Straight Man

she could chat with your daughter awhile?” Herbert suggests.
    “They could have a pajama party,” Rourke offers.
    “Actually, Julie isn’t feeling so hot,” I tell them.
    Occam is waiting impatiently at the kitchen door, beside himself with delight at the prospect of company. If I could be sure it would be Rourke he’d groin, I’d let him go, but I’m not sure, so I grab his collar until we’re all inside and let him out to do laps. Then I let the second Mrs. R. in before Occam can charge up the steps and groin her. Sheimmediately settles onto the couch, puts her feet up on the coffee table, and locates the TV remote. “You’re right,” she says without looking at me, settling in. “It
is
nicer over here.”
    I direct Herbert and Paul Rourke to the room I use as a study, close the door behind us, and clear off a couple surfaces so they’ll have a place to sit.
    “Marriage,” Rourke remarks, probably in reference to the second Mrs. R.’s comment, “is essentially a ball-busting experience.”
    “You only say that because my wife isn’t around to hear you,” I tell him.
    “You think that’s it?” he wants to know.
    “You’re tough,” I tell him. “But you aren’t
that
tough.”
    Herbert, I can tell, has had enough banter. “Hank,” he says, “you’re a pretty sharp fella, so my guess is you’ve figured out we’ve got a major shit storm brewing.…”
    He pauses, perhaps to let this sink in, perhaps to see if I’ll betray a reaction. I’m not sure what William of Occam would make of this prologue. There’s the obvious attempt to flatter, of course. Herbert’s willing to concede I’m “sharp,” or at least “pretty sharp,” on his own scale of dullness. He also knows that my intellectual acuity is hardly the issue, since stupid people are fully capable of listening to rumors.
    “I
have
been hearing there’s a storm on the way,” I admit, intrigued and amused by the fact that both Dickie Pope and the union he’s trying to bust have apparently arrived, independently, at the same metaphor. “You’re the first to identify the type of precipitation.”
    Rourke surrenders another of his nasty smirks at this. Having gone on record as saying that I’m never funny, he can’t allow himself the luxury of a real smile.
    Herbert is also serious, though he hasn’t, to my knowledge, weighed in on the subject of whether or not I’m amusing. “What I hope you realize is that this is not a local phenomenon. These aren’t isolated showers we’re looking at here. It’s gonna rain like a son of a bitch, Hank. Forty days and forty nights. That sort of thing.”
    “You sound like a man that has half ownership of an ark, Herbert,” I say.
    “I wish to hell I did, Hank. I do wish it. Before this is over, a lot of people are going to wish they had one. You too, maybe.”
    Rourke is looking out the window like a man who’s already found the high ground and has only an academic interest in those below.
    “I’m not here to pressure you, Hank,” Herbert continues. “It’s true I’ve got a favor to ask you, but it’s a small one, and I think you’ll agree it’s reasonable.”
    He pauses again here, and if I didn’t know better I’d swear he wants me to agree that the favor is reasonable before I’ve heard what it is.
    “We know you’ve had your meeting with Dickie,” Herbert continues significantly.
    “Next you’ll be telling me the room was bugged.”
    Herbert looks genuinely pained by this remark. “We don’t have to bug anything, Hank. The bastards are advertising what’s going on in these meetings. They’re letting on that it’s all hush-hush, but the thing is, they don’t care. That’s the scary part. They’re that confident. They’re watching us scurry around like bugs. Getting a big kick out of it.”
    “That’s a mighty paranoid view,” I say.
    Rourke gets to his feet. “Herbert,” he says. “I told you before. You’re wasting your time. This guy’s a rogue. He doesn’t give a shit. You’re asking him to take something seriously, and it’s not in him. If he does anything, he’ll write the whole thing up as a satire for the Sunday edition. Guess who’ll play the part of the fool.”
    “I’m trying to convince him it’s his ass too,” Herbert says.
    “Don’t bother,” Rourke says. “When you’re gone and I’m gone and Dickie Pope is gone, Hank Devereaux will be the last one left on the payroll. He isn’t called Lucky Hank for