I sat in one of the chairs by the fire, the chair with arms. He stood in front of me, but didn’t say anything. Didn’t move either. ‘Your clothes... sir,’ I reminded him. ‘What about them, Wright?’ He put his hands on his hips and glared at me. ‘Take ‘em off, sir,’ I ordered haughtily, waving a hand lazily. ‘Bossy little thing,’ he said. ‘You aren’t in charge here, Wright.’ ‘I know that, sir. My pussy is. Show me your body.’ I grinned unrepentantly. ‘Strip. You don’t even have to wriggle, sir.’ He. A couple of men were playing checkers; most were just chatting, working on their gloves and watching the clock and the TV set. Bob Philips from the Post and a new guy from the Times were waiting for me. The three of us squeezed into my office, and I flipped on my Mac, a newly acquired habit."Gonna be a game?" asked the Times' reporter."Hope so," I said."Gregory?" asked Philips.I nodded. "And everybody else. This is it, you know." How come you're working so hard here at the tag end of a bad. More

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