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done.
    But then everything Ash McKell set out to do he did skillfully. Dane had never known that his father knew karate until the night they caught a sneak thief in the McKell apartment. His father had broken the man’s wrist and three of his ribs with no more than a few blurred gestures.
    Dane ordered a third gin and tonic, and over this one he felt anger return. It was all very complex, no doubt, but there was nothing complex about Ashton McKell’s romance. To commit adultery almost directly over his wife’s head! It was plain vulgarity, mean as hell.
    Did his mother know that her rival occupied the penthouse?
    Dane tossed off his drink. Whether she knew or not (and if he were betting on it, he would have bet that she knew), something had to be done.
    He did not attempt to rationalize the compulsion, any more than he could have rationalized his feelings toward his mother. She was silly, arbitrary, hopelessly old-fashioned, out of place and time, and he adored her. Whether he adored her because of what she was or in spite of it did not matter. Her reason for being was threatened, and who else was there to remove the threat?
    Now a rather leering interloper crept into his thoughts.
    What to do next … break up the affair, certainly, but how? He asked the question, not rhetorically—he had no doubt that it could be done—but in order to organize his modus operandi … That was when the intruder crept in.
    For the first time, under the liberating influence of the alcohol, Dane admitted to himself that his feelings were not unmixed. He did feel sorry for his mother. He did feel angry with his father. But why was he also feeling enjoyment? Self-satisfaction, really?
    Dane ordered another gin and tonic.
    First, there had been the ridiculous ease with which he had uncovered the identity of his father’s paramour, and their trysting place. Small as the triumph was, it gratified him. We all like to think we’re so noble, he reflected, when what really pleases us in our relationships with others is our little part in events, not theirs.
    To self-satisfaction he had to add excitement. The emotion was definitely there, his personal response to a challenge. It derived from the nature of the situation. It was a story situation—one of the oldest in literature, true; still, it might have come from anyone’s typewriter. It raised plot questions. How would I handle it if it were a situation in one of my stories? Could people be manipulated in life as handily as on paper? If they could … Here was real creation!—the creation of action and reaction in context with a cast of flesh-and-blood characters, one of whom was himself.
    And the delicious, the best part of it was that it would be done without any of the principals being in the least aware that they were puppets!
    Am I a monster? Dane wondered, sipping moodily at his fourth gin and tonic. But then aren’t all writers monsters? Cannibals feeding off the flesh of friends and enemies alike, converting them into a different form of energy for the sheer joy of digestion? (And how much of it, Dane thought ruefully, followed the human economy and went down the drain!) The truth was, any writer worth his salt would give a year off his life for a chance like this. (Thackeray coming downstairs, weeping. “What is the matter, Henry? “I have just killed Colonel Newcombe!” How the old boy would have risen, like a trout to the lure, to such an opportunity!) It was commonplace for authors to make lemonade out of the lemons handed them by life, and poor pink stuff it became, too. How would the real thing look and taste …?
    By his sixth gin Dane was drawing bold lines on the table with the condensation from his glass. Thus, thus, and thus:
    He would contrive to meet Sheila Grey.
    He would make love to her.
    He would make her love him.
    He would displace his father in her life.
    That should do it.
    How would his father react to being