Fine told the story. He was a good storyteller, and his descriptions of the man whose Studebaker had blown up and the juvenile counselor’s disappointment at losing the chance to rehabilitate Fulmar and Canidy had the others laughing boisterously.
‘‘And proving beyond doubt my uncle Max’s belief that it’s a small world, Eric Fulmar’s the reason I’m in Washington, ’’ Fine said. ‘‘Eric’s in Morocco, and that is worrying the studio.’’
‘‘Why should that worry the studio?’’ Canidy asked. ‘‘Oh, because of his mother?’’
Fine nodded. ‘‘It would be embarrassing if it became public knowledge that he exists at all, and it would probably kill her at the box office if it came out that he’s part German.’’
‘‘He’s not a German, he’s an American,’’ Whittaker snorted.
‘‘He may think of himself as an American, but I have to establish that once and for all, and when I do, that opens the next question.’’
‘‘Which is?’’ Canidy asked.
‘‘What is the legal position, vis-à-vis the draft, of people with dual citizenship?’’ Fine said. ‘‘And of people like Eric, who are out of the country? Does the law require an expatriate to register for the draft? If so, when? When the law goes into effect? Or when the expatriate returns to the United States?’’
‘‘Interesting question,’’ Chesty Whittaker said.
‘‘And then,’’ Canidy said, ‘‘there is the question of the draft dodger himself.’’
Cynthia and Fine both gave him a dirty look.
‘‘Catching him, I mean,’’ Canidy said. ‘‘After you ambulance chasers have come to all your solemn legal decisions, there is the question of applying them.’’
‘‘I can see it now,’’ Jim Whittaker said. ‘‘A platoon of Cynthia’s Foggy Bottom cronies, in top hats and morning coats, struggling through the sandy wastes . . .’’
‘‘With a draft notice in their hands,’’ Canidy ordered.
‘‘And there, on top of the dunes, our hero . . .’’ Whittaker came in.
‘‘On a white stallion, dressed up like Rudolph Valentino in The Sheik, saluting . . .’’
Whittaker demonstrated the salute, using the third finger on his left hand in an upward position.
Canidy laughed heartily and went on. ‘‘And, with a cry of ‘Fuck you! I am the little boy who never existed, you can’t draft me! Fight your own damned war,’ galloping off into the sunset.’’
‘‘My God, you’re disgusting,’’ Cynthia said.
‘‘I think,’’ Jim Whittaker said, ‘‘that you’re in trouble, Richard.’’
‘‘I think you two owe everyone an apology for your vulgarity, ’’ Chesty Whittaker said furiously.
‘‘I’m sorry,’’ Canidy said.
‘‘Well, hell, I’m not,’’ Jim Whittaker said. ‘‘And I’m not going to be a hypocrite about it. No harm was intended.’’
‘‘You don’t feel you owe Cynthia an apology, is that what you’re saying?’’ Chesty Whittaker asked, softly and coldly.
‘‘For what?’’
‘‘For your language and that obscene gesture.’’
‘‘This, you mean?’’ Jim Whittaker asked, making the gesture again. ‘‘Cynthia doesn’t even know what it means. And Canidy said ‘fuck,’ not me.’’
Chesty Whittaker’s face whitened.
‘‘Stanley, Cynthia, I apologize to you for my nephew and his friend. I can only say that they have obviously had too much to drink.’’
‘‘I have not yet begun to drink,’’ Whittaker said, ‘‘as one sailor or another is supposed to have said.’’