Read Online The Merchants of Zion by William Stamp - Free Book Online

week he had a meeting in Midtown with some military operative. The foundation was a bust; their largest donor had been indicted.
    “That's heavy. Any idea what for?”
    “Tax fraud. But really it's because of several articles he wrote last year criticizing the military for buying up all the best scientists and mathematicians and classifying their work. The opportunity cost to both pure and commercial research is enormous.” He said all of this as if he were talking about the weather, or what he'd had for dinner last night.
    “And now they've bought you out.”
    “Not yet. But it would appear his critique has some validity.”
    I balanced the omelettes, coffee, English muffins, and a jar of strawberry jam on a tin tray I'd stolen from a Hudson dining hall when I was a sophomore. Before I left I added two glasses of orange juice from a carton James had bought as a mixer. Feeling like a proper host, I went to meet the young woman for the first time, again. I wished I'd put on a different shirt. As long as she'd been as tanked as me though, it would be manageable. If she hadn't... well, we could cross one bridge at a time.
    When I opened the door to my room the blanket ruffled a little too quickly as she pretended to be asleep. She'd covered herself past the neck, hiding her tattoo.
    “You up?” I set the tray on the nightstand. She peeked over her shoulder as if she'd just awoken. “I made some breakfast.” I blushed. These situations were awkward for all parties involved.
    She sat up, the blanket wrapped around her body. I had lucked out last night—she was stunning. Her face was clean and smooth, with high cheekbones and a graceful nose adorned with a small diamond stud. She looked, I thought, like a French ballerina; I could imagine her dancing against a backdrop of snowy pine trees with branches sagging from the weight of ice. If she had one flaw it was that she erred on the youthful side, and looked like she was still in college. Or high school.
    “Look, I'm not very good at this,” I said, rubbing my hands together nervously. “So I'll be honest. I'm afraid I don't remember much.” Her face was impassive and wary. She was trying to decide whether I was hustling her or merely being friendly. I stuck my hand out and forced my biggest, cheesiest smile.
    She pinned the blanket across her chest with one hand and extended the other. The blanket fell half-way, exposing her side. She didn't reach to fix it, and I focused on her eyes (they were dark blue, almost indigo). “I'm Mary,” she said, taking my hand.
    “And I'm Cliff. Pleased to meet you. I live here.” When I let go her hand fell across her lap. “Now the way I see it, we have two options. First I'll go outside so you can get dressed. If you want, I can call a car to come get you. Or, and I would prefer this, we can get to know each other over breakfast and a cup of coffee.”
    “I'll think it over.”
    “Just knock when you're done.” I said, and left the room.
    After a few minutes she opened the door, holding an English muffin slathered with strawberry jam. She had on a black-and-white striped shirt and tight jeans with washed out thighs.
    “I've decided I'm starving.”
    We ate on my bed with the tray between us. The chit-chat started slow—mostly me telling her how cool I was—but by the time she'd finished her first muffin and slurped down the coffee she'd brightened up. She was in school—college, she clarified—and was working as a receptionist for an advertising office in Manhattan. I asked how she liked it. She liked it OK. When she went for a second muffin she spilled a dollop of strawberry jam on the blanket. She looked at me, horrified.
    “I'm so sorry. Here, let me clean it up.” She looked around for a cloth, a towel—. I'd forgotten to bring up any napkins. We had a pile of them, accumulated over the years from delivery and takeout. They were worse than useless though, slippery as plastic and more likely to spread your mess