By the end of the afternoon they were cronies, or so Warlock thought on the way home, neglecting his father’s admonition against trust. He anyway found his father’s language and attitudes more than a little embarrassing for the same reason he found Kojak to be a bore and a dingo. It was the tough guy charade, the bartender and cab driver nonsense of having all the angles covered. He knew he could trust his father, Diana and Rabun. He patted his sport coat pocket where an envelope held four thousand dollars, a month’s pay in advance plus expense money. Unfortunately the money caused a niggling fear: Rabun had demanded a promise that Warlock wouldn’t file on the money; even the IRS shouldn’t know what they were up to. He had always paid every iota he owed the IRS, more out of patriotism than fear. In the ensuing conversation Rabun had been excessively cynical.

“This is upsetting. I’ve always paid my taxes.”

“I’m audited quarterly. It’s impossible. Don’t be a moron. Nothing can be traced.”

“It always seemed to me that an essential part of the social contract was that everyone kicked in his fair share,” Warlock had replied.

“A charming notion. Perhaps we can get you a suit tailored out of the flag, or a job as a boy scout leader.”

“I was an Eagle by sixteen.” Warlock’s mind wandered back to the ceremony.

“No doubt. My taxes already cover the salaries of ten senators. I find this unbearable. Where are Robert Taft and Arthur Vandenberg when we need them? Dead.”

“I could use that extra thirty percent for a nest egg. To be frank, my savings are nil.”

“And you’re depriving the government of a minor amount with which they would create more mischief.”

“I suspect you’re far to the right. I feel Reagan is wrongheaded and a little frightening to imagine in the arena of international politics.”

“No. I consider myself a Jeffersonian. I’m so far left that I might be considered a rightist. I believe in pure research and privacy. Most of those you think of as the Right are fatuous business toadies, ignorant of history. The Left plays pocket pool with billions out of sentiment. Read Tolstoy.”

When he pulled into the yard he noticed Diana dozing on a lawn chair in the warm, late afternoon sun. She wore a pale tan Brazilian string bikini that seemed a bit too flesh colored to wear in public, but he had long since given up advising her on matters of wardrobe. She woke as Hudley stood barking at the master for no particular reason except that he always did so.

“You’re late. I almost called thinking you might have forgotten Ed and Sheila are coming over for dinner.”

“I didn’t forget,” he lied. “What are we having?”