It was maddening. Even Beatrice the crone—as she’s called by many of the executives, but not to her face—was laying down complements and flirtin... with me, and she never flirts with anyone. Beatrice wasn’t old, maybe five years my senior, but she dressed old. She always sported a bee-hive hairdo and cats-eye reading glasses, the kind popular with matrons in the 1950’s. She was thin, flat-chested, dour and sour in looks and spirit. Looks and mean-spiritedness aside, she was very protective of. Stevens was there all dressed up an eager to go. She fussed around an gave me a contact phone number as well as 50 to spend on any stuff we wanted. As soon as she had given Brad a big kiss goodbye an left, Brad turned on me an said `Dont you dare try to touch me again not even my feet ok? Nice greeting, but to the point. I told him that I had better things to do than worry about his sorry ass tonight, which I knew would get his interest. I had programmed my phone play a `received tone every 10. More

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