“
I can afford it.” “I know it, darling. You’re one of the most powerful men in New York City.” She added, “It’s a good joke on New York City.” “It is.” “I concede that you’re in a position to do anything. That’s why I had to see you.” She added a small, gruntlike sound of amusement, to dilute her statement’s frankness. “Good,” he said, his voice comfortable and noncommittal. “I had to come here, because I thought it best, in this particular matter, not to be seen together in public.” “That is always wise.” “I seem to remember having been useful to you in the past.” “In the past—yes.” “I am sure that I can count on you.” “Of course—only isn’t that an old-fashioned, unphilosophical remark? How can we ever be sure of anything?” “Jim,” she snapped suddenly, “you’ve got to help me!” “My dear, I’m at your disposal, I’d do anything to help you,” he answered, the rules of their language requiring that any open statement be answered by a blatant lie. Lillian was slipping, he thought—and he experienced the pleasure of dealing with an inadequate adversary. She was neglecting, he noted, even the perfection of her particular trademark: her grooming. A few strands were escaping from the drilled waves of her hair—her nails, matching her gown, were the deep shade of coagulated blood, which made it easy to notice the chipped polish at their tips—and against the broad, smooth, creamy expanse of her skin in the low, square cut of her gown, he observed the tiny glitter of a safety pin holding the strap of her slip. “You’ve got to prevent it!” she said, in the belligerent tone of a plea disguised as a command. “You’ve got to stop it!” “Really? What?” “My divorce.
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