Baril de Singes [Barrel of Monkeys]

By Rick Stinehour

An adventure-comedy novel, Baril de Singes (Barrel of Monkeys) features Baron von dek Horn at his investigative finest. Upon receiving an emergency message interrupting a dinner party at Tumultuous Manor, the international consultant is placed on the trail of eccentric global financier Wayland Bridgework. The assignment quickly becomes a race to collect valuable flash drives permitting access to the cyber fortunes of governments, banks and corporations.

Amid dancing with death, agreeing to star in a Hollywood film and facing his latent fear of giant ship propellers, Von dek Horn grapples with a growing attraction for Angelica Formica de Corcoran Bridgework Shumway, daughter of the rogue multibillionaire. And, when least expected, old nemesis Osborne Moeziz appears to further complicate matters.

In the course of his desperate pursuit to rescue teetering financial markets and sort through his romantic inclinations, Von dek Horn is supported by his remarkably reliable Tumultuous Manor staff: Imperturbable and judicious valet Smudgely, the exceptional tea-maker and cook Mrs. Potsdam, and the mysterious-yet-efficient personal assistant Mia Kolpaux.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rick Stinehour
• Release date: Dec 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301853144

Book preview

Barrymore Interrupted

Post-dinner discussions at Tumultuous Manor are pleasurable affairs for several reasons, foremost the soothing intellectual comfort they bring to my lifelong home and private dominion. Here rests the splendid memories of my busy and enjoyable childhood, one spent exploring the expansive gardens and grounds when not racing throughout the multitude of ornately appointed rooms forming the three-story brickwork structure.

An extensive library of art and architecture books, procured and perused by my parents and grandparents over several decades, serves as the heart of the main floor. The large and welcoming room hosts a majority of the Manor's social events, its very grandeur reinforcing the tone of civil and knowledgeable discourse. Selectively displayed alongside the numerous tomes are my expansive collections of vintage automobile license plates and rarities from the Golden Era of Hollywood I have acquired over the years.

The historic and comfortable estate also serves as headquarters for my thriving livelihood as global analyst and consultant, author and lecturer, and passionate theatre enthusiast. From my personal living quarters on the third floor, I conduct a myriad of business on a daily basis with clients and friends the world over. The modest suite, consisting of my study and reading room as well as a separate bed and bath, is a secure refuge from an all-to-often chaotic, selfish and vile world. Ironically, the space doubles as my springboard for launching into the exact sordid affairs capable of mincing the human soul.

Thus, the welcomed respite provided by after-meal discussions with my friends.

The success of dinner parties, of course, relied upon the standards and practices of a first-rate staff. In this regard, I was prideful that Tumultuous Manor marched as the vanguard in delivering personal attention, care and service. After a wonderful refection prepared by the most capable Mrs. Potsdam and graciously served by the unflappable Smudgely, I felt obligated in continuing the stellar hospitality toward my invited companions by initiating the evening's dialogue. Whether circumstance dictated it be held before the rippling flames of the library's fireplace on a chilly winter night or on the front veranda at the cusp of a summer evening's rising mist, I viewed seriously my status as topical toastmaster.

For certain guests and their escorts, such behavior cast me as a conversational dominative when, in reality, I merely guided my visitors -- knowingly or not -- to compelling and stimulating issues of our time. The depth of subject matter varied according to the tastes and background of attendees, and this particular evening proved a bit overwhelming as we finished the last bites of clafoutis aux cerises [without pits, as is Mrs. Potsdam's prerogative]. Try as I might, striking a pedantic pose in front of the wall-length oak mantle in the dining room, I made little headway engaging and holding the interest of my company.

Come on, Stinky! Think man. I urged my now-grown boyhood friend to employ his now-graying but mostly bald noggin and follow me along the mathematical path I enthusiastically started.

Germany Stinky Kornblatt and I met at the start of our first year at prep school, a dismal alcove of private education known as Trotters-on-Funk. Nestled deep at the end of a dirt drive in the remote reed-and-toad infested wetlands of New England, its intellectually oppressive atmosphere, drafty and dilapidated dormitories and artery-clogging dietary offerings only hastened our firm and lasting friendship amid decaying volumes of books, splintered desks and exceptionally refined bullying of upper classmen.

