The Sphinx Read Free

his drink. He tipped the man a
dollar, and then said unsteadily, “Lorie, I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve never
met a family that celebrates death before.”
    She turned
away. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I know it shocks some people. We just
feel that when a man’s life is over, he has finished his work, and that in
itself is cause for pleasure.”
    “Well, I’ll be
damned,” he said, and sipped his ice-cold drink.
    Lorie turned.
“I have to leave now.”
    “Already?
You’ve only been here a few minutes. This bash is going to go on till three.
You wait till Mrs. Marowsky starts her stripping act. Once you’ve seen that,
anything you ever thought about morality is going to go right out of the
window.”
    “Don’t mock me,
Gene,” Lorie said.
    “Honey, I’m not
mocking you. I just don’t want you logo.”
    “I know. I’m
sorry. But I have to.”
    Quietly,
impossibly, as if he had been materialized by Star Trek tele-transportation
beam, a tall, swarthy man in a black chauffeur’s uniform appeared at Lorie’s
side. He had a black beard, trimmed with obsessive neatness, and he wore Slack
leather gloves. He said nothing, but stood just behind her, his hard expression
giving Gene no doubts at all that it was going-home time, friends, and anyone
who thought otherwise could lump it. He could have been an Arab, or a Turk, but
whatever he was he was silent and hard and protective, and Lorifc Semple
retreated into his protectiveness at once.
    “Goodbye, Mr.
Keiller. It’s been good to meet you.”
    “Lorie...”
    “Really, I have
to go now. Mother will be expecting me.”
    “Well, let me
drive you home. That’s the least I can do.”
    “It’s quite all
right. This is my chauffeur. Please don’t bother.”
    “Lorie, I
insist. I’m a hot-shot politician at the Department of State, and I absolutely
insist.”
    Lorie bit her
lip. She turned to the hard-faced chauffeur standing beside her and said,
“Could I?”
    There was a
long silence. Gene was aware that Senator Hasbaum and several other friends of
his were watching, but he was too busy with this extraordinary relationship
between Lorie and her silent chauffeur to worry about them. He looked evenly
and confidently at the chauffeur, and in his turn, the chauffeur scrutinized him.
    Finally, the
chauffeur nodded. It was an auction-bidder’s nod, almost imperceptible if you
weren’t watching for it. Lorie smiled, and said, “Thank you, Gene. I’d love
to,”
    “That’s the
first sensible thing you’ve said all evening.” Gene said. “Just give me a
minute to say goodbye to the Secretary.”
    Lorie nodded.
“All right. I’ll see you outside.”
    Gene winked at
Senator Hasbaum as he pushed his way through the cocktail guests to find Henry
Ness. As usual, the young and dynamic Secretary of State was surrounded by a
crowd of women, burbling like doves in a dovecot over every platitude that fell
from his lips. His new fiancée, Reta Caldwell, was clinging on to his arm in a
ruby-red evening dress that made her bulge out in all the wrong places, and it
would have taken bolt-cutters to get her away.
    “Henry,” called
Gene. “Hey, Henry!”
    Henry Ness
turned around, his smooth Clark Kent face fixed in the confident smile that
experienced politicians automatically stick on their faces when anybody says
“Hey!” It could, after all, be a photographer, and after Nixon’s notorious
scowls there was a kind of frenetic nervousness in the Democratic camp that
everyone should always look joyful.
    “Gene, how are
you?” said Ness. He reached over the head of a diminutive woman and shook
hands. “I hear good reports of your Mexican file.”
    “Well, it’s
shaping up fine,” said Gene. “But I guess you’re shaping up better.
Congratulations on your engagement, Henry. You too, Reta. You’re looking
swell.”
    Reta glared at
him. He had known her before, years ago, when he was a young and inexperienced
campaigner on the State assembly circuit,