was immensely glad that she was not. “You’ve found yourself some soft luscious pussycunt who is telling you how marvelous you are, what a great mind you’ve got, what a great lover, what a great talent, what a great man. And you’re lapping it up. A piece of flufftail who wouldn’t have looked at you before I made you rich and famous. It’s what you always do. Everytime you go. You weak pimp.”
Grant didn’t answer. Ruefully he wished it had been even half true those other times, what she said. It hadn’t always happened. It hadn’t ever happened—yet.
“Hello?” she said. “Hello?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me, you son of a bitch,” she said. She waited. “Hunt is coming down soon.”
How could all this shit she said sound so sane out in Indiana, and sound so ridiculous here in the New Weston?
“I said, Hunt’s coming down soon,” Carol said. Again she waited. “Then we’re going on to Ganado Bay. I want you to get your ass down here now, right away.”
“I’m not coming,” Grant said thickly.
“What? What? What do you mean you’re not coming?”
“I’m staying here. For—for an indefinite period. Couple of weeks.”
“Then I’m going without you!” Carol Abernathy shouted threateningly, and hung up leaving his ear ringing from the broken circuit.
Grant had sweat so much that he went in and took another shower, though he probably wouldn’t have noticed it if he’d had clothes on. Only then, after his hollow stomach and the nerves in his knees had settled down, did he feel up to calling Lucky. Whence this feeling all the time of getting caught, this fear of getting caught? That same figure. It was always that same figure: black-clad, mantilla-ed, dark-hidden face, standing on the cathedral steps pointing. Carol Abernathy couldn’t do anything to him. If she had thought he would call her right back, she was wrong.
The warm rich voice was like a kiss in his ear. And what little she said said everything, and Grant knew he had been right about her face yesterday.
“Where’ve you been?” Lucky said. “I thought maybe since you didn’t call you were on your way over already.”
“I am now,” Grant said simply.
On the way over he stopped off in some bar and had two quick, delicious martinis, savouring the quiet late-morning slack time of the bar, savoring the time he could afford to waste now, before going on to what he had waited for so long.
It always seemed to Grant afterwards that their two naked bodies had met in the center of the room with a smack like the clap of two huge and irate, omnipotent God-hands summoning a recalcitrant Universal Waiter. But he knew that couldn’t be true. She had had clothes on he was sure, and he certainly had to be dressed, coming in from the outside as he was. So there must have been some conversation, if only to fill up the time required in getting clothes off. But he couldn’t remember. The most enduring image he had of that day was of himself lying on the livingroom couch and Lucky astraddle him and kneeling over his face, then drooping like some stricken flower with the champagne hair falling over her face almost to those beautiful breasts as she cried out, and collapsing on him. It turned out that Lucky, either because of the way she was built or maybe it was psychological she admitted shyly, could have a real orgasm in only one way. And Grant, whose first play about a sailor’s love affair with a Honolulu whore was more autobiographical than generally supposed and who had learned his lovemaking in one of the toughest schools in the world, was her boy. He was oral-oriented if he was anything.
This did not for her however injure her need of and liking for simple sexual intercourse, and so it was growing scratchy dark outside the windows when her roommate Leslie knocked discreetly on the apartment door. She did this because Lucky had taken the precaution of hanging a DO NOT DISTURB sign from the Beverly Hills Hotel
Grant didn’t answer. Ruefully he wished it had been even half true those other times, what she said. It hadn’t always happened. It hadn’t ever happened—yet.
“Hello?” she said. “Hello?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me, you son of a bitch,” she said. She waited. “Hunt is coming down soon.”
How could all this shit she said sound so sane out in Indiana, and sound so ridiculous here in the New Weston?
“I said, Hunt’s coming down soon,” Carol said. Again she waited. “Then we’re going on to Ganado Bay. I want you to get your ass down here now, right away.”
“I’m not coming,” Grant said thickly.
“What? What? What do you mean you’re not coming?”
“I’m staying here. For—for an indefinite period. Couple of weeks.”
“Then I’m going without you!” Carol Abernathy shouted threateningly, and hung up leaving his ear ringing from the broken circuit.
Grant had sweat so much that he went in and took another shower, though he probably wouldn’t have noticed it if he’d had clothes on. Only then, after his hollow stomach and the nerves in his knees had settled down, did he feel up to calling Lucky. Whence this feeling all the time of getting caught, this fear of getting caught? That same figure. It was always that same figure: black-clad, mantilla-ed, dark-hidden face, standing on the cathedral steps pointing. Carol Abernathy couldn’t do anything to him. If she had thought he would call her right back, she was wrong.
The warm rich voice was like a kiss in his ear. And what little she said said everything, and Grant knew he had been right about her face yesterday.
“Where’ve you been?” Lucky said. “I thought maybe since you didn’t call you were on your way over already.”
“I am now,” Grant said simply.
On the way over he stopped off in some bar and had two quick, delicious martinis, savouring the quiet late-morning slack time of the bar, savoring the time he could afford to waste now, before going on to what he had waited for so long.
It always seemed to Grant afterwards that their two naked bodies had met in the center of the room with a smack like the clap of two huge and irate, omnipotent God-hands summoning a recalcitrant Universal Waiter. But he knew that couldn’t be true. She had had clothes on he was sure, and he certainly had to be dressed, coming in from the outside as he was. So there must have been some conversation, if only to fill up the time required in getting clothes off. But he couldn’t remember. The most enduring image he had of that day was of himself lying on the livingroom couch and Lucky astraddle him and kneeling over his face, then drooping like some stricken flower with the champagne hair falling over her face almost to those beautiful breasts as she cried out, and collapsing on him. It turned out that Lucky, either because of the way she was built or maybe it was psychological she admitted shyly, could have a real orgasm in only one way. And Grant, whose first play about a sailor’s love affair with a Honolulu whore was more autobiographical than generally supposed and who had learned his lovemaking in one of the toughest schools in the world, was her boy. He was oral-oriented if he was anything.
This did not for her however injure her need of and liking for simple sexual intercourse, and so it was growing scratchy dark outside the windows when her roommate Leslie knocked discreetly on the apartment door. She did this because Lucky had taken the precaution of hanging a DO NOT DISTURB sign from the Beverly Hills Hotel
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