frivolity here and there, and drinking generally. Dinner would be served, buffet-style, at eight, cleared at ten, and the staff gone away to their own country homes — mostly mobile — by eleven. A few of these stay-overs, to judge by the way they were knocking it back now, would be unconscious long before dinner, and a few of the party guests would find friends, or at the very least soft places to lie down, and would still be here in the morning. The summertime Friday parties at Robert and Martin's tended not to be over, not to be really over, until around seven Sunday evening, though Sunday afternoons did sometimes have about them something of the air of the roving bands of penitents in Europe during the plague, self-flagellating and doomed.

Twenty minutes later, interrupting a general conversation about global warming — the consensus appeared to be guarded approval — Martin looked past Robert's left ear toward the front windows and said, 'This must be Peter and David now, at last.'

Robert turned to look, out the window and past the four cars already here, and saw the red Ford Taurus inching in to join the herd. And yes, here came Peter and David out of the car, wearing their cute yachting caps and carrying their bags as they moved toward the house.

Robert met them at the door. Cheeks were kissed, and then Robert said, 'You just missed your friend, on the phone, but not to worry.'

'Friend?' Peter said, and David said, 'Who?'

'He says he's Freddie, from last month. He does sound like fun,' Robert said, and then stopped, astonished, as Peter went off into gales of hysterical laughter and David burst into tears.

43

Robert was Robert Skeat and Martin was Martin Snell, and they were something very important on Wall Street that involved them having a fax machine in their Land-Rover and a pied-а-terre in Paris and a private airstrip out beyond the barns on which small planes and sometimes helicopters landed, merely to bring Robert and Martin things they were to sign.

Robert and Martin had been together forever, which was why they had the logo of entwined S's on the archway over the drive leading to their house. It was a family joke that Robert always answered the phone, 'Skeat residence,' while Martin always answered, 'Snell residence,' and it was also true that they had never declared themselves openly on the Street. There were certainly rumors about them in their place of employment, had been for years, but, 'Don't ask, don't tell' had been their byword since ages before those nervous Nellies in the Pentagon had stopped playing with their G.I. Joe dolls. And so long as they were so good at doing whatever it was they did, no one in their firm had the slightest desire to make trouble for Robert and Martin.

Weekends, particularly in the summer, Robert and Martin let it all hang out up at S&S in North Dudley, twenty-eight acres of rolling wooded countryside up a blacktop private drive from a dirt county road off a two-lane blacktop county road just a snap of the fingers from the Taconic Parkway. The house was large and sprawling, with seven bedrooms, plus a three-bedroom apartment in one of the barns. The pool was large and heated. The tennis court was clay, and magnificently maintained, as was the wine cellar. Robert and Martin had many friends, from a variety of worlds, including a number of straight worlds, and their country weekend parties were, in a word, notorious.

So that's Robert and Martin; usually, as you might suppose, the center of all eyes. But not today, not just this minute. Just this minute Robert and Martin and the nine other people here in the big front room of the main house were all staring hungrily, avidly, at Peter and David, waiting for them to get themselves under control, so they could tell all.

Both had been borne, had been half-carried, to this long sofa facing the fireplace with the brilliant flower arrangement in it, and both had been plied with drink, someone remembering that Peter liked vodka and grapefruit juice, and someone else remembering that David liked Campari and soda with a slice of lemon, and now everyone waited to find out what was going on.

Peter recovered first, and in fact had settled down to gasps and hiccups even before his vodka arrived, but then everybody had to wait while Peter did a miserable job of helping David recover, snapping at him with such useful lines as, 'Pull yourself together,' and, 'Stop it, David, for God's sake,' while David just kept on keening and sobbing in the most heartbroken manner you could imagine.

'Oh, do shut up, Peter,' Martin finally said, and hunkered down beside the distraught David, holding up the cheery glass of red liquid and clear ice cubes and bright yellow lemon slice for David to see, saying, 'David, come along, try to drink some of this, you'll feel much better, I promise, listen to Nurse Martin, now.'

That did make David laugh, or at least giggle or snicker or something, through his tears, but the tears kept flowing, and David remained far too unstrung to hold a full glass of anything in those trembling hands.

Martin said, 'David, we have the most wonderful new snorkel gear for the pool, it's phosphorescent, you