What did Old Man O'Toole's final lecture encompass at the end of every semester? I pressed my query.

Maintain a stiff upper lip? Stinky shrugged, compressing his prominent dewlap into the base of his lower jaw so his head wobbled on a ring of bulging flesh. Keeping our chins up?

Wasn't O'Toole the instructor who told you to run like the wind in the face of danger? The question was posed by Stinky's wife, the lovely and dowdyish Conestoga Kornblatt, an only-child who suffered the misfortune of being a direct descendant of the esteemed nineteenth century wagon-builder. With piles of meaningless stock certificates tucked away in her family attic, Conestoga had been selected by birth as the public face for the once prosperous vehicle manufacturer. Or was it to assume the fetal position and hope for the best?

Neither, actually, Stinky answered indignantly, he believed --

Stinky! I clapped my hands as a performing seal would his flippers when begging a handler for a fresh halibut carcass. Think Fibonacci numbers!

Or geodesic domes! Froggy Rottweiller, Stinky's cousin five years his junior, shouted in rather close proximity to my ears. Froggy also claimed Trotters-on-Funk alum status, but was fortunate to have graduated under the succeeding administration installed by the state attorney general's office. Old Man O'Toole wouldn't stray far from Fibonacci numbers and geodesic domes.

Precisely, Froggy, precisely. Frankly, I was disappointed with Stinky's lapse of memory and made a point of telling him so. Frankly, Stinky, I'm disappointed with your lapse of memory.

I blame it on my obsession with Sudoku, Stinky groaned, chagrined by my admonishment. It's ruined my ability to think clearly. Lately, I've wanted to fit every detail of my being into a numerically designated cube.

Our parakeet cages are lined with finished Sudoku puzzles, Conestoga lamented. The ability of the birds to count sequentially has been horribly altered.

Speaking in a sort of code now, they are, Stinky agreed, the nod of his head sending fleshy ripples around his neck.

Be that as it may, I continued, it's best we remain focused on what Fibonacci can do for you and not your parakeets.

Is this like one of them pyramid schemes we all hear tell about? The question was put forth by Goofy Eddy White, the local auto repairman whom I had tucked under my wing in order to develop his, as they were, social skills.

Goofy Eddy was accompanied by his bride, Edwina, whose smile showed a row of prominently displayed upper teeth matching those of her husband. Using the time-tested and nearly reliable method of judging a book by its cover, the couple was neatly categorized as thoroughbred hillbillies. Relishing their mountain-way lifestyle, they fought mightily against inclusion into the modern world of takeout convenience and indoor plumbing.

Goofy Eddy, for all his effort put into such primitive habitation, nevertheless possessed a genius in keeping roadworthy my modest fleet of mechanized conveyance: A 1930 Whippet Coach, the 1933 Duesenberg J and a temperamental 1939 Packard Touring Sedan. Hence my devoted interest in having Goofy Eddy successfully assimilated into my world or, at the very least, tinkering away beneath the hood of it.

I'm afraid, Goofy Eddy, Fibonacci would not be considered a pyramid scheme in the finer sense of its definition and application, but it would indeed be useful in assembling a triangular structure, would it not?

Both Goofy Eddy and Edwina wore their best expressions of tabula rasa, dragging me into the epistemological minefield of John Locke's dreaded nature versus nurture debate. Afraid their jaws would become permanently frozen in a fixed pose of stunned amazement, I quickly suggested a change of venue.

Perhaps some fresh air will allow our thoughts to flow more freely. Would you all care to join me on the veranda? I raised an eyebrow at Smudgely, indicating the coffee station should be wheeled through the nearest open French door and into the cool of the eve. There we have it. Everyone out into the still of the night. Watch your step, Edwina. There you are.

Now, it seems to me, Froggy said thoughtfully while pulling a pipe and lighter from his jacket pocket, that Old Man O'Toole's fervor for numerology peaked just as the school's supervision was transferred to Yalemouth on Rye.

