two glasses and a bottle of J&B Scotch.
“I thought we’d have a nightcap,” she said, placing the glasses and bottle on the dresser. “Water?”
“In the bathroom.”
She poured two generous measures of whisky, carried the glasses into the bathroom, added a little cold water, then returned to the bedroom and handed Stallings one of the drinks. He sat down on the bed. She sat next to him and said, “It’s started.”
“What?”
“The ground war.”
“Huh.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Well, they’ve been building up to it for what—six months—and they’ve bombed the shit out of Iraq and’ve got all the troops and tanks and planes and artillery and ships they can use. It’ll probably end pretty soon—like I said.”
“You don’t sound very interested.”
“If there was any danger of losing, I might get interested. To me it’s just another dumb war with a foreordained outcome being fought by some young mercenaries or professionals we call volunteers. This country’ll never lose another conventional war. If it looks like we might lose, we won’t fight.”
“Especially if they’re white folks,” Georgia Blue said.
Stallings grinned. “Haven’t fought any of them since forty-five.”
“What happens next?” she said.
“You still talking about the gulf war?”
“No.”
“L’Affaire Gamble?”
She nodded. “When it’s over.”
“I expect we’ll all wander off again.”
“Wu with Durant, you with Otherguy?”
Stallings shook his head slightly, smiling at what might have been fond memories. “After five years, I think Otherguy’s ready to dissolve the old firm. I know I am.”
“He likes you.”
“Otherguy was—is—” Stallings paused to search for the right words.
“—a postdoctoral education.”
“What’ll you do?”
He looked at her. It was a look of cool examination. “What d’you suggest?”
“We could team up,” she said.
“And do what? Run variations of the Lagos Bank Draft on rich old marks in Palm Springs?”
“I’m not talking about forever,” she said. “I’m talking about six months—a year at the most.”
“Living in fancy hotels, drinking fine wines?”
“Why not?”
Stallings rose, went to the dresser, poured more Scotch into his glass, sipped it, turned back to her and asked, “What would I have to do?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said. “Maybe nothing.”
“But probably something.”
“Probably.”
“Just because I’m stuck on you, Georgia, doesn’t mean I’m simple.”
“I know.”
“What if Durant finds out?” he asked.
“He won’t.”
“But if he does?”
She shrugged slightly, put her drink down on the bedside table and began loosening the belt of her raincoat. “Durant won’t care,” she said.
“I won’t cross him,” Stallings said. “Or Artie.”
“We won’t cross them,” she said as she undid the raincoat’s buttons.
“Otherguy?”
