"The last year I was in," Joe said, "we lost our clerk. The Major made me the clerk because I was the only one who knew how to type. We had this guy, Captain Sampson, who went by the book. He used to send guys back to the barracks if their socks weren't right. He was O.K., really; he thought it was what he was supposed to do--keep the troops sharp, good for morale, and so on. He didn't know any better." Joe took a swallow of beer. "One day I got an emergency message addressed to Captain Sampson. Why hadn't he reported for his plagu shot? They left off the 'e' in plague. I knew right away what had happened. His Nam orders had gotten lost somewhere. I took the message over to him and watched him turn pale. Bye, bye, Sammy, I said to myself. They were just grabbing people for Nam when I got out." "I had a college deferment for a while," Patrick said. "I hope I don't get drafted. I'd probably leave the country." "Canada?" Wendell asked. "South America or Europe," Patrick said. "I'd never go," Wendell said. "I wouldn't do their dirty work, the assholes." "They don't want old men, anyway," Joe said. "I may be old," Wendell said, "but I can put you on your ass, Joe Burke." "So could Willow," Joe said, grinning. "It's a female thing," Willow said to Wendell who might or might not be accepting this. "Female thing," he said looking at her breasts. This was comfortable territory. "Ha, ha. There's male things, and there's female things." Joe held up his glass. "Right on, Wendell." Willow finished her beer and left. They were a pretty decent bunch, she thought as she pedaled home. They treated her like one of the guys, almost. She was getting used to conversations full of fuck this and fuck that. It was a relief after the cautious academic world of her parents. When she arrived home, she was flushed from the ride. Amber was still out. She made a sandwich and went to bed with Henry Miller who was dependably self-involved, hip, sexy, and good humored. 3 The next morning, in the News Shop, Parker Ives introduced Patrick to Wilson. "Willy, you and Patrick get started on the Van Slyke house." He rubbed his forehead. "She's intense about her roses; better cover them. The lilacs, too. I'll be around later with more primer." "Ya, Boss. Let's go, Patrick." Wilson was short and muscular, balding, with a thick black mustache and a glass eye. He drove at top speed up the mountain, stopping several miles from town in the driveway of a white Colonial. Purple lilacs leaned out from each side of the front door; rose bushes extended to the ends of the house. They covered the roses with drop cloths and tied a tarpaulin around each lilac. A woman wearing linen slacks and a cafe-au-lait blouse appeared at the corner of the house. Her hair was blonde, short, and well cut. "Good morning. Is Parker here?" "He will be, later," Wilson said. She nodded and drove away in a station wagon, tires crunching on gravel.