"No."
"Then can I just cop a feel?"
"I beg your pardon."
"Just a little feel. I'll give you a thousand dollars."
"The nerve. Bugger off, Jack. That's cheek for you," said Ms. Thrushwell with a British accent so hard it could sharpen knives.
"Five thousand."
"I'm calling the police."
Waldo Hammersmith shut his eyes, reached out blindly until he had something soft in his hand, gave a squeeze, then ran out of the center with people yelling after him.
His coat flapped in the breeze behind him. His legs, unused to much more than climbing into bed or walking to his limousine, strained to keep the body moving. It was like a dream. His legs felt as if they were running but his body didn't seem to be moving.
Waldo was collared on a busy New York street in front of a crowd of people whose dreary days were always improved by the humiliation of another. He was really collared. The detective grabbed him by his expensive suit jacket and marched him back into the center like a child being forcibly returned home for dinner. Pamela Thrushwell's pale Britannic features were flushed red with shock.
"Is this the man?" the detective asked her.
Waldo tried to look at the ceiling. The floor. Anywhere but at Ms. Thrushwell. If he could have, he would have pretended that he didn't know himself.
"Is this the man who tried to cop a feel?" the policeman repeated.
Waldo would gladly have faced death instead of this humiliation. Why hadn't the voice asked him to rob a store? He could be arrested for armed robbery without too much shame. But copping a feel? Even the phrase was humiliating. Waldo Hammersmith committing a crime to finagle a fondle. His soul was shredded there in front of the growing crowd. He looked up to the ceiling, feeling unworthy even to pray. He saw television monitor cameras focusing on Pamela Thrushwell's desk. Even the monitors were hanging around. They didn't move to other parts of the center. Their unblinking eyes stayed focused on Waldo and he wanted to yell at them to do their job and cover the entire floor space.
"I really do wish you would just get him out of here," Pamela said.
'It's not that easy," the detective said. "Are you charging him or do I let him go?"
"Can't you just get him out of here?" She glanced at all the people clustered around her desk. "This is so embarrassing."
"Listen, lady, the guy copped a feel. Which tit did he grab?"
Waldo looked down. Pamela covered her eyes with her hands. "Will you get out of here?" she gasped.
"Did he grab this one?" the detective said. Like testing a tomato for ripeness, he put his large hairy hand on Miss Thrushwell's left breast.
She slapped it away and demanded to see his badge.
"If you are a policeman, I have a right to ask you to remove a customer from our premises."
"On what grounds?" the detective asked.
"Disturbing the peace."
"Listen, lady, don't get so damned uppity. When you have to testify in open court, you'll have to answer these questions. Probably the jury'll want to see your knockers anyway, to see if there was any injury. So the guy grabbed you. Did you encourage him?"
"I most certainly did not."
"Did you grab him first?"
"I have heard about police embarrassing women over such things," she said coldly, "but this is ridiculous."
"Listen, I nailed this molester in the street. Are you going to charge him or not? What do you want, lady?"
There was silence in the large chrome-and-fluorescent computer center. Waldo heard someone in the back of the crowd ask what he had done.
"Tried to grab that young woman right out in front of everybody. Copped a feel."
"He sure picked the right one."
Pamela stood up at her desk, smoothed her skirt. Her blazing eyes bore into Waldo Hammersmith.
"Sir, if you leave of your own accord and promise not to return, I will not press charges," she said.
Waldo looked to the detective.
"Let's go," the detective said. He left the center with Waldo, but when Waldo tried to walk away, the detective strode with him down the street.
"Are you in trouble?" he asked. His voice was steady and concerned.
"No. I just tried to-- uh, do that thing," Waldo said.
"You don't look like the sort," the detective said.
"Thank you," said Waldo. He hung his head in shame.
"Somebody make you do it?"
"No, no. Gee, who would do that? I mean who would want me to do something so silly, right?"
The detective shrugged. He reached into his hip pocket and took out a card. "If you're in any trouble, you call me." The embossed card bore the detective's name. Detective Lieutenant Joseph Casey.
"I'm Joe Casey. You've got my home phone. You've got my department phone. If you need help, call."
"I'm all right, thank you."
"That's what everybody says when they're in over their heads," said Detective Lieutenant Joe Casey. He offered a warm hand. Waldo shook it.
He put the card inside his vest pocket and then, carefully at home, away from the vision of the new butler, he hid the card in a small ivory box. On his next Insta-Charge, he received another computer message. This time he was to appear at a different address.
It was another empty room in another vacant office in midtown Manhattan. This time, the voice in the room said:
"Goose Ms. Thrushwell."