More Twisted

exclusive country club on Long Island next weekend. Monroe had contempt for golf and particular contempt for North Shore country clubs. But he liked the idea of taking Hank Shapiro golfing on Foxworth’s tab. He dismissed the idea as too risky though the thought amused him for much of the afternoon.
    At seven o’clock—nearly time to leave to meet Shapiro—he suddenly remembered Cathy. He called home. No answer. Then he dialed the school where she’d been volunteering recently and found that she hadn’t come in today. He called home once more. Still she didn’t pick up.
    He was troubled for a moment. Not that he was worried about the South Shore Killer; he just felt instinctively uneasy when his wife wasn’t home—afraid that she might find him with Carmen, or whoever. He was alsoreluctant for her to find out about his deal with Shapiro. The more money she knew he made the more she’d want. He called once more and got their machine.
    But then it was time to leave for dinner and, since Foxworth had left for the night, Monroe ordered a limo and put the expense down to general office charges. He cruised downtown, sipping wine, and had a good dinner with Hank Shapiro. At eleven p.m. he dropped Shapiro off at Penn Station then took the limo to Grand Central. He caught the 11:30 to Greenwich, made it to his car without being stabbed by any knife-wielding crazy men and drove home to peace and quiet. Cathy’d had two martinis and was fast asleep. Monroe watched a little TV, fell asleep on the couch and slept late the next morning; he made the 8:11 with thirty seconds to spare.

    At nine-thirty, Charlie Monroe strode into the office, thinking: Monday’s over with, it’s a new day. Let’s get life moving again. He decided to spend the morning getting into the new computer system and printing out prospective client lists for Shapiro. Then he’d have a romantic lunch with Carmen. He’d also give Jill a call and charm her into drinks tonight.
    Monroe’d just stepped into his office when Todd Foxworth, even more cheerful than yesterday, waved to him and asked him if they could have a chat. An ironic thought occurred to Monroe—that Foxworth had changed his mind and was going to give him a good raise after all. Would he still sell the confidential info? This was a dilemma. But he decided, hell, yes, he would. It’d make up for last year’s insulting five percent raise.
    Monroe sat down in Foxworth’s cluttered office.
    It was a joke in the agency that Foxworth didn’t exactly carry on a coherent conversation. He’d ramble, he’d digress, he’d even make up words. Clients found it charming. Monroe had no patience for the man’s scattered persona. But today he was in a generous mood and smiled politely as the rumpled old man chattered like a jay.
    “Charlie, a couple things. I’m afraid something’s come up and that invite for golf this weekend? I know you’d probably like to hit some balls, were looking forward to it, but I’m afraid I’ve got to renege on the offer. Sorry, sorry.”
    “That’s okay. I—”
    “Good club, Hunter’s is. You ever play there? No? They don’t have a pool, no tennis courts. You go there to play golf. Period. End of story. You don’t play golf, it’s a waste of time. Of course there’s that dogleg on the seventeenth . . . nasty, nasty, nasty. Never near par. Impossible. How long you been playing?”
    “Since college. I really appreciate—”
    “Here’s the other thing, Charlie. Patty Kline and Sam Eggleston, from our legal department, you know ’em, they were at Chez Antibes last night. Having dinner. Worked late and went to dinner.”
    Monroe froze.
    “Now I’ve never been there but I hear it’s funny the way the place’s designed. They have these dividers, sort of like those screens in Japanese restaurants, only not Japanese of course because it’s a French restaurant but they look sort of Japanese. Anyhoo, to make a long story short they heard every word you and Hank Shapiro said.So. There you have it. Security’s cleaning out your desk right now and there’re a couple guards on their way here to escort you off the property and you better get yourself a good lawyer because theft of trade secrets—Patty and Sam tell me this; what do I know? I’m just a lowly wordsmith—is pretty damn serious. So. Guess I won’t say good luck to you, Charlie. But I will say get the hell out of my agency. Oh, and by the way, I’m going to do everything I can to