"Yes, I know what to do. I also know that you have a nasty little habit of cleaning house every time you give me a go-ahead. Who is the guy?"

"None of your business."

"Maybe I'll just take the package."

"Maybe you will. When you see him, mention that you intend to take up photography because you know you could take great pictures of New York's skyline."

"Right. Now let me give you a 'by the way.' I'm just taking the package."

"You could do us a lot of good."

Remo leaned back and smiled, letting his brown eyes roam from the voluptuous figure, glistening and writhing in rhythm on the floor to the very stiff, unusually tense for a non-budget month, Harold W. Smith, operational head of CURE.

"Put a dollar in her bra."

"What?," said Smith.

"Put a dollar in her bra."

"I will not."

"You will."

"You mean to tell me that other things depend upon your gratification from embarrassing me?"

"By the way, I don't know." Remo grinned.

"All right. A dollar, you said."

Remo watched Smith take a dollar from his wallet and, holding it like, a live bug, extend it out over the dance floor. The woman, whose milky skin glistened from perspiration shimmy shouldered over beneath the dollar and Smith dropped it, then turned quickly back to the table pretending he had never been involved in anything so sordid. The bill lay on the throbbing pink-white mound.

"Stuff it in."

"I will not."

"All right. Goodbye."

"All right."

"Five dollars."

"Five. Now see here...."

"Five."

"All right. Five. You just love to spend money."

Smith crinkled a five-dollar bill in his hands, and with a get-it-over-fast speed leaned down to the woman who came up to meet his money with her bosom. He did not see his companion also reach forward with money, and under the cover of this motion slip a hand behind the jewelled breast cups and snap the metal holding band, flipping the bra, cups and all around Smith's hand.