Pete popped his knuckles. “‘Story verification’ means ‘Don’t sue the magazine or I’ll hurt you.’ If you want me to help out that way, fine.”

“Good. That’s a start.”

“Wrap it up, Howard. I know the people there, so tell me who’s going and who’s staying.”

Hughes flinched-just a tad. “The receptionist was a Negro woman with dandruff, so I fired her. The stringer and so-called ‘dirt digger’ quit, and I want you to find me a new one. I’m keeping Sol Maltzman on. He’s been writing all the articles, under a pseudonym, for years, so I’m prone to retaining him, even though he’s a blacklisted Commie known to belong to no less than twenty-nine left-wing organizations, and-”

“And that’s all the staff you need. Sol does a good job, and if worse comes to worse, Gail can fill in for him-she’s written for Hush-Hush on and off for a couple of years. You’ve got your lawyer Dick Steisel for the legal stuff, and I can get you Fred Turentine for bug work. I’ll find you a good dirt digger. I’ll keep my nose down and ask around, but it might take a while.”

“I trust you. You’ll do your usual superb job.”

Pete worked his knuckles. The joints ached-a sure sign that rain was coming. Hughes said, “Is that necessary?”

“These hands of mine brought us together, Boss. I’m just letting you know they’re still here.”

o o o

The watchdog house living room was 84’ by 80’.

The foyer walls were gold-flecked marble.

Nine bedrooms. Walk-in freezers thirty feet deep. Hughes had the carpets cleaned monthly-a jigaboo walked across them once.

Surveillance cameras were mounted on the roof and the upstairs landings-aimed at Mrs. Hughes’ bedroom next door.

Pete found Gail in the kitchen. She had these great curves and long brown hair-her looks still got to him.