Deaths Excellent Vacation

than forty-five, I would have guessed. His narrow eyes were dull green and—though he would have objected to the cliché—as cold as ice. Sometimes there’s no other way to say it.
    Wegner recovered more quickly than I did. “Thaddeus, I don’t believe you’ve met our newest member of the staff? May I present—”
    Palgrave ignored my outstretched hand. “You are excessively fond of the phrase bluff and genial , Mr. Wegner.”
    “Excuse me, Thaddeus?”
    “In The Deadliest Day , you informed us that Ambrose Burnside was the ‘bluff and genial commander of the right wing of the Army of the Potomac. ’ In Second Manassas , you declared that John Pope, ‘though bluff and genial off the battlefield, had gained a reputation as a determined tactician in the western theater of the war.’ And now, in The Road to Chancellorsville , we learn that General Joseph Hooker, ‘a bluff and genial man, took command of the Second Division of the Third Corps at the start of the Peninsula Campaign.’ ” Palgrave cocked his head toward the galley where the offending phrase appeared. “I could go on.”
    Wegner tried to laugh it off, but his ears were reddening. “I’ll have to watch that,” he said. “Still, every writer has his little quirks, wouldn’t you agree?”
    “If by that you mean most writers are lazy and inaccurate,” Palgrave said, “then of course I am forced to agree. Or have I misunderstood?”
    The room had gone silent. Peter Albamarle, the managing editor, stepped forward to try to save the situation. “I’m afraid I do that sort of thing all the time, Thaddeus,” he said. “I’d be embarrassed to say how many times I’ve used the phrase ‘fell back under a curtain of flying shot and blue smoke.’ No one in my chapters ever makes a strategic retreat. They invariably fall back under a curtain of flying shot and blue smoke. It’s become something of a—”
    Palgrave waved him off, keeping his eyes fixed on Wegner, pinned and wriggling against the cork wall. “General Hooker was neither bluff nor genial,” Palgrave said. “Quite the contrary, in fact. I suggest you review Mr. Daniel Butterfield’s seminal biography, Major-General Joseph Hooker and the Troops from the Army of the Potomac at Wauhatchie, Lookout Mountain and Chattanooga . You will find it a most bracing corrective. As the ancients might say, Age quod agis .”
    It was clear that Wegner had stopped listening well before the Latin epigram. He took another sip of wine, scanning the room as if idly looking for his ride home. Then, pretending to be unaware that all eyes were upon him, he set his plastic cup down on top of a light board, glanced at his watch, and fell back under a curtain of flying shot and blue smoke.
     
     
    “THAT man is such a prick,” Brian said, setting down his pint glass. “I mean, who does that? And to George Wegner, of all people?”
    We were in the Irish pub on King Street, holding something of a wake over a communal plate of nachos.
    “He’s not a prick,” Kate said. “He’s not a prick at all. He’s a vampire.”
    “You think everyone is a vampire,” Brian said. “You think Lionel Richie is a vampire.”
    “Who’s to say he’s not?”
    “And Spandau Ballet.”
    “I did not say that Spandau Ballet were vampires. I said they were zombies. Not the same thing.”
    “You’ve been impossible ever since Mystic Summonings .”
    I fingered a “Guinness for Strength” beer mat. “Ever since what?” I asked.
    “ Mystic Summonings. Or was it Cosmic Beings and Haunted Creatures ?”
    “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
    “Sorry, New Guy. Before your time. We used to do a series called Tales of the Unknown . Surely you’ve heard about it? You must have seen the commercials.” Brian cleared his throat. “A man is about to get on an airplane,” he intoned. “Suddenly he has a strange premonition of disaster. He turns and leaves the boarding area. That same airplane—”
    “No,” Kate interrupted. “Come on, Brian. That’s Library of Strange Happenings . I meant Tales of the Unknown .”
    “Oh, right. Right. Let’s see. On a windswept hillside in Romania, a strange ritual unfolds far from the prying eyes of frightened villagers. Huddled deep within the folds of a billowing cloak, a lone figure mounts a broken stone altar. In his hands he clasps a bejeweled— ”
    “There you go.” Kate swirled the dregs of her wineglass. “Palgrave is a vampire. It all