Read Online Benchley, Peter - Novel 06 by Q Clearance (v2.0) - Free Book Online
Authors: Q Clearance (v2.0)
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Lafayette Park . She checked her watch. Still early. She
had plenty of time to make herself a cup of tea in the employees' locker room
and look up Mr. Pym's Plat du Jour Caterers in the Yellow Pages. She crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and turned right.
As she passed through the tall wrought-iron
gates, she reached down the front of her dress and fished out the plastic card
with her name and picture on it that hung around her neck on a chain of little
steel beads, and she let it fall outside her dress so the guard couldn't
possibly miss it.
Then she walked up the long, ornate staircase
into the Old Executive Office Building that housed the bulk of the White House
staff.
FOUR
Are you gonna answer the phone or what?"
Mrs. Miller shrilled around the comer from her cubicle outside Foster Pym's
office.
Pym sat at his desk and stared at the yellow
light blinking on his telephone.
Peniston, Peniston, Peniston, Peniston . . .
He urged his mind to summon name after name of
client after client. There was no Mrs. Peniston. He turned his mental Rolodex
to creditors, wholesalers and former employees. No Mrs. Peniston. No point in
searching his file of friends, for neither of them was a Peniston. And there
was no file of lovers, for there hadn't been any, unless one counted long-gone
Louise, and that marriage had not been exactly a passion play.
"She's waiting!"
"I can't!" Pym said. "I don't
know who she is."
"Answer the phone. You'll know."
"Why will I know?"
"Because she'll tell you. Trust me. I
know people."
Ha! Pym sneered silently. You don't know
people, Mrs. Miller. You don't know people or typing or bookkeeping or
accounting or common courtesy. You don't know anything but deceit. Had I known
you were Jewish, I never would have hired you.
Foster Pym didn't like Jews. He also didn't
like Catholics, pregnant women, Arabs, cocker spaniels, garlic, Manx cats,
left-handed people, people with dentures, Greeks, black people, lotteries and
Chinese food—all for different reasons involving, variously, childhood
experiences, reading, hearsay, personal contact and slights (real or fancied).
One problem with Jews was that they took too
many holidays—more than banks, public schools and mackerel-snappers. The
calendar, Pym was convinced, had been invented so Jews could take time off.
Pym punched the flashing button and said,
"Hello," and as soon as he heard the first few syllables of "Mr.
Pym, this is Ivy and I'm very sorry to be bothering you at work," he knew
exactly who Mrs. Peniston was and why he hadn't recalled her name: The card
file in his head did not have her listed under "P" for Peniston or
even "I" for Ivy but under "B" for Black Woman Who Works in
the White House Complex. Now that the mnemonic had been triggered, he saw her
face, her background, her address, her phone number, her taste in music and the
current state of their relationship.
What he could not see, and what disquieted
him, was any reason for her to be calling him at his place of business. She
could not have good news to relate, for she could not know what would be good
news to him, at least not news good enough to warrant a phone call to him at
work. On the other hand, the prospect of her having bad news for him—truly bad
news—was so farfetched as to be ludicrous.
Suddenly, Pym felt an adrenaline rush in his
arms and his neck and the pool of his stomach, and he smiled to himself. A
conditioned sensory system had activated somewhere within him, and it was
reacting like a
had plenty of time to make herself a cup of tea in the employees' locker room
and look up Mr. Pym's Plat du Jour Caterers in the Yellow Pages. She crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and turned right.
As she passed through the tall wrought-iron
gates, she reached down the front of her dress and fished out the plastic card
with her name and picture on it that hung around her neck on a chain of little
steel beads, and she let it fall outside her dress so the guard couldn't
possibly miss it.
Then she walked up the long, ornate staircase
into the Old Executive Office Building that housed the bulk of the White House
staff.
FOUR
Are you gonna answer the phone or what?"
Mrs. Miller shrilled around the comer from her cubicle outside Foster Pym's
office.
Pym sat at his desk and stared at the yellow
light blinking on his telephone.
Peniston, Peniston, Peniston, Peniston . . .
He urged his mind to summon name after name of
client after client. There was no Mrs. Peniston. He turned his mental Rolodex
to creditors, wholesalers and former employees. No Mrs. Peniston. No point in
searching his file of friends, for neither of them was a Peniston. And there
was no file of lovers, for there hadn't been any, unless one counted long-gone
Louise, and that marriage had not been exactly a passion play.
"She's waiting!"
"I can't!" Pym said. "I don't
know who she is."
"Answer the phone. You'll know."
"Why will I know?"
"Because she'll tell you. Trust me. I
know people."
Ha! Pym sneered silently. You don't know
people, Mrs. Miller. You don't know people or typing or bookkeeping or
accounting or common courtesy. You don't know anything but deceit. Had I known
you were Jewish, I never would have hired you.
Foster Pym didn't like Jews. He also didn't
like Catholics, pregnant women, Arabs, cocker spaniels, garlic, Manx cats,
left-handed people, people with dentures, Greeks, black people, lotteries and
Chinese food—all for different reasons involving, variously, childhood
experiences, reading, hearsay, personal contact and slights (real or fancied).
One problem with Jews was that they took too
many holidays—more than banks, public schools and mackerel-snappers. The
calendar, Pym was convinced, had been invented so Jews could take time off.
Pym punched the flashing button and said,
"Hello," and as soon as he heard the first few syllables of "Mr.
Pym, this is Ivy and I'm very sorry to be bothering you at work," he knew
exactly who Mrs. Peniston was and why he hadn't recalled her name: The card
file in his head did not have her listed under "P" for Peniston or
even "I" for Ivy but under "B" for Black Woman Who Works in
the White House Complex. Now that the mnemonic had been triggered, he saw her
face, her background, her address, her phone number, her taste in music and the
current state of their relationship.
What he could not see, and what disquieted
him, was any reason for her to be calling him at his place of business. She
could not have good news to relate, for she could not know what would be good
news to him, at least not news good enough to warrant a phone call to him at
work. On the other hand, the prospect of her having bad news for him—truly bad
news—was so farfetched as to be ludicrous.
Suddenly, Pym felt an adrenaline rush in his
arms and his neck and the pool of his stomach, and he smiled to himself. A
conditioned sensory system had activated somewhere within him, and it was
reacting like a
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