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“I told you: She has a hole in her schedule, which you’re going to fill by either doing magic tricks—pulling a rabbit out of a hat, for example—or delivering some sort of educational lecture.”
“Why should I do that? I don’t live there.”
“Because you’re interested in the welfare and morale of the senior citizens, and also because if you don’t, Louise will booby-trap your new electric automatic flushing toilet. She was very good at that sort of thing in her prime.”
“As a matter of fact, there is something I could talk to the old folks about, but you’d have to help me.”
“Help you how?” Delchamps inquired dubiously.
“Move charts onto the easel, that sort of thing.”
“What the hell, Two-Gun, why not?”
Edgar Delchamps was arranging charts and diagrams on the easel and David W. Yung, Junior, Esquire, was standing at his lectern preparing to deliver this month’s lecture, “How to Turn the Gaping Gaps in the IRS Code to Your Advantage,” to the ladies and gentlemen residing in Lorimer Manor when Miss Louise Chambers got quickly out of her La-Z-Boy recliner, walked to his lectern, and whispered in his ear.
“David, dear,” the elegantly attired septuagenarian said, “I think you and Edgar should see to your journalist friend. It appears to me that something has him scared shitless.”
Two-Gun looked at the door to the recreation room, saw Roscoe J. Danton’s face, and immediately agreed with Miss Chambers’s analysis of the situation.
“You’ll have to excuse me a moment,” he announced to his audience, and started toward the door. Miss Chambers and Mr. Delchamps followed him.
“What’s up, Roscoe?” Two-Gun asked.
“You two bastards got me into this mess,” Roscoe replied. “And you sonsofbitches are going to have to get me out of it!” He heard what he had said, and added, “Please excuse the language, ma’am.”
“Hell, a man who doesn’t swear is like a soldier who won’t… you know what,” Louise said. “And you know what Patton said about soldiers who won’t you know what.”
“Tell us exactly what’s bothering you,” Delchamps said.
“I was kidnapped,” Roscoe announced.
“Who kidnapped you, dear?” Louise asked.
“The Secret Service,” Roscoe announced.
“But you got away, obviously,” Louise said. “Good for you!”
“Why did the Secret Service kidnap you?” Two-Gun asked.
“The President told them to.”
“Cutting to the chase, Roscoe,” Delchamps said, “why did the President tell the Secret Service to kidnap you?”
Roscoe told them.
“Frankly, Roscoe,” Delchamps said, “I don’t see that as much of a problem.”
“Actually, I would suggest that it offers a number of interesting opportunities, scenario-wise,” Louise said.
“That’s because the President is not sending you two to Mogadishu,” Roscoe said. “With the choice between lying to the President or having Castillo kill me for telling the truth.”
“Well, I’ll admit that Mogadishu isn’t Paris,” Louise said, “but the current scenario sees Charley going to Budapest before he goes to Mogadishu. I’ve always loved Budapest.”
“Roscoe, you know that Charley’s not going to kill you unless he has a good reason,” Delchamps said. “But since you’re concerned, what we’ll do is see what our so-far-unindicted co-conspirators have to say.”
He took his CaseyBerry from his pocket and punched the buttons that set up a conference call between the secretary of State, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency, and himself. He also activated the speakerphone function.
When green LEDs indicated the circuit was complete, he said, “Langley, Foggy Bottom, this is Mission Control. We may have a little problem.”
