"The thing is, a cigarette with a cup of coffee is a great combination. Or a cigarette with a martini, or any cocktail. But not with a non-alcoholic drink outside of coffee. Not that I smoke, at least not any longer, quit many years ago. But a cigarette with a glass of milk? Or orange juice? My skin crawls at the very thought."
"When I was in the CIA, there was a fellow who, like clockwork, breakfast at his desk was a glass of grapefruit juice and a Salem," replied Roger Rother, staring at the chessboard before moving a rook.
Walt Considine blanched at the thought of a cigarette, let alone a mentholated one, with a glass of grapefruit juice.
Then Roger cleared his throat and said, "This is going to sound out of the blue because it is..."
And it was out of the wild blue yonder, hit Roger like a tidal wave. And, as per request, he didn't answer immediately. He thought about it for the better part of a week before he gave his reply.
Toby Mailman reported to his first day at Garrison Industry bright and early Monday morning, about 10 minutes early, knocking on the door jamb of Big Ben's office. "Well! Don't just, I say, don't just stand there, boy! Come on in! Have a seat, give me a, I say give me a minute to sign some papers then I'll show you to your office!" Soon Big Ben, in a cowboy shirt of dazzling lemon and blinding lime plaid, was barreling them down the hallway to the elevator to the top floor of Garrison Industry where upon disembarking Toby beheld an IBM mainframe computer. Big Ben introduced Toby to his two co-workers, Bing Rydell and Lester Wülk, both affable crewcut fellows on the sunny side of middle-age. After handshakes, Big Ben left Toby with Bing and Les with instructions to Bing and Les to get the fresh fish up to speed.
Bing patted the IBM with the affection one might expect toward a faithful Irish setter. "We call her Betsy, and we believe she's gonna help us save Western civilization by defeating the Russians!"
"Huh! How so?"
"Well, this is where you're gonna come in," piped up Les. "Big Ben told us about your expertise in radio electronics. Well, here we are sitting a stone's toss, so to speak, from the Soviets, just the Bering Strait dividing us, as it were. At the narrowest, only 53 stinking miles apart! Closer to Alaska than Cuber to Florida, dammit! Anyhoo, we've been doing research and design on supersonic missiles each to be armed with a small nuke. We believe we're pretty close to perfection! But we need another point of view regarding the transelectro aspects of radio signals." Les squinted and went on, "That is, we see a leader missile transmitting radio signals to follower missiles, fanning them out across Russia while flying below radar. That's where Big Ben thinks you'll come in."
Toby queried, "Whoa! Wait a sec! Do you have actual missiles?"
"Yep!"
"How in the name of Sam Hill..."
"Ben's former CIA. He has connections to all sorts of contraband. We got our paws on one Nike, and since then have replicated it. We have 10 silos, each with 10 of those babies! Aw, man! Can you imagine the faces of Brezhnev and his Kremlin rats when they hear the whistle of an ICBM just before they're all blown to radioactive smithereens? Hah!"
"But possession of nuclear missiles is illegal..."
"We're up against the Reds! All bets are off. They don't play by the Queensberry Rules, y'know."
"Point. What about the United States government? Don't they have a say in this?"
"Lost cause there, bucko! The rot is too deep. Sad to say, Washington, DC is owned part and parcel by the UN, the League of Women Voters, Harvard pansies, the Rockefellers, the CFR, the Trilaterals, Ford Foundation pinks, all the usual suspects. Even the Pentagon! About 60 percent squish!" Les and Bing shook their heads in disgust.
Toby, palms on the small of his back, staring at the wall-to-wall, shook his head as well. "Wow! This is a lot to take in! Couldn't this set off World War III?"
Les retorted, " Au contraire, mon frère! Way we figure it, we're in World War III now. Right now, this very minute. They just call it the Cold War to lull us into submission. Well, it's not cold if you're one of our guys dodging hot lead while mired in the rice paddies of South Vietnam! Pretty hot when you're getting a grenade tossed at ya by a toddler or a granny happy to do Uncle Ho's bidding!" His face reddened, his jaw clenched before continuing, "This will bring it all, all of it, to a close. Liberate Russia, the Eastern Bloc breaks apart, Castro's Cuber sinks, we roll into North Vietnam and Red China and liberate the hellholes, open up Howard Johnson franchises, GM plants, Stop & Shops!"
