The Saint Read Online Free

hard to tolerate these days.
    â€œJust two.”
    Two was at least one too many. Ben Hunter was not a drunk, exactly, but he was rarely completely sober after four o’clock. In the time she had known him, he had gone from recreational drinking on weekends to almost perpetual though wellmanaged inebriation. Divorce took some people that way, but he had seemed to level off at a manageable degree of alcohol abuse. Adora felt for him, because she had danced a few rounds of the drugaddiction tango not so long ago, but was dismayed at this sign. For many, there was no proper prescription for nihilism and despair. And it was a short step from wine to Demerol and Valium, and from there to lifelong drug dependence.
    Not that this growing love of alcohol could affect Ben’s ability to precisely pronounce obscenities in three languages, or move his attention from the bottom line. Ben was always all business. But on those occasions when he crossed the line from buzzed to actually drunk, he could get unpleasant and stubborn. More than stubborn. And his hard drunks could and often did last for days.
    Still, this couldn’t wait. A job had been offered— one that paid well—and Adora had to find some excuse to take it, because she was losing her mind as well as her house. But that meant extracting a few more details from Ben—ones that contradicted the incredible message he had left on her machine.
    Squaring her shoulders, Adora said, “Thanks, Alphons. Shall I be informal and just show myself in?”
    The attendant glanced at the table where Ben was brooding, sitting in an island of shadows, all of the club’s other patrons having retreated to the edge of the room. Though an excellent employee and professional to the core, Alphons shuddered, and his smile slipped a notch. Adora didn’t blame him. Ben had a thin mouth and an insulting conversational style with those he considered his inferiors. And while Ben never called him “the midget” to his face, his discomfort with Alphons’s dwarfism was plain.
    â€œJust as you like, miss. I’ll send Luther over with your iced tea. You take it with lemon, yes?”
    â€œYes.” Adora smiled. Apparently Alphons recalled people and their foibles too. She was touched. “It’s kind of you to remember.”
    â€œNot at all. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
    She was glad that someone thought so.
    Adora squared her shoulders and marched toward Fate.
    â€œHello, Ben. Please tell me that you’re joking about this assignment. It’s really mean to tease me about money,” she said to her agent a moment later. She kept her sentences short because her breaths were necessarily shallow. She hated the odor that habitually clung to Ben even when he left his office: a mix of strong aftershave, cigarettes and burnt coffee laced with scotch, and now overlaid with a patina of wine. Many people would not have noticed, but Adora had developed a keen sense of smell since her illness. A single smoldering cigarette butt was enough to make her eyes water, and this more intense odor set her stomach to churning.
    â€œAdora, my dear, you know that I never joke— especially not about money.” This was sadly true. Ben had no discernible sense of humor these days. Perhaps that was what made him a good agent. It definitely wasn’t his winning personality or clean living that got good contracts for what few writers he had left. “Sit down—I’ve been waiting forever. And stop frowning, this offer is on the level. This guy, this Mr. Bishop S. Nicholas, is a wealthy philanthropist, and he’s willing to pay you a hundred grand to write his biography. Frankly, I don’t see what your problem is. You said that you were better now, and that you’re ready to get back in the game.”
    Adora pulled out a chair and sat down. Since Ben wasn’t kidding about the job, the conversation might take a while.