I winced with the mention of Yalemouth, bristling at Froggy for even thinking the name while in my presence. In a cathartic effort to clear my thoughts, I allowed the undeniable superiority of Yalemouth-on-Rye to bubble on the surface of my conscious mind. You know, I was accepted and wait listed at Yalemouth. Forced to matriculate at Trotters.

So they say. Froggy, with great smugness, dug his invisible needle deeper.

They?

Yes, them.

Them. Again. I could see Froggy was determined to hold his ground, refusing to divulge the source of his long-held information. Their obsession with my success, despite being a Trotters on Funk alumnus, has certainly served as a renewable source of humor.

Very much so. Quite greenish you are. Froggy broke into fits of laughter, snickering as he moved to the farthest corner of the terrace to light his pipe. Ever so much, his voice trailed off into the thick growth of ivy woven within the nearby trellis.

Shrug it off, Baron, Stinky said, wrapping a sympathetic arm around my shoulder. None of us wanted to be at Trotters, but look how it all turned out. And you, my friend, chairman of the alumni committee for the seventh straight year. You're the glue binding us together.

Such would have been an inspirational thought but for the unruly ruckus which occurred at the school's annual reunions. Upper classmen retained their position in the pecking order and, through the years, Stinky and I served as the anvil for their crushing hammer blows. You don't suppose the no contact rule will pass before this year's gathering, do you?

Not a chance, Stinky replied, gulping down the last of his martini. The returns are running six to one for upholding the status quo.

I rubbed my bicep, painfully reminded of the resounding sting inflicted upon it during the previous year's foray into the beer tent. Well, we shall simply move at a quicker pace this year.

And bring bottled water?

I'd perish first. It is our divine right as class officers to imbibe at will, and at will we shall imbibe, indeed. I tossed back the last of my drink. At our own peril, should fate warrant it.

Bold, old boy, bold. Stinky's emotions ran sincere to a fault, his eyes welling up as he quickly turned away.

Baron! Conestoga summoned from her perch on the opposite side of the patio tables, each supporting a dark blue umbrella emblazed with the stately silver von dek Horn crest. Goofy Eddy is holding forth on the Fibonacci effect as it applies to the Whippet.

That's my boy, I said, pleased the seedling had taken root and begun to sprout. I skirted the various tables and chairs, arriving at the rim of the threesome with a broad smile plastered over my somewhat regal face. There is much to be said for that particular power plant.

That there is, Mr. Baron, Goofy Eddy, perhaps out of nervousness double-clutched my name. The proper bore, stroke and compression produces the maximum output from its forty horsepower engine. With its shortened wheelbase configuration and manual transmission consisting of three forward gears, it produces optimum speeds without compromising basic roadway handling.

As you spoke a hundred times, Baron, Edwina said with unbridled praise, Goofy Eddy may be an idiot savant, but he's your idiot savant.

I cringed at her untimely remark, as if she just faced the choir and lifted her blouse during the ten o'clock Sunday service. Recovering as quickly as I could, I ventured a weak rebuttal. What I meant by that expression --

Don't bother, Mr. Baron. I am truly humbled by your words.

Please believe me when I say 'tis meant as a compliment, I said, passing the back of my hand across my brow.

An idiot savant, eh? Conestoga raised an eyebrow.

It was a common phrase at Trotters on Funk, often used by lavatory poets, I shrugged. It's lingered in my mind through the years. Savant is, after all, a difficult word to place in metered rhyme.

The engine's timed in the Fibonacci tradition, Goofy Eddy continued, the whiteness of his sizeable upper teeth gleaming in the gathering dusk, so the cylinders beat a one, one, two, three sequence. With a timing light, I've actually recorded the higher the speed, the closer the car runs to the golden ratio in terms of circumferential displacement.

Edwina squeezed her husband's oil-stained fingers in her hand. Ain't he just something else?

Indeed, I remarked, noting a staged cough from several feet away.

Baron? It was Stinky, striking a pose reminiscent of his diplomatic fence-mending stance. A moment?

Baron, if the mention of Yalemouth on Rye --

Quite, quite, friend, I said, raising a palm to Froggy in an attempt to assuage his discomfort while grimacing at Stinky. I'll have no more of it.

