Hastings Marsh was not amused. Either he was more snockered than usual, or Skipper, his less-than- lovable wife, had changed the locks on his caped roof Cleveland avenue mansion. He punched out a lunette window next to the front door and stomped back to his Cadillac. He bellowed to Lyman, the trusty Filipino driver, “Back to my office, Son!”
Moments later, Marsh pounded on the divider, dislodging a blood-soaked hankie from his wounded right hand. “Dammit all.” He motioned crazily for the pilot to swerve by a shabby Dupont Circle basement pied-a-terre where Wanda Riley was likely to be lurking.
In the May dusk, Marsh staggered out of the rear compartment and up the broken flagstone walk, until he reached the entry to Miss Riley’s pad. She was stoned on poppers, he could tell, as she grabbed a flimsy gown and poured herself out and into his arms. “Wha’ssa matter Hasty? You’re bleeding…”
“Why are you even home at his hour– how about the Evening Watch program?” Wanda gazed up, helplessly. It wasn’t even necessary to add that she’d been fired from the news station– it was fairly obvious. “Come on, then. I’m heading back to the Caucus Room. Guess we can uhh, canoodle there, y’know what I mean?”
Meanwhile, Skipper Marsh and the be-jacketed Billy Luck were busy checking out of the Willard Hotel. “Ridiculous little self-pitying note Alice left me, huh Billy?” She crumpled the pink paper cavalierly in her dainty paw.
“Oh well, I think Alice ain’t at all a bad sort, but–”
“Let’s leave it lie, Billy,” whispered Skipper as she swooped her GoldCard through the credit card reader.
“Madame has luggage,” Gagee, the unctuous Haitian major domo drooled. Skipper shook her lovely head impetuously, but slipped him a twenty smoothly, implying that she’d like him to ‘spot’ them on exit — for safety reasons!
“And I wonder if that rat bastard husband has figured out he can’t get back in yet!” Skipper snorted in triumph; Billy said nothing back as they glided down the Willard’s carpeted main stair to leave.
