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the Quickway. His lips formed a moue of distaste. Not even the fine Rokeach soap had been able to dispel it.
    The two burly troopers had sniffed it, too, but had held off their queries until they examined the molten mess behind the billboard. A frightened tramp who had been squatting behind the billboard had emerged screaming: “Geez, ol’ Lukey can’t even take a dump without them there crazy drivers a-tryin’ ter run me down!” They handed him several sheets of Kleenex and booked him as a material witness.
    “Okay,” said one of them curtly to Bond. “I’m Trooper Crawford; this here’s Trooper Broderick. Now what the hell was all this shootin’ about? You damn near kilt us both.”
    I’d jolly well better make this good, Bond thought. He smiled: “It’s all right, trooper. We’re sort of in the same line of work.” And he produced his gold-edged top-priority security card from his wallet. On the other side was a photo of Fay Wray.

    “This don’t mean a damn thing to me,” snapped Crawford. “We’re takin’ you in.”
    “Call this number first,” Bond said indifferently. Taken aback by his coolness in an awkward spot, the two exchanged glances and led him to their car from which they radioed their dispatcher. The latter, putting his phone up to the microphone so they could hear, dialed.
    “CIA—one moment, please.”
    “Uh, this is Sgt. Gurski, radio dispatcher for the New York Quickway State Police. We got some guy here named Israel Bond. Says he knows you.”
    Bond lit a Raleigh. “Have one, lads?”
    They grunted eagerly, reaching their meaty hands for the pack. “You smoke ‘em, too, huh?” said Broderick, the slightly smaller one. “Us too. That’s how we got the patrol car ... 15,000 coupons.”
    I daresay constabularies all over the world are feeling the pinch, Bond reflected. And though it stabbed his heart to do it, he reasoned it was time for a magnanimous gesture. He ripped the coupon from the pack. “Here, officer. Keep it.”
    “Geez,” said the trooper. “You’re all right, pal.”
    A voice crackled through the static: “Troopers, this is Monroe Goshen, head of the Mid-East section of CIA. Release Mr. Bond. I’ll be responsible. This is not—I repeat—not a matter for local jurisdiction. Put him on, please.”
    Broderick, somewhat subdued, handed Bond his car mike. “Just talk into that, sir.”
    “Iz, you old Hebe sex maniac, you!” Goshen’s voice was jovial, but held a note of concern. “What the hell have you mucked up now?”
    “Nothing, Monroe, you old goyischeh New England lobster pot!” He heard Goshen’s appreciative chuckle. They’d crossed paths before and had a warm regard for one another. In fact, it was Bond who had brought a breath of spring to Goshen’s reticent, dour life, fixing up the CIA operative with his first sexual encounter at the age of 43. “Beats fishin’ for stripers,” the staid New Englander had admitted in a rare moment of self-revelation.
    Bond swiftly explained the attempt on Loxfinger’s life (which Goshen had learned anyway from one of his key sources—the Huntley-Brinkley Report), his interception of the bungler-assassin’s car, the shots, the fiery climax behind the billboard. “Nothing much left of him, Monroe, but I did find a charred amulet with some symbols I’m quite familiar with. He’s from the Lebanese Order for Unified Sabotage and Espionage.”

    “So, you got the LOUSE? Good! Listen, Iz, I’ll have to do a coverup job, fast! We’ll have to doctor up the story. ‘Course we can’t afford to have your renowned Old Man Moneybags killed on our real estate, but we do have relations with Lebanon, too. I’ll have the local boys enter it as death by natural causes— vehicular accident. Tell them to forget they ever met you ... and get the hell out of there. Oh, and put the tramp in the pokey for a couple o’ nights; see that he gets a big jug o’ Sneaky Pete every two hours. Two nights in stir and