“If you and I were the last two people on earth, I’d try a bear.”
—Jules Meredith to President J. T. Tower
Eyes locked and unblinking, they finished their brandies, and Tower went to the bar’s liquor cabinet. Retrieving a liquor bottle, he poured some for each of them in rock glasses.
Over ice.
“What’s that?” Jules asked.
“Nitroglycerine on the rocks.”
He wasn’t far off. He was pouring them Cruzan 151-proof rum.
So J. T. Tower really wanted to drink her under the table and was now swinging for the fences.
It’s your funeral, buddy, Jules thought.
“Should we have another toast?” he asked.
“To the last one standing,” Jules said and downed the 151-proof liquor.
“I like that,” J. T. said, throwing back his rum.
“I knew you would,” Jules said. “Everything to you is natural selection, isn’t it?””
“Isn’t that how you view your own craft.”
“In what way?”
“You view writing as fighting,” Tower said, “don’t you?”
“Depends who I’m writing about.”
“But you see me as your foe?”
“Oh, do I ever.”
“But why?”
“You keep hurting people. Hell, your petrochemical wastes have murdered millions.”
“That bothers you? A few faceless, nameless people die so the rest of us can enjoy the benefits of industrialization? It’s called progress, Jules.”
“It’s called ‘pathological.’”
“Profitable, you mean.”
“Instead of killing and exploiting people, why don’t you use your wealth to help them?”
“Why? Has hell frozen over yet?”
“Then you’re right. You and I are in for a fight.”
“I could make it worth your while to back off.”
“What could you possibly offer?”
“Everyone has their price.”
Jules laughed in his face. “Never happen, Tower.”
“Too bad. We could have been friends.”
“But only if I backed off?” Jules asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s not all there is though, right?” Jules asked. “That’s not the only reason I’m here?”
Tower shrugged.
“What is it you want?” Jules asked.
“I only wish to propitiate a goddess.”
Jules stared at him, speechless. “Did Pallas Athena just walk in?” she finally asked, incredulous.
“I don’t want Pallas Athena. I want you.”
Jules’s laughter was harsh—a sardonic bark of scorn.
“J. T.,” Jules said, “if you and I were the last two people on earth, I’d try a bear.”
“If you really knew me, you’d like me.”
“You mean I’d … loathe you,” Jules said, still smiling but with eyes hard, dark, humorless and flat.
“We’d be good for each other. I know it.”
“Tower, I wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”
“You’re making a mistake. You don’t want to get me mad.”
“Really?” Jules gave him her widest, brightest, most ingratiating smile—with just a hint of seduction in it. “Then let’s have another drink. Where’s that Cruzan bottle?”