Stinky was explaining to me your final treatise --

My review of Gadsby, I said, smiling with pride at the mention of a paper which consumed the better part of a youthful year.

Is yet housed at the Groobbester Library. Imagine that. Froggy looked at us both, his brow expanding with amazement. Revered to this very day.

And, I might boldly add, written without using the letter 'x'.

'X'? Froggy shot his question at Stinky. I thought you said the work was void of the letter 'e'?

Stinky's head retreated turtle-like into his neck, along with his effort to bridge the gap of manners between Froggy and myself. The book itself was written without using the letter 'e', he offered, his soft tone parallel to the one he employed when explaining the 1960s television phenomenon Flipper to a puzzled Japanese emissary representing that island's tuna industry. Baron's paper was authored sans the letter 'x'.

Oh, Froggy nodded while drawing his razor-sharp sword of criticism. Well, where in bloody hell is the challenge in that?

That was it. Family relation to Stinky or not, Froggy's impudent inquiry snapped my goodwill like a wet towel in summer camp changing room. The challenge, my young Rottweiller, is apparent to everyone but you, my voice started gently, rising to a crescendo with the final word. So effective was the dramatic quality, I chose to employ the technique again. Think of it. Unable to use an 'x' meant I could not call the book 'exciting' or 'exceptional' or even 'execrable' had I found it so, which I did not!

Froggy attempted a draw on his pipe yet had the misfortune, stemming from my outburst, to blow instead, creating a Vesuvius-like eruption of sparks and smoke between us.

I couldn't have an 'ax' to grind with a character nor could I compare any character in the narrative to 'Ixion' from Greek mythology.

Stinky scratched his head. Would such a parallel been appropriate?

It wouldn't have mattered! The mixture for the evening's dinner guest list was, beyond doubt, not as balanced as I had hoped.

It would have mattered to a Yalemouth man, Froggy observed in his best judgmental croaking voice. And therein lies the difference.

Frog, perhaps it's best you join Conestoga and the Goofy Whites, Stinky said, issuing a strong shove to his cousin before turning to me. Wait for the clinch to leave your jaw and fists before responding.

Grrr, I replied in agreement.

Baron, you really must get over this Trotters v Yalemouth conflict. It's not serving a solid purpose.

Growling once more, I nodded my head.

I say this as a friend and someone who has cared for your welfare these past nigh years.

Arrrgghh, I muttered, rubbing my temples in a circular fashion while lowering my voice. As you well know, Stinky, the only disappointment my parents suffered greater than my acceptance at Trotters on Funk was the day I received a diploma from that poison ivied institution.

A single shoot gains traction and thrives on the old stonework, Stinky added supportively, becoming the school symbol. Who could have predicted that?

I am well aware, Stinky. The old Trotters reputation has engulfed me like the odor of a stale cigar wafting in an afternoon's summer breeze at Fenway Park.

I always liked that smell myself.

The soles of one's shoes stuck in a pool of dried beer beneath a hard wooden seat, I continued, expunging the memories of visiting the historic ball yard in days gone by, ignoring the dreamy look presently conquering Stinky's face. The ushers, a bunch of old curmudgeons with buzz cuts, screaming at us kids to get away from the edge of the dugout during pregame warm ups. Pigeons flying free overhead, dropping their indiscriminate loads upon the unsuspecting below. An inebriated college student vomiting on a urinal cake in the washroom wall trough.

Good times, good times.

So many wasted trips to that decrepit diamond, I remarked with a sigh. I'd like nothing better than to travel back in time and clock one of those obese, flat topped ticket takers in the mouth.

Might have given you a leg up with the registrar at Yalemouth, if that's your angle.

No, I moaned, no, Stinky, I'm not so sure where I'm headed with my anger these days.

My lamentation was abbreviated by Smudgely's entrance onto the veranda with the evening's coffee and tea offering. Little did I know that in his wake, standing inside the shadow of the dining room floor-to-ceiling curtains, waited the voucher for my escape from the humdrum doldrums boring into the core of my being, presently manifested in Mrs. Potsdam's particularly feisty curry chicken served earlier at dinner.

