Manhattan Loverboy Read Online Free Page A

place where such decisions and revisions were made—Butler Hall.
    “Why? Who knows about me?” I asked.
    “I just got a phone call requesting the presence of the Whitlock Fellowship recipient, and you were the last dinosaur of that species.”
    “Do you think it might be an eleventh-hour reprieve?”
    “I’ll cross my fingers.” He illustrated the point and told me the room in which I was to report.
    Eagerly, I went back to Butler, past the angst-filled security guard, who confirmed my appointment. I located the room. A pretty secretary kept vigil out front. I noticed a Hadassah calendar on the wall behind her, a fellow tribesman.
    “Aeiou is the name,” I said suavely, “reinstatement of the Whitlock Award is the game.”
    “You’re the creep I spoke to yesterday,” she started in.
    “I spoke to you? What’s your name?”
    She held up a name plaque—Veronica. Young, chipper, smartly dressed, she looked like a personals ad from the Christian Herald Trombone.
    “I kind of lost myself yesterday. That was my telephone persona,” I said amorously. “I hope you didn’t take anything I said to heart.”
    “Actually, I was quite amused.”
    “How’s that?”
    “Well, I never heard anyone use insults so creatively. I was particularly touched by your attempt to try and find out my nationality.”
    I explained that I was a bit of a historian and that I had the dirt on every nationality. “No people are free from some kind of guilt.”
    “I’m a history major here, too.” She explained that she was on foreign exchange from Israel.
    “No kidding,” I said, nodding my head Michael-J.-Foxishly, “maybe we can get together. Interpret the Talmud.”
    “I’d like that,” she replied, and then notified the Dean that I was there. She listened for instructions, then hung up and told me to enter.
    I opened the door. Two men were standing very quietly before large windows in a darkly-lit room filled with polished-walnut furniture. Sunlight was pouring in behind them.
    “Hi, guys,” I said.
    “That’s him,” a deep bellow of masculinity made identification. My eyes and ears instantly adjusted. I realized that before me was Whitlock the Goliath, whom I had brought down just yesterday. If this meeting had taken place in the subway or on the street, I’m sure they would’ve beaten the shit out of me. But in such a nice room, with pipe smoke and heavy brocade drapes, they’d no doubt elect to go through legal channels.
    “First of all,” I began my defense, “I didn’t do anything.”
    “I never said you did,” Whitlock replied calmly.
    “You fell down of your own volition. Admit it! You panicked on your own! Admit it!”
    “So I did.”
    “When you chased me into Rizzoli’s, you scared me; don’t deny it ‘cause you did.”
    “I probably did,” he conceded.
    “No judge or jury would ever believe a tiny person like me would try to accost a tall, Olympian like you.”
    “Absolutely.”
    “You’re a witness! You’re a witness!” I exclaimed to the Dean.
    “Have a good day, Mr. Aeiou,” replied the Dean.
    “May I ask who the hell you are?” I said to the Dean.
    “A dean; now leave my office,” he said very calmly.
    I walked back to Professor Flesh’s office to try and work something out tuition-wise. But when I entered Flesh’s office, he said he’d just received a phone call ordering him to bar me from the building. Furthermore, all my academic records with the university were seized, pulled, and probably shredded. That included my baccalaureate transcripts, so I couldn’t even transfer to another school.
    “That’s illegal!” I hollered.
    “I was only following orders,” replied the history professor.
    I dashed back to Butler and past Veronica into the Office of the Dean of Covert Operations. They were both still there, bathed in shadows, hushed tones, phlegmatic laughter, and facelifts.
    “Please, Mr. Whitlock.” I threw myself to the ground. “I’m sorry for what I did, I