“Mr. Wojciechowski is seeing to some urgent business in Nevada,” Paul explained. Good boy. Keep the famous Mr. W. shrouded in mystery. Clients loved that.

“I understand.” Gard took a drink, then seemed as if a light bulb had gone off in his thick blonde skull. “How did you…"

Paul finished the sentence. “Know you? Come, now. I assume you're going to pay me a lot of money to predict what's coming next."

Damn. Mr. Mofo Disco Detective.

Gard seemed impressed, too. “Care for a drink?"

“In a moment,” Paul said. “First, I'd like to know why you are down here, in this bar, instead of upstairs in the room number you supplied my associate. Seems like you're up to more than sneaking a peek at the hired help."

“I admit, that was part of it. But there's also bit of preface to your job. The clerk at the front desk was supposed to send you over."

“What preface?” Paul asked.

“Before you meet Susie, I wanted to make this perfectly clear: no matter what I say upstairs, no matter how aloof I may seem, your loyalties will remain with me completely. You will run every single decision by me. You will not move a finger without my knowing about it. Everything begins and ends with me."

Paul nodded. Seemed fair to me, too. Gard was footing the bill.

“Upstairs, you are going to meet a woman who is my mistress. I demand complete discretion as well as respect in this regard. She is going to ask for your assistance. You are going to give it. You are also going to give her the impression you are working for her, not me."

Paul smirked. “I am to win her confidence. And, of course, I am to report everything to you."

“You're quick,” Gard said.

And you're a sweaty goofball.

Paul glanced at himself in the mirror, as if he could hear me. Could he?

“Now how about that drink, eh?” Gard asked. “Take a few minutes, then come upstairs as planned. I'll introduce you and you can begin your assignment.” He placed a hand on Paul's back. An uncomfortable jolt went through both of us. “Henry! Give this man whatever he likes.” A pug-nosed, white-haired man in a bow tie raised his head.

“A Shirley Temple, please” Paul said.

“A hard-boiled man like yourself?” Gard laughed.

Paul didn't answer the question. He told Henry not to forget the cherry. Gard shook his head.

“Oh, by the way.” Gard fished a check out of his suit pocket and placed it on the bar. “For today's meeting. I'll mail a check for double that every week, as agreed."

Paul didn't look at the check. I wanted him to, but I couldn't exactly force his eyes down to the bar top. “Thanks."

Richard was left holding the conversational bag, so he decided to leave.

There was a lot to learn from Paul.

I tuned out while Paul was enjoying his Shirley Temple and wandered back to my office. I could have ported myself there, but that kind of thing became disorienting after a while. The more the Brain Hotel seemed like real life, the better.

I poured myself a glass of Brain Chivas Regal and read through a notebook of some Association notes from last year. The notes were perfect; exactly as I'd recorded them months ago. But the Chivas was only as good as I remembered it.

After a while, the notes all seemed to blur together. A lot of numbers, a lot of places, a lot of words and letters. It started to bore me.

I made my way back down to the Hotel lobby in time for Paul to meet Gard's mistress up on the screen. It was not unlike watching a movie, especially when our new client entered the scene.

“Susannah Winston, Paul After."

There was a pause. A long, awkward pause. Hell, I was getting ready to say something when Susannah finally broke in.

“After what, Paul?” she asked, smiling.

“Charmed to meet you, Ms. Winston."

I noticed Paul's hand lingering on Susannah's. Mine would have too, believe me. I tossed back another gulp of Brain Chivas and took a closer look.

Susannah Winston had chestnut hair, fashionably bobbed to a sharp point on both sides of her prettily squared jaw. Her nose was slightly upturned, as if to clear way for her lips-full and dark red. A man in his twenties would consider her the antidote to marriage: one single, sensuous reason to stay single forever. And a man in his thirties or forties would think of her as a luscious packet of instant infidelity. Richard Gard looked to be pushing forty.

Susannah was much, much younger. Large round blue eyes and a mouth that curled upward like a smile, even when she wasn't reacting to anything. Even doing something as mundane as lighting a cigarette. I could detail the physical attributes below her neck, but it would be redundant. I could see the death-drop curves beneath those polyester slacks as clearly as if she was wearing a bikini.

“What can I do for you?” Paul asked.

“I used to date the wrong kind of boy, and now one them wants to murder me,” she said, then wrapped her lips around her cigarette.

Richard looked away, as if he didn't hear. Instead, he asked, “Anybody up for a drink?"

Susannah looked at Paul. “I'll bet you're a gin-and-tonic man, aren't you?"

“Just tonic,” Paul said. “No ice."

Good boy. I'd warned him about boozing it up on the job in the real world.

Susannah waited until Richard had returned with the drinks-plain tonic for Paul, two gin-and-tonics for Richard and Susannah. Apparently, these people were big on gin. Me? I couldn't stand the stuff-always gave me a wicked hangover the next day. Then again, this was probably because I only used to drink the cheap stuff.

The three made their way to the living room and sat down-Paul in a plush loveseat, Susannah and Richard on a long, spare couch without any extra pillows.

“I haven't even told Richard the entire story, to be honest,” Susannah said. “I wanted both of you to hear everything. I'm sure it hurts him as much as it hurts me."

Richard heard that, all right. He glanced at Susannah, gave her a warm, large smile, then looked back down at his drink.

“I'm from a small, yet substantially wealthy family from the suburbs of Boston,” she said. “My father made his fortune after World War II, when he invented a military tracking device that, to this day, is considered state of the art."

She let that sink in and continued, “I grew up in splendor, was sent to private academies. Smith College, eventually, where I majored in Victorian literature. A colossal waste of time. All of it. And I don't say that lightly. All I wanted was a real education-one that would teach me the way the world really worked. That's what I needed. Not emerald-studded bracelets and pretty pink dresses.

“I received that education soon enough. The year after I graduated Smith, I spent a week in New York City with some of my classmates-courtesy of my father, of course. We stayed at the Royalton, had our pick of restaurants and Broadway shows, four-star everything. It was a perfectly miserable trip."

“Yeah, I hear The Wiz is a real nightmare,” Paul said.

Richard's eyes narrowed. “Now look here…"

“No, it's all right,” Susannah said. “I guess it does sound like a pathetic sob story. Poor little rich girl doesn't get her way. But you haven't heard the part that makes me cry, Mr. After. At least allow me that."

Paul nodded deferentially.

“One night, my girlfriends and I decided to see the seamy parts of town, the kind we'd certainly never see at Smith. We took a cab down to the East Village and walked into a jazz club. I met a boy there-his name was Chris. He was skinny, his clothes were ten years out of style and his fingernails were dirty, but I let him buy me a drink. To be honest, it was exciting."

“And sure to anger your parents,” Paul said.