Thank You for Smoking

His bodyguards sat at a nearby table with their Velcro bags, ready to turn Il Peccatore into an abattoir if Peter Lorre and his gang of dispatchers made another move. They were two taciturn women, steely-eyed and very butch, admittedly, but women bodyguards? He said something about it to Carlton, who just laughed and said, 'Listen to me, Nicky, Godzilla wouldn't want to fuck with these babes, believe me. Anyone so much as brushes up against you is to become a major organ donor. If there's anything left whole enough to donate.'

Jeannette arrived ten minutes after eight, full of apologies, and carrying tchotchkes that she presented to Nick: a Healthy Heart 2000 tote bag.

'Double Dewar's, up,' she told the waiter. She lit a Tumbleweed Light and exhaled. 'Christ, I didn't think I'd make it out of there alive. Wall-to-wall cardiologists.' She shuddered.

'I won't do the cocktail parties anymore,' Nick said. 'I'll sit on the panels, I'll eat lunch with them, but I will not be in a room with them while they're sucking up chardonnay and vodka. It's just too volatile.'

'Farkley Krell was there,' Jeannette said. Krell was Senator Ortolan K. Finisterre's gray eminence, his chief aide, speechwriter, press secretary.

'Did he throw his drink in your face, or merely ignore you?'

'I was very polite. I went over, stuck out my hand, which he did not shake, and told him how much we were looking forward to working with him on secondhand smoke.'

'That was brave.'

'What else am I going to say? BR said show the flag, so. He looked at me like I was wearing mustard-gas perfume and said, 'I'm sure we'll be working together on a lot of issues, soon.' '

'Hm. What did that mean?'

'I don't know, but I thought I better call BR about it. That's why I'm late. He got Gomez in on it. And guess what? Finisterre's got this Guatemalan housekeeper named Rosaria. She's been with the family since when Romulus was president. Since before, since the Devonian era, whenever. Anyway, she smokes. And guess what?'

'Don't tell me.'

'Uh-huh. They give her six months, tops.'

Nick sighed. 'You know, there's never any good news. At least Polly and Bobby Jay get some good news sometimes. Sixty Minutes does a show saying red wine keeps you from having a heart attack, or someone uses a gun to do some good, like kill a serial murderer.' He shook his head. 'How does Gomez know this about the cleaning lady?'

'Gomez? Are you kidding. Gomez knows everything. I think he still works for the CIA. But I've got a bad feeling about this. Finisterre's up for re-election next year, his numbers suck, he's looking for an easy win…'

Nick stirred his vodka with his forefinger.

'Well,' Jeannette said, leaning into him, 'let's talk about something else.'

The soft-shells arrived. They were tiny, delicate, crispy, dusted with just a hint of ginger, and topped with a lobster roe sauce. Refusing the wine list, Nick asked the waiter if they happened to have a particular thirty-eight- dollar bottle of Sancerre, which he knew they definitely did have because he'd checked before Jeannette arrived. The maitre d', playing his role, cooed over Nick's arcane selection. It turned out to be delicate yet assertive, dry yet full-bodied, tangy yet smooth, fruity yet not fruity. It was everything a thirty-eight-dollar bottle of wine should be, namely, good.

'You certainly know your wines,' Jeannette said, leaning in even closer.

'Why don't we have another bottle.'

'Absolutely. No one drinks anymore. No one drinks, no one smokes…'

In the car, Nick tried to concentrate on staying in his lane and on praying that there were no breathalyzing cops with roadblocks tonight. His BAC had to be in triple digits.

'Let's have a nightcap,' Jeannette said.

'We could go to the Jockey Club?'

'Too crowded,' Jeannette said. 'What about your place? Isn't it just off DuPont Circle?'

'Yeah.'

She touched his arm as he shifted gears. 'Then step on it,' she said silkily.

'Ohh,' she said.

'Ahh,' he said.

'Uhh,' she said.

'Ooo,' he said.

'I've wanted to do this ever since I first saw you,' she said.

'Mrrr,' he said.

'Urr.'

'Do you want me to tie you up?'

'Hm? Uh-uh.'

'Do you have any rope?'

'Uh-uh.'

'Clothesline?'

'Uh-uh.'

'Bungee cord?'

'Uh-uh.'

'Garbage-bag ties?'

Nick sat up. 'No. Don't we want some light in here?' Jeannette had insisted on pitch-blackness. Nick heard the sound of stretching rubber.

'What are you doing?' he asked.

'Putting on latex gloves.'

'Gloves?' he said.

'Why are you putting on gloves?'

'I love gloves. I think they're soo sexy.'

'Uh.'

She chewed his earlobe.

'Here,' she said, handing him a box in the dark.

'What's this?'

'Condoms,' she moaned. 'Extra large.'

'Oh.'

He started to open the flaps on the box. Were they the glow-in-the-dark kind? Was that why she wanted the lights out? 'You're not offended? It's just, I'm so fecund.'

'No,' Nick said, 'of course not.' He ripped open the box.

'Here,' she said, taking it from him, 'let me.'

'You're not going to tie me up with them?'

'Silly,' she said.

'Ohh,' he said.

'Ahh,' she said.

16

BR called him at seven-thirty in the morning while he was humming C'est fumee, c'est fumee! in the shower — Jeannette had slipped away sometime in the predawn — to say that he'd just had a call from the Captain. Lady Bent was addressing the Trilateral Commission in New York and a rare fifteen-minute window had opened up in her schedule. He wanted Nick to go up to New York and talk turkey to her.

'Why me?' Nick said.