Shift: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

in the direction of the bar. “I was just coming to call you. I think he’s ready to go.”
    “Looks to me like he came and went a long time ago.” Morganthau was shaking his head. “I feel as though I’m witnessing the secrets of the harem.”
    There was something wrong, Naz thought. Morganthau was
too
disgusted. Too jealous. Remembering her suspicions when Chandler mentioned his family connections, she said, “Do you know him?”
    Beneath the brim of his hat, Morganthau’s thin lips curled into something that she thought was supposed to be a sheepish grin, but came off as a sneer.
    “Chandler Forrestal. He was in my older brother’s class at Andover. Captain of the lacrosse team and the debating club. Uncle was secretary of defense, Daddy ran one of the biggest pharmaceutical companies this side of the Atlantic until he gambled everything on a government contract that his brother personally blocked. He hung himself when Chandler was thirteen, and a year later Uncle Jimmy jumped out a window of the Bethesda Naval Hospital. Chandler went off to Harvard like he was supposed to, but instead of going prelaw he studied philosophy, then went for his doctorate in, what was it, comparative religion? Something ridiculous like that. I heard he even talked about becoming a man of the cloth. But I see he’s become a man of the bottle instead.”
    Naz listened as Morganthau rattled off this capsule history, less interested in the facts than the vehemence with which Morganthau recounted them. Although she had no idea what had prompted his anger, it was clear he didn’t just know Chandler: he’d set this up. This was more than a prank, or research for that matter. This was revenge.
    “You make it sound like he’s a murderer. Why should you care if he wants to study religion, or preach it for that matter?”
    “Because he turned his back on his duty. His family. His
country.”
    “Maybe he had something he had to do for himself. Before he could help ‘his country.’”
    But Morganthau was shaking his head. “Men like us don’t have the luxury of ironic quotation marks, now less than ever. There’s a war on, and the stakes, in case you missed the little brouhaha in Cuba last year, are bigger than ever.”
    All of a sudden Naz realized she was drunk. Drunk and tired. Terribly, terribly tired.
    “Why are you making me do this?”
    Morganthau’s lips quivered. Smile or smirk, Naz couldn’t tell.
    “Because I knew he wouldn’t be able to say no to you.”
    “Not
him,”
Naz said.
“This
. You’ve said there are other girls. Girls who want to do it. Who find it exciting. So why make me do it against my will?”
    Morganthau’s head turned toward the main room, then back to Naz. He put his hand on her shoulder—not heavily, but not altogether lightly either.
    “No one’s making you do anything, Naz. Just say the word and you won’t ever have to ask someone to buy you a drink again.”
    Morganthau’s hand squeezed Naz’s shoulder, not tightly, but not loosely either. His lips were visible beneath the shadow of his hat, moist, parted slightly, his breath hot in her face and laced with Irish whiskey. For a moment the two of them just stood like that, but then, when Morganthau leaned in for a kiss, she stepped back and shrugged his hand off her shoulder. Morganthau inhaled sharply. His head tipped back and for a moment his whole face was visible, the boyish charm disfigured by lust and contempt. Then he hunched forward and it disappeared again, although the feelings still radiated out of him like heat from an open oven.
    He shoved a hand into his pocket. “Here. Give him this instead of the usual stuff.”
    Naz slipped the glassine into her purse, less wary than weary. “A new formula?”
    “In a manner of speaking.” Another mirthless smirk flickered over Morganthau’s thin lips. “Give me ten minutes before you head out. I definitely want to set the camera up for this one.”

Camagüey Province, Cuba
October