Nelson Demille - The Lion's Game

I decided to wash my underwear, go to bed, and never see Kate Mayfield again after this case was concluded.

There was a knock on my door. I looked through the peephole and opened the door.

She stepped inside, and we stood there looking at each other.

I can be really tough in these situations, and I didn't intend to give an inch, or to kiss and make up. I didn't even feel like sex anymore.

However, she was wearing a white terry-cloth hotel robe, which she opened and let fall to the floor, revealing her perfect naked body.

I felt my resolve softening at the same rate Mr. Happy was getting hard.

She said, "I'm sorry to bother you, but my shower doesn't work. Could I use yours?"

"Help yourself."

She went into my bathroom, turned on the shower, and got in.

Well, I mean, what was I supposed to do? I got out of my pants, shorts, and socks, and got into the shower.

For purposes of propriety, in case there was a middle-of-the-night phone call from the FBI, she left my room at 1 A.M.

I didn't sleep particularly well and woke up at five-fifteen, which I guess was eight-fifteen on my body clock.

I went into the bathroom and saw that my undershorts were hanging on the retractable clothesline above the bathtub. They were clean, still damp, and someone had planted a lipstick kiss in a strategic spot.

I shaved, showered again, brushed my teeth and all that, then went out to the balcony and stood there naked in the breeze, looking at the dark ocean. The moon had set and the sky was full of stars. It doesn't get much better than this, I decided.

I stood there a long time because it felt good.

I heard the sliding glass door on the other side of the concrete partition open. I called out, "Good morning."

I heard her reply, "Good morning."

The partition jutted out beyond the balconies, so I couldn't peek around. I asked her, "Are you naked?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"Of course. This feels great."

"Meet me for breakfast in half an hour."

"Okay. Hey, thanks for washing my shorts."

"Don't get used to it."

We were talking sort of loud, and I had the feeling other guests were listening. I think she had the same thought because she said, "What did you say your name was?"

"John."

"Right. You're a good lay, John."

"Thanks. You, too."

So, there we were, two mature Federal agents, standing naked on hotel balconies with a partition between us, acting silly, the way new lovers act.

She called out, "Are you married?"

"No. How about you?"

"No."

So, what was my next line? Two simultaneous thoughts ran through my head. One, that I was being manipulated by a pro. Two, I loved it. Realizing that this moment and this setting was going to be remembered forever, I took a deep breath and asked, "Will you marry me?"

There was a long silence.

Finally, a woman's voice, not Kate's, called out from overhead, "Answer him!"

Kate called out, "Okay. I'll marry you."

Two people somewhere applauded. This was really dopey. I think I was actually embarrassed, which barely masked my sense of panic. What had I done?

I heard her sliding door close, so I couldn't qualify my proposal.

I went into my room, got dressed sans body armor, and went downstairs to the breakfast room where I got coffee and a copy of the New York Times, hot off the press.

There was continuing coverage of the Flight 175 tragedy, but it seemed like a rehash of events with a few new quotes from Federal, state, and local officials.

There was a small paragraph about Mr. Leibowitz's murder in Frankfurt and an obituary. He lived in Manhattan and had a wife and two children. It struck me again how random life could be. The guy goes to Frankfurt for business and gets clipped because some people need a red herring to make it look like a guy in America on a secret mission is back in Europe. Whack. Just like that, without regard to the victim's wife, kids, or anything. These people sucked.

There was also a little rehash of the double-murder of James McCoy and William Satherwaite at the Cradle of Aviation Museum. A Nassau Homicide detective was quoted as saying, "We're not ruling out the possibility that the motive for these murders may not have been robbery." Despite the tortured syntax, I could see that little Alan Parker was spooning out a third today, a third tomorrow, and the rest by the weekend.

Speaking of tortured syntax, I turned to Janet Maslin's movie review column. Some days I do the Times crossword puzzle, other days I try to understand what Ms. Maslin is trying to say. I can't do both on the same day without getting a headache.

Ms. Maslin was reviewing a box office smash, an action adventure Mideast terrorist flick of all things, which I think she didn't like, but as I say, it's hard to follow her prose, or her reasoning. The movie was lowbrow, of course, and Ms. Maslin may think of herself as highbrow, but somebody from the Times had to go see this thing and tell everyone who loved it why it sucked. I made a mental note to see the movie.

Kate arrived and I stood and we pecked. We sat and looked at the menus, and I thought perhaps she'd forgotten the silly incident on the balconies. But then she put down her menu and asked, "When?"

"June?"

"Okay."

The waitress came by, and we both ordered pancakes.

I really wanted to read the Times, but I instinctively knew that my breakfast newspaper was a thing of the past.

We chatted briefly about the plans for the day, the case, the people we'd met at Chip Wiggins' house, and who I was going to be introduced to by Kate later in L.A.

The pancakes came and we ate. Kate said, "You'll like my father."

"I'm sure I will."

"He's about your age, maybe a little older."

"Well, that's good." I remembered a line from an old movie and said, "He raised a swell daughter."

"He did. My sister."

I chuckled.

She said, "You'll like my mother, too."

"Are you and she alike?"

"No. She's nice."

I chuckled again.

She said, "Is it all right if we get married in Minnesota? I have a big family."

"Great. Minnesota. Is that a city or a state?"

"I'm a Methodist. How about you?"

"Any kind of birth control is fine."

"My religion. Methodist."

"Oh… my mother's Catholic. My father's… some kind of Protestant. He never-"

"Then we can raise the children in a Protestant denomination."

"You have kids?"

"This is important, John. Pay attention."

"I am. I'm trying to… you know, shift gears."

She stopped eating and looked at me. "Are you totally panicked?"

"No, of course not."

"You look panicky."

"Just a little stomach acid. Comes with age."

"This is going to be all right. We are going to live happily ever after."

"Good. But you know, we haven't known each other that long-"

"We will by June," she said.

"Right. Good point."

"Do you love me?"

"Actually, I do, but love-"

"What if I got up and walked out of here? How would you feel? Relieved?"

"No. I'd feel awful."

"So? Why are you fighting how you feel?"

"Are we about to go into analysis again?"

"No. I'm just telling you like it is. I'm madly in love with you. I want to marry you. I want to have children with you. What else do you want me to say?"

"Say… I love New York in June."

"I hate New York. But for you, I'll live anywhere."

" New Jersey?"

"Don't push it."

Time for full disclosure, so I said, "Look, Kate, you should know that I'm a male chauvinist pig, a misogynist, and I tell sexist jokes."

"Your point is…?"

I saw I wasn't getting anywhere with this line of reasoning, so I said, "Also, I have a bad attitude toward authority, and I'm always on the verge of career problems, and I'm broke, and I'm bad at handling money."