But she had come around the desk now and had begun to swing at him, wildly. Hook caught her hands at the wrist and held her there in front of him, like a caught game fish.

“You bastard!” she cried. “You filth! Get out! Out! Out!”

Immediately Hook heard the door to the conference room opening and Douglas came into the office. Seeing Hook, his initial look of puzzlement switched to rueful comprehension. He threw out his hand at Mrs. Rubin, like a symphony conductor pianissimo.

“Shut up, Dorothy. For God’s sake, will you shut up.”

“Get him out of here!”

Hook let go of her and she stumbled back behind the desk and collapsed into her chair.

“You heard the lady,” Douglas said to Hook.

But Hook had sat down again. He was not going anywhere, not empty-handed. “Any place will do,” he said. “You’re the one I’m here to see.”

“Well, I’m afraid I’m in conference. You’ll have to come back some other time.”

Behind him, Parnelli came in now, garish in an electric blue suit. From the desk, Dorothy Rubin spoke through a handkerchief pressed to her face.

“He thinks he knows something. Liz told him.”

Hook watched Parnelli’s eyes drift toward Mrs. Rubin, vague and uncomprehending at first, and then a light came into them and a muscle bunched in his jaw as he turned to Hook, understanding now, knowing. And immediately he performed like the born athlete, the man in whom there was no visible trace of intellection between stimulus and action—in this case an open hand coming at Hook’s chest as abruptly as one of his Angus bulls unexpectedly tossing its head his way. And the blow had that same kind of impact, shocking in its power, yet obviously only a small part of something vastly larger. And as Hook found himself banging back against the wall, in that instant it struck him that this was only part of the force his eighteen-year-old son had had to fight against on the cliff edge, and with that thought Hook let it all out of him, let himself come pushing off the wall like some maniac fighter off the ropes as he swung at the big Italian’s face, and hit, felt it give, break, tear, felt pain run like a hayfork tine through his fist and up his forearm.

Parnelli went down like a man trying to find a movie seat in the dark, feeling behind and beneath him as he backed into the racked shelves of potted cacti and brought them crashing to the floor. Sitting down against the wall, his face grew a luxuriant mustache of blood. Ferguson had come to the door now too and stood staring down at Parnelli as if the man had been blown to bits. Douglas calmly put his hand on Ferguson’s shoulder and motioned for him to return to their clients.

“Get them out of here. Now. I don’t care what you tell them. And have Carol and Joan take an hour off too. Lock up. I don’t want anyone here. Go!”