Don't Ask Read Online Free PDF

against the mirror--and left the room.
    He'd sprung this party/meeting on her at the last minute, of course. She was still dressed for the office, in a demure long sleeved white blouse and full-cut black slacks and soft leather black boots; which would not do. (She'd been working late, filling orders.) Oh, well. She crossed to the closet, opened the door, and stood looking disconsolately into its interior like a teenager into a refrigerator.
    Nothing to wear, not a thing, as anyone on earth except Tiny would realize at a glance.
    After some little time, with deep reluctance, J.C. began to reach into the refrig--into the closet, and toss vague possibilities onto the bed.
    Then she put some back. Then she took some others out.
    When, a mere twelve minutes later, J.C. entered the living room--this had been her place originally, which Tiny had moved into, rather than the other way around, so it looked like a normal apartment in a building on Riverside Drive and not like a hollowed-out tree--she was dressed in charcoal silk slacks, chartreuse silk blouse, and black satin slippers.
    Also, she'd changed to more dangling earrings, the ones with the diamond chips, chosen a slender silver bracelet, and rearranged her hair to more of a Rita Hayworth look. All makeup, naturally, had had to be redone, to go with the new outfit. And all this, she knew in her heart of hearts, for a bunch of slobs who wouldn't notice if she walked in wearing a poncho and shower clogs.
    We do it for ourselves, not for them, she reminded herself, as them got to their feet, smiling in pleasure, and cried, "J.C.! Hey, J.C.! Long time no see!" So. John looked as hangdog as ever, Andy as chipper as ever, and Stan as bluntly serviceable as ever. They'd been sitting with beers, and now Tiny offered her one, which she accepted. "In a glass, please." It was provided, she sat in the black slipper chair in the corner--Grijk Krugnk was in her normal morris chair, over by the view of the river and New Jersey--and settled herself to listen.
    Normally, J.C. didn't concern herself about Tiny^s business, nor did he concern himself with hers, except to wish out loud every once in a while that she'd drop her best-selling line, which she had no intention of doing. From a two-room midtown office, J.C. ran a mail-order business; in fact, three of them. There was Super Star Music, which would--depending on the customer-- put music to your lyrics or lyrics to your music, at a really very moderate cost, when you consider the salaries of people like Mick Jagger and Early Simon. There was the allied Commissioners' Courses, which was a book that taught you how to be a police detective; bonus handcuffs and badge were included with every order. And there was Intertherapeutic Research Service, a profusely illustrated marital sex manual allegedly translated from the Danish but with here and there a somewhat younger J.C. identifiable in the persona of the "wife." (Guess which line Tiny wished she'd drop.) So, being a one-person operation, she had plenty to think about without worrying about Tin/s business. But, as long as she was here--or they were here--she might as well listen. And John was now saying, "So all of a sudden you got money."
    He'd said that to Grijk Krugnk, but it was Tiny who answered, saying,
    "Not all of a sudden, Dortmunder. It was hard for this tiny country."
    "Bud we have American recognition," Grijk said, raising a fat finger.
    "Wery helpful."
    John turned toward him. "You don't mind my asking," he said, "you guys were dirt-poor last time we talked, didn't have any whatchacallit currency--"
    "Hard," Grijk said, nodding his big bald head.
    "Right. So where'd you get the money?"
    "We took a loan," Grijk told him, "from Citibank."
    That astonished everybody. "From a bank›" Andy said. "InNew Torkr "Wery easy," Grijk assured them all. "Wery simple. Our first tought was da International Monetary Fund, but dey god too many forms you fill out, inspectors come to your country,