Stinky reacted first, uttering in a voice low as though speaking to himself, Oh yes, I was hoping she would appear.

I beamed with a certain measure of breathless pride as Mia Kolpaux, my personal assistant, stepped out onto the terrace. A stunning balance of French and Japanese ancestry, Mia's long black hair -- cascading straight and true to the top of her waist -- lined her thin mystical face. Her petite frame, wrapped in a full-length gold lamé evening gown, moved with an elegance which bespoke of a European model expertly navigating an intensely watched couture runway deep in the thick of Paris.

Without applying a great deal of reflection upon the issue, I concluded regardless of Mia's attire -- be her donned head-to-toe in down-filled thermal skiwear on a chilly snow-covered hillside or found almost buff, draped only in the simplest of lace-edged undergarments covering but naught of her delicate attributes while preparing a spring morning's bath with scented lavender water beneath a window open wide to the dawn's rising sun -- I would have found her amazingly attractive.

If I had given the matter additional consideration, I would have found myself emoting a love for Mia that pushed the borders of worship and devotion. For now, Mia Kolpaux endured a probationary status as a prospective employee of Tumultuous Manor and I would not permit my egocentric longings to interfere with an established and stringent hiring process.

Good evening, my Baron, Mia cooed as gentle as a soft breeze rustling a patch of lakeside reeds. Her diction was of continental brevity, refined yet clipped, respectful but with an edge. She drew me in with her words and repelled me at the wall she constructed with them, leaving me as flat as a beached jellyfish under a blazing sun. These two messages arrived for you, sir. One hand delivered. One electronically mailed. I deemed them both important.

Well then, Miss Kolpaux, if you've deemed them as such, then they must be so. I looked at Stinky, who poured his rather large frame -- shaking as though it was hastily assembled using the contents of a jam jar -- into a nearby chair. Which shall be first?

The hand delivered letter is rather urgent, my Baron. Mia waited, watching obediently as I slit open the cream-colored envelope with my pocketknife. It was sent by Agnes deMaelstrom, matriarch and chief arrow-slinger of the Faithful Hill Art Recital Theatre Company.

From Aggie, I said with a pleasing smile. 'My dear Baron. Our fall season begins in a few short months and I write with all hope our passionate FHART group shall persuade you to join our forthcoming production. We would like you to star in a one-man performance --'.

Here I paused, allowing the significance of the invitation to rest upon Mia herself. For me to star in a one man performance? What shall we make of that?

It's an honor befitting you, my Baron, Mia answered without hesitation. Please continue.

I rattled the letter in my hand, found my spot and with a final look into her sparkling eyes resumed its up-buttering content. "'In a one man performance of King to Rook's Three: The True Story of Chessmen John Barrymore and Basil Rathbone. Given your love for the stage and your uncanny resemblance to both The Great Profile and old Ratters, I have written this play with the mind of casting you in each role. I am certain your talent is great enough to fulfill my request. Please consider, blah, blah, blah.' I could not help but preen while reciting the blah reverb. And what shall we make of that, I say again?"

A one man show about two men? Stinky asked incredulously.

I'm up to the task, I replied defiantly, turning slightly to expose my leonine silhouette for the benefit of Mia. "You may or may not recall the internal monologue I delivered in the lead role of last winter's production, The Salted Nuts of Zbigniew Brzezinski, Russian dialect and all."

Barrymore and Rathbone chess players? Highly doubtful. Stinky's stately cranium was now laden in an outbreak of small beady sweat, making him appear similar to a bulging garden tomato that had been hosed off and left out in the afternoon sunshine. His eyes remained riveted on the subtle parallel curvature of Mia's backside.

I would most likely believe, my good man, that the story is highly allegorical, I observed, permitting myself to deliver a dashing wink at Mia. It was difficult to ascertain whether she was mesmerized or simply staging a mesmerization to humor me. Chess merely serves as a symbolic representation of creative interaction between these two marquee thespians. What sayeth you, Mia? Almost twice her age, it was expected of me to discharge nearly twice her wisdom. I viewed this responsibility as though life itself dangled high in the balance.

