Sugar Daddy(70)

The enormous space was lined with terra-cotta tiles and copper-flecked marble, with a half-sunken oval bathtub in the center. The walk-in shower and window were made entirely of glass blocks. It was lucky the bathroom was so big, I thought, in light of Churchill being wheelchair-bound. I found a cluster of brown medicine bottles on one counter, along with an ordinary plastic Dixie cup dispenser that looked out of place in the magazine-perfect surroundings. "One or two?" I called out. opening the Vicodin.

"Two."

I filled a cup with water and brought the pills to Churchill. He took them with a grimace, the corners of his mouth gray with pain. I couldn't imagine how much his leg must be hurting, his bones protesting the new arrangement of metal rods and screws. His system must have been overwhelmed with the prospect of healing so much damage. I asked if he wanted to rest, I could wait for him, or come back some other time. Churchill replied emphatically he'd had enough resting. He wanted some good company, which had been in short supply lately. This with a meaningful glance at Gretchen, who replied serenely that if a person wanted to attract good company, he had to be good company.

After a minute of affectionate squabbling. Gretchen took her leave, reminding Churchill to buzz the intercom button if he needed anything. I pushed his wheelchair into the bathroom and positioned him next to the sink.

"No one answers when I buzz." Churchill told me testily, watching as I unpacked my supplies.

I shook out a black cutting cape and tucked a folded towel around his neck. "You need a set of walkie-talkies. Then you can contact someone directly when you need something."

"Gretchen can't even keep track of her cell phone," he said. "There's no way I'd get her to carry a walkie-talkie."

"Don't you have a personal assistant or secretary?"

"I did." he allowed. "But I fired him last week."

"Why?"

"He couldn't handle being yelled at. And he always had his head up his culo."

I grinned. "Well, you should have waited until you hired someone else before you got rid of him." I filled a spray bottle with tap water.

"I have someone else in mind."

"Who's that?"

Churchill made a brief, impatient gesture to indicate it was of no importance, and settled back in his chair. I dampened his hair and combed it carefully. As I cut his hair in careful layers, I saw the moment when the medication took effect. The harsh lines of his face relaxed, and his eyes lost their glazed brightness.

"This is the first actual haircut I've ever given you," I remarked. "Finally I can list you

on my resume.

He chuckled. "How long have you worked at Zenko's? Four years?"

"Almost five."

"What's he paying you?"

Mildly surprised by the question. I considered telling him it was none of his business. But there was hardly any reason to keep it a secret from him. "Twenty-four a year," I said, "not including tips."

"My assistant got fifty a year."

"That's a lot of money. I bet he had to work his tail off for it."

"Not really. He ran some errands, kept my schedule, made phone calls, typed on my book. That kind of stuff."

"You're writing another book?"

He nodded. "Mostly investment strategies. But part of it is autobiographical. I write some pages in longhand, others I dictate into a recorder. My assistant types it all into the computer."

"It would be a lot more efficient if you typed it yourself." I combed his hair back again, searching for the natural line of his part.

"Some things I'm too old to learn. Typing is one of them."

"So hire a temp."

"I don't want a temp. I want someone I know. Someone I trust."

Our gazes met in the mirror, and I realized what he was working up to. Good Lord, I thought. A frown of concentration wove across my forehead. I sank to my haunches, hunting for the right angles, my scissors making precise snips around his head. "I'm a hairstylist," I said without looking at him, "not a secretary. And once I leave Zenko, that door is closed for good. I can't go back."

"It's not a short-term offer," Churchill countered in a relaxed manner that gave me an inkling of what a smart business negotiator he must have been. "There's lots of work around here. Liberty. Most of it will challenge you a hell of a lot more than fooling with people's cuticles. Now, settle your feathers—there's nothing wrong with your job, and you do it well—"

"Gee, thanks."

"—but you could learn a lot from me. I'm still a ways out from retirement, and I've got a lot to get done. I need help from someone I can depend on."