“I’m your factotum,” I said. “I take care of things. I don’t know what kind of fancy Mickey Finn they slipped you, but you clearly need taking care of.”
Wolfe grunted with repressed urgency and gripped the bedpost. “Pfui! Archie, there are things that are beyond the call of duty. Satyriasis is one. Dr. Vollmer said it will pass. Leave me.
Lock me in and let me suffer in privacy.”
I shook my head. “Nothing doing. I’m not abandoning you to the worst case of blue balls the world has ever seen. Now drop your trousers and let me help.”
I don’t know why Wolfe decided he wanted to see Saul Panzer’s weekly poker game. I guess geniuses get curious sometimes. I don’t know who taught him to play. He probably read a book.
I can’t remember who suggested we ante clothes after Wolfe had all the chips. Probably Orrie. I do remember when his luck started to turn.
Books and bluffs will only take you so far if you haven’t got the cards. Most of all, I remember the sweet satisfaction of being the only one with trousers still on.
He wears boxers, if you’re wondering. Black silk boxers.
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