Perform, my Baron, Mia requested in a respectful tone, perform.

I cleared my throat and, with a tight grip, shook the base of my memory tree in an attempt to ring free Barrymore's Richard III. Now arrives our winter of discontent, I began in a deep voice, raising my hand upward before me as though clutching an unseen orb. Made glorious summer by this sun of New York, and all the clouds that landed upon my house, in your deep bosom is my notion buried.

Bravo, Mia said, bringing her hands together in a pattering of applause, bravo, my Baron.

Maintaining my solemn stance and expression, I turned in the opposite direction, metamorphosing into Rathbone. Dr. Watson! Come quickly! I need you! I barked in a sharp West End cadence. The effect chilled those who witnessed my summoning forth the legendary detective as portrayed in film.

I say there is no other for this role, my Baron.

So you do, so you do. Well then, send my acceptance to Miss deMaelstrom post haste! Foregoing any revelry glorifying the stage, I immediately cast my eyes upon the e-mail protruding from her delicate feminine hand. The name upon it froze the blood circulating in my veins, seized my mind in mid-thought and ground the remainder of my bodily functions to a complete and utter standstill.

Sondheim! I uttered, locking eyes with Mia beneath the rising moon. I cast away the spirits of Barrymore and Rathbone, whispering the name once more. Sondheim.

***

Excusing myself from the dinner party proved an easy task. Goofy Eddy, on the coattails of my stage preview, enthralled the gathering by recounting the varied intricacies found within the exhaust manifold of the 1939 Packard Touring Sedan. Mia made certain everyone was served a warm after-dinner drink and, with Stinky still focused upon her in his quivering repose, held open the door as I slipped away. The guests, recharged by Goofy Eddy's descriptive mechanical travelogue, scarcely noted my departure.

Through the wide halls of Tumultuous Manor I raced, grossly stretching the limit of the no-running rule. Entering the massive grand staircase, I was greeted by an assortment of chimes striking the nine o'clock hour while taking the thickly padded steps two at a time, quickly reaching the expanse of my living quarters on the third floor.

The study was blanketed in darkness save for the modest glow of a banker's lamp, setting atop the expansive oak desk, alit with an eco-friendly bulb beneath its green shade. I eased the padded chair forward on its casters and, with one hand upon my forehead, began studying Sondheim's message in order to comprehend its gist and urgency.

Included were the three obligatory code words [bookworm, hookworm and wormwood] which served to authenticate the origin of the document and the details contained therein [a security feature added after the dreadful Cri de Minuit du Bébé affair]. The assignment outline was sketchy out of necessity, but provided enough information for me to know I needed to pack a travel bag and prepare to leave the Manor within a matter of hours. I barely acknowledged Smudgely's arrival with a pot of Earl Grey and a creamer of milk.

Send Mia upon your return downstairs, I requested, remaining engrossed with the notes I scribbled in the margins of the printed document. Advise her to bring all her communication devices.

Sir, Smudgely nodded from across the paneled room.

I picked up the landline receiver and, scanning my notations one final time, dialed the encoded number listed beneath Sondheim's name.

You're prompt this evening, the familiar voice toasted me from the other end of the connection.

Thank you, I chuckled. I had to tear myself away from a lovely dinner gathering after receiving your summons. Swaying the masses with impersonations of Hollywood's finest legends, wouldn't you know.

Too bad I wasn't invited, Sondheim's voice blew coolly, I could have witnessed your mimicry firsthand.

I stammered momentarily, recalling Sondheim could be frustratingly void of thick skin. Well, I, um, Mrs. Potsdam hadn't scheduled your favorite on the evening's bill of fare, so I thought perhaps you should be spared the indignity of it all.

My favorite? Sondheim's thought process listed off course. What precisely did you have?

Tripe, I replied instantly, belching up another bubble of Mrs. Potdam's fiery curry, plain tripe topped with kelp sauce mixed with a wee bit of raw plankton.

I love tripe, came his bitter response, and plankton, too.

