Memorial Day After

The vice-boss came in this morning with a nasty burn. "Wow," I said, "some burn." "That's what you get when you have three gin-and-tonics on an empty stomach and pass out on a deck chair," which cleared things up with bracing honesty, but lead to more questions. I kept them to myself. The vice-boss was all too willing to share details of her personal life (I'd found that out the hard way. Didn't want to know about the time she flashed Bill Clinton.) "Come into my office." I followed her in. "Shut the door." "What do you think about the New Man?" "He's fine," I said, sensing a trap. "Ri-ight, fine." She tapped her fingers on her desk. "I think the President's office sent him to spy on us." I'd thought the same thing, but when she said it like that it sounded paranoid. There was a knock on the door. The contessa poked her head in, she gave me a look of sympathy, "The New Man called to say he was stuck in Fire island." "Fire Island," the vice-boss said. "Interesting."