Toby had never been especially political; he kind of went with the flow. The one time he voted was for JFK. Nothing against Nixon, per se, but Kennedy beamed youth and he was anti-Communist. But after Dallas, Toby lost hope, tuned out. That said, Bing and Les seemed to know from whence they spoke. They handed Toby a stack of missile blueprints for him to analyze. Toby trotted to his new office, sat at his desk and, sleeves rolled up, began an intense examination. At noon, Bing and Les knocked on his door. "Hey, Einstein! Even a genius needs a lunch hour!" The three took the elevator down to the company cafeteria. Each grabbed a tray and stood in line. Toby opted for a tuna hero, French fries, a salad, a slice of apple pie and a glass of milk. Les led them to an empty table in a far corner. "This way we can yak with impunity. Security is, of course, tight here, but better safe than sorry."
"Speaking of security," said Toby, "you guys don't know me from any Tom, Dick or Harry. You've already told me so much! Geez, if I were a traitor..."
"Ahem," said Bing. "Remember your interview with Big Ben?"
"Of course! It was just a few…”
"Well, he asked you a lot of questions, some that went right over your head but were crafted by experts to weed out finks. Big Ben used to be CIA. Those questions, correctly answered, along with your military record, put you in like Flynn, chum! You are golden!"
Flattered, Toby smiled. Then, after a pause, he said, "But in all honesty, I hate to say this because what I'm about to own up to is illegal, and it should have been detected, I would think. You see, I smoke pot... marijuana. On occasion, rare occasion, but there it is."
Les laughed. "Toby, Big Ben has been smoking the locoweed since he was a teen in Texas. That and gobbling peyote buds. He was psychedelic before you got out of knee pants! He was smoking weed with the Mess-kins, and eating peyote with the Injuns! And beyond that, laws are fine and dandy. Some are, alas, necessary. But we go by the laws of the Creator. Bosh to the polly-tishans!"
Over lunch Toby began to notice the contrasts, slight as they were, between Bing and Lester. Bing, a bit younger, wore a paisley necktie and had sideburns, albeit conservative sideburns. Les sported a bowtie. Both wore navy blazers. Toby hoped his Harris tweed didn't seem too professorial or East Coast. No elbow patches, at least.
And Toby learned that both of his co-workers were members of a local citizen group, the White Knights, and Les was an officer in a national ultra-patriot group that Toby had heard of, as well as both being Rotarians. They were genial and obviously bright. Toby felt he'd get along well with them.
That night, back in his new home, after a dinner of Salisbury steak smothered in sautéed onions, Italian bread and a bean salad, he watched TV then retired to bed after Carson's monologue to read a new best seller that he was about halfway through. After 20 minutes, he turned out the light and, fingers laced behind his head, Toby pondered his life. A year ago, if anyone had told him he'd be single, living in Alaska, had almost killed an innocent man, and was playing a role in a conspiracy to take down the USSR, he would've laughed until he keeled over in a heap.
"Man, life is stranger than fiction!"
Suddenly, Toby sat up and stared into the moonlit yard outside his windows and thought about the evening he saw Isabel Wrung in her old Ford and, on a lark while shooting stars lit the heavens, followed her, one thing leading to a horrible other. And now he lived just down the road from her. Toby got an urge to hop out of bed, get dressed and skip down the road, just to look at her place, maybe catch a glimpse of her, reassure himself that she was okay. What harm could come of that?
No, that's crazy! Best to get some shut-eye. He reminded himself: no more childish things, and that includes impulsive behavior, tippy-top of the list. Besides, she was so far above him. He didn't deserve her. And she certainly didn't deserve the agony he already inflicted on her and her grandfather, nay all of Garrisonville, even if it was unwitting. Better to focus on something realistic, like nuking the Soviets into oblivion.
The next morning, we find Toby fixing breakfast, adding some diced green pepper to a sizzling omelet, the radio murmuring. The doorbell chimed. "Who could that possibly be!" Toby padded to the front door, thankful that he'd already shaved, showered, dressed.
On his doorstep, offering a loaf of bread, was Isabel Wrung. "Welcome to the neighborhood! I apologize for not stopping by sooner, but we've been, well, caught up in a lot of pandemonium lately. I'm sure you've heard about it. Anyway, the Welcome Wagon doesn't travel this far astray, so you'll have to settle for me!"
In the morning sunlight she was almost glittering. She was certainly, no almost about it, the most beautiful thing Toby Mailman had ever witnessed.
Across the road, up a hillock, hidden behind some shrubs was a young woman dressed in camouflage, lying on her belly, with a pair of Bausch & Lomb military-grade binoculars watching every move the two made, grinding her molars. Because, you see, she loved Toby Mailman with all of her teenage heart even if he'd told her to am-scray, however gently. And now she hated with all of her teenage heart whoever this evil witch was.
Hell hath no fury like a Kathy scorned, however gently.