"Yes, that's right," said the voice.

"My name is Bonepart, from Hoops magazine. I interviewed you the other day, remember?"

"Oh sure, Mr. Bonepart, sure I do." There was a sudden enthusiasm in the voice. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to talk to you, Willy."

"Say, anything I can do to help the press, you name it."

"You won't be helping the press, you'll be helping yourself, kid. I want to see you first thing tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow?"

"That's what I said, and I want to see Devereaux, too."

"Dion?"

"He's your roommate, isn't he? Is he there?"

"Well… uh, yeah."

"I want to see the two of you, together. I'm staying at the Hunters' Lodge out on the Parkland Extension. You know the place?"

"Yes sir, but…"

"No buts, Willy. I want to see you and Dion at eight in the morning, sharp. I'm in room number twelve. You got that?"

"Mr. Bonepart, you're going a little too fast for me here." Now there was a nervous edge to his voice. "Could you tell me what this is all about?"

"It's about your future, and it's about money. How does that sound?"

"Look, I'm not sure that I can…"

"You can. You don't have a choice. Either I talk to you and Dion, or I talk to your coach, and I think you know what I'll be talking about. Now, how do you want to play it?"

There was a long pause. "Just a minute." There was a longer pause, and Vince heard muffled voices. Willy came back. "You said eight o'clock?"

"That's right."

"We'll be there."

His head still throbbed, but the ice had helped. He went looking for

Ida, and found her in the dining room. It was a pleasant, quiet room with candles in sconces on oak-paneled walls, and a bluestone hearth that burned logs the size of an elephant's ankle. The linen was crisp, and the crystal on the tables twinkled. Ida had taken a table next to a window that looked out onto a moonlit snowfield. More snow fell, dancing down the window. Ida waved as he came into the room. In an angora sweater and a pleated skirt she looked younger than he could remember her being, younger than she could have been when he first had known her. As he took his seat, she asked the question with her eyes, and he answered, "Eight in the morning, both of them."

"How did they sound?"

"I only spoke to Holmes. He sounded edgy, but he'll show. They both will."

"I ordered you a drink. Wild Turkey, one rock, right?"

"Right." He smiled because she had remembered.

She read his smile accurately. "Don't flatter yourself. I remembered because Lewis takes it the same way."

"He got it from me. He never drank before he met me."

"I've ordered dinner."

"Steak?"

"Actually, I ordered venison for both of us."

"I said that I wanted a steak."

"I know, but the waiter talked me into the venison. He said he shot the deer himself. He was very persuasive. I just couldn't say no to him."

"That has to make him the luckiest waiter in the state of New Hampshire."

It wasn't very funny, but she laughed. Vince laughed, too, and it was at that moment, while both of them were laughing, that what they were doing turned into a comedy for him. Like a bad movie, he could no longer take the assignment seriously. It was a joke. He didn't give a damn who won some stupid ballgame. He didn't give a damn if Holmes and Devereaux were greedy little bastards who were screwing up their lives. He didn't give a damn that Giardelli got waxed; the world was better off without him. All he cared about was the moment, sitting in a romantic spot with a lovely woman he once had adored, and still admired. The rest of it was a farce, and he couldn't help laughing at it. He realized that Ida was looking at him strangely, and he heard the echo of his laughter in his ears. He had not stopped laughing. He was still laughing loud and hard. He stopped.

Watch it, he warned himself. Get a grip.

Ida asked, "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Just fine."

"How hard was that hit on the head?"

"I can still feel it, but I'm all right." The throbbing was worse. "What did Lewis say when you told him you were coming with me?"

"He said to take good care of the money."

"That's all?"

"If you mean what I think you mean, Lewis and I have the best of all possible marriages. We trust each other. I understand his needs, and he understands mine."

"An open marriage?"

"A free marriage."

"Permissive?"

"Understanding."

"No jealousy on either side?"

"Definitely not."

"Sounds ideal."

"It is."

He leaned across the table, and took her hand. "The other night you said that you used to be in love with me a little."

"A little, yes."

"I felt the same way, but I never said it."

"Just as well."

"There was Lewis."

"Yes."

"And now? How do you feel now?"

She shrugged, but she was smiling. "Some things don't change."

"Then what are we waiting for?"

"The venison, of course."

The venison came, and they agreed that it was delicious, but they did not eat much of it. They did not eat much of anything, and they barely touched the wine. They fiddled with their food with their eyes locked on each other, and finally, when they could rightfully say that dinner was over, they went up to Vince's room and made love.

It was a long time coming, years delayed, and everything about it seemed right. Their moves and their responses meshed. They rode the wave together, crested together, gasped and cried out together, and made the slow and lazy tumble home together, happily spent. It was their first time together, but they made love with a practiced ease. Everything about it seemed right, the machinery functioned, but in truth there was nothing special about it. There was an aspect of romance that might have made it special, the love that never made it years before now given a second chance, but it didn't work out that way. It was nothing more than a romp in the hay, and when it was done they both knew it. It was nothing special. It wasn't even sad.

They both fell at once into sleep, drained as much by the day as by their lovemaking, and hours later when Vince awoke it was to the sound of a scratching at the door. He woke with a bubble of laughter in this throat. He throttled it, and it never got past his lips, but it was a strange way to come up out of sleep. The room was dark, and the luminous dial of the clock said that it was just past four in the morning. He felt the warmth of Ida asleep beside him, tucked into the small of his back, and he heard her steady breathing. He felt the bubble in his throat again, the urge to laugh that, again, he had to control. It was all so funny, all of it now, not just the job. Now it was this business with Ida that seemed absurd, the candlelight dinner and the crackling fire, the passion rekindled after so many years, the rush to bed, the tumble and toss. And now the scratching at the door.

He heard it again. It was a tiny sound, like a cat in the night, but that was what had wakened him. It was the light and tentative sound that one made at four in the morning instead of a knock.

Another bad movie, he thought, and again restrained the urge to laugh. A French farce, that's what this is turning into. No, for a true French farce we'd have to have Lewis, the outraged husband, come crashing through the door.

The door swung open. The light went on. Lewis stood there staring. "You son of a bitch," he said. "I figured it was something like this."

Vince sat up in bed. "Lewis." Stuck for words, he said the first thing that came into his head. "I was just thinking about you."

Lewis snarled, "I'll bet you were."

The next thing that came into his head. "How did you get here?"

"How do you think? Drove all night through the snow while you were keeping warm with my wife."