Damn! I proclaimed, merging together in my mind a heated, unified reaction as delivered simultaneously by both Barrymore and Rathbone. Damn and forsooth, damn!

Sondheim was silent for several seconds before responding. Chaplin?

You know me only too well, dear Sondheim, I said, disappointed with his inability to identify my dramatic output yet amenable to slipping the hook of an angry would-be tablemate.

What I have for you this evening is no comedic matter, old squash.

I never laugh when it comes to business between us. I paused to consider the ambiguity of my statement. Or anyone else.

Laughter will be the furthest thing from your mind when I recount the details as they are known.

Laughter and intelligence make for strange bedfellows. I confidently tacked myself back into the race. Repelling one another beneath the sheets, fighting over the comforter, never sharing the common feather pillow.

There won't be any pillow talk involved in this travail, I can assure you, old bean.

I've never been one to sleep on the job. Not that I was compelled to inflate my abilities for Sondheim. Yet, it was always good form to place a shine on the spokes of one's transport. I prefer to sparkle when going round and round.

What's that you say? Sondheim figuratively scratched his head. I don't comprehend the reference to being circularly brilliant.

What's that, then? Just pointing out one's reputation should ever be polished and ready for parading past a colleague's review stand. Dodging this bullet, I opted for Sondheim to lead our conversation from here on out. We seem to be twice removed from the purpose of your contact.

Indeed. I'm afraid I have a rather tricky one for you, old radish.

And serious, too.

Indeed, serious. Are you familiar with global financier Wayland Bridgework?

I ran a sweep of my memory bank and, in less than a second, came back empty-minded. The name sets off a distant chime, yes.

Of course you have. He's a Yalemouth boy --

The gritting of my teeth generated a distinct level of static on the line.

Who went onto Dartmouth while I pursued my calling at Yale. Sondheim guffawed at the irony before continuing. I must say we Yalemouth boys took no great pleasure challenging the unpredictable squad you fellows at Trotters mushed together each rugby season.

That would be Germany Kornblatt's bailiwick, I said, wondering if my humiliation involving prep school matriculation would in some strange way reach its zenith that evening. He helmed the team when we lost our two hundredth consecutive game.

"A landmark which garnered Trotters special mention in Sports Illustrated, I might add. Good old Stinky. Sorry to learn the Greenland affair led to his departure from the diplomacy trade. Hell of a rugby captain, though."

The opportunity for further discussion of preparatory school passed when Mia entered the room. Glancing at her figure as she floated through the darkness served to remove the irritant from Sondheim's reminiscence. Go on about your boy, Wayland Bridgework.

Indeed. Sorry, old cuke, caught up in a gob of nostalgia there. It was Yalemouth who toppled you in that record setting game, wasn't it? We'll save that for the next serving of tripe at Tumultuous Manor, what say?

Wayland. I gestured for Mia to sit, which she did ever so gracefully while crossing her slender legs beneath the flicker of gold fabric.

Bridgework. A distant chum of mine, found his fortune in international banking and finance. Seated on the board of several multinational corporations, staked his claim and then some by age thirty. There are, however, problems when one clambers up the ladder of success so astutely.

What's that, then? Too much money? Not enough? I studied Mia's face in the dim light, the personification of feminine mystique and beauty.

You, old cob, are nothing less than just shy of brilliant! How you grasp and deduce a problem so quickly is a tribute to --

My having attended the finest state university. Now, on with it. My father, both a Rhodes Scholar and thirty-third degree Scottish Rite Mason, never suffered such inflictions. Where his intellect commanded the respect and subordination of his fellow man, mine was continually placed in a position of having to deny the alleged stasis of its reasoning. Bridgework.

My client chooses to remain anonymous on this one, Baron. No identification shall be supplied, per our agreement. Such was Sondheim's standard disclaimer, the official disguise he draped over a tongue-tied foreign government, vertically integrated international corporation or weaseling member of Congress. In the equation of any assignment, it was not my business to know who was footing the bill, picking up the tab or paying the freight.

I fully understand our terms of business, Sondheim. Always have, never laughed. This machoism caught in Mia's ear, prompting me to sharpen and repeat the statement. Never ... laughed.