“Good,” the Bull said, “and last, I have added a final paragraph, thirty-six.” He flipped through the document and then pointed it out to Mawson. This time he read it aloud: “The terms of this agreement shall be effective as of from 1 June 1973.”
“But, Bull,” the colonel protested, “he hasn’t been working all that time.”
“He would have been working, if you had then agreed to the terms agreed to here,” the Bull said.
The colonel hesitated, then said, “Oh, hell, what the hell, Bull, why not?”
“I don’t think Mr. O’Hara is being unreasonable,” the Bull said.
“I’m sorry it got as far as withholding services,” Colonel Mawson said.
“What I suggest we do now is have Mr. O’Hara sign, and initial all the modified sections,” the Bull said. “And then when I get back to the office I’ll have my girl run off a half dozen copies on the Xerox and pop them in the mail to you.”
When Mickey O’Hara scrawled his initials in the margin beside Section II-Compensation, he saw that a line had been drawn through what had originally been typed, SEVEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS AND NO CENTS ($750.00), and that his corrected weekly compensation was to be ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS AND NO CENTS ($1,000.00), said sum to be paid weekly by check payable to Heidenheimer & Boli
nski, P.C., who herewith assume responsibility for the payment of all applicable federal, state, and local income taxes and Social Security contributions.
When he came down from the Theodore Roosevelt Suite, there were two people behind the front desk of the Bellevue-Stratford, neither of them Miss Travis. He was torn between disappointment and relief that somebody had finally shown up to take her place.
He wondered how she would react if he just happened to come by the Bellevue-Stratford and say hello, and maybe ask her if she wanted to go get something to eat, or go to a movie, or something.
Then he realized that was foolish. She had given him the same smile she had given the blue-haired broad who had bitched about her room. Maybe the smile was a little more genuine, but even so that would be because he was at the Bellevue-Stratford to see the Bull, who was staying in one of the more expensive suites.
But maybe not. She had said she was a—what did she say?—an avid reader.
And then Mickey O’Hara pushed through the revolving door and onto South Broad Street, and there she was, coming up the street headed toward City Hall, carrying a paper sack in each arm. He saw paper towels in one of them.
“Hi!” she said.
“I thought you were going to bed.”
“I’m on my way,” she said.
“Can I take you?”
There you go, O’Hara, both fucking feet in your mouth!
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Mickey said. “I mean, I got my car…”
“I’m probably going nowhere near where you are,” she said, after a just perceptible pause.
“Where?”
“Roxborough.”
“Practically on my way,” he said.
“Really?”
“Really.”
It would be on my way if you were going to Mexico City.
“Where’s your car?” she asked.
He pointed to it.
“You’re sure you’re really going that way?” she asked.