The only phone message was from Ethel Rosewater.
"I'm just calling to check if any of your body parts are still on strike," she said cheerily when he returned her call.
"You don't beat around the bush, do you, Ethel?" Dean answered.
"Time is money, honey. If you're still having a problem I'll have to dial-a-stud. I could always call in Arthur for you, if you're changing your persuasion. I mean, if a fabulous body like mine can't get you going, maybe...."
"That's not funny, Ethel."
"Oh, don't go and get all glum-bum on me. I was just kidding."
Somehow he wasn't in the mood for Ethel's brand of jokes. He could still picture Ralph slowly turning, the flies beginning to gather. "Look, maybe we'd better slack off for a while, Ethel- what do you think?"
After a measure of dead silence came Ethel's cold voice. "It's little Miss Perfect, isn't it?" He didn't answer. "She does it better than me, huh?"
He took a deep breath. "I wouldn't know," he answered coldly. "We just talk," and then he added, "with the lights on." The phone slammed in his ear like a truck backfiring.
As soon as he'd said it he regretted it. He tried to call her back but only heard a busy signal. Sighing deeply, he told Rita he was finished for the day, jogged down the stairs to his car, and fought the late afternoon crosstown traffic to Ethel Rosewater's office.
The two women in the outer office of the Rosewater and Atherton suite looked up and started to say something as Dean waltzed by to Ethel's closed-door chamber. Ethel was standing by the window, handkerchief in hand, looking like an Indian mourner at her husband's pyre. When she saw him, a look of fury crossed her face. She grabbed the closest object, a brass paperweight, and hurled it at him, bouncing it off a picture of her shaking hands with the late governor, sending glass flying.
"Get out of here, you bastard!" she shrieked.
He crossed the room in quick strides and pinned her arms behind her back.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not about to end this business with us screaming at each other!"
"Just get out!" she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. Ethel, less than attractive in the best of times, looked horrible. Mascara ran in muddy little rivulets down her cheeks, and her eyes were as red as a three-day drunk.
"My 'lights out' crack was uncalled for, but so was what you said. Now let's acts like a couple of adults."
"I can't help it," she said, still sobbing, "I don't do rejection well." Her body began to relax as he held her tightly. Someone knocked on the door but Ethel just yelled, "Go away." He let her have her cry. Finally, he took out a handkerchief and wiped the messy streaks from her cheeks and managed to get a halfhearted smile.