car thief, a dope dealer, and a journalist.”
She laughed. “Boy, does that sound bleak. But you know, they were all okay, except for the journalist, and he was the one who looked best on the surface.” She broke it off and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. “So I’m telling you all this because it’s like an imitation of being intimate. It’s about as close as I can get to it right now, and that’s probably one reason things feel static to you. But this is the deal: I met you, I fell for you, and I’ve gone wherever you went and I’ve appreciated it that you haven’t told me to get lost—wait, it’s not as abject as that. Let’s take your first question at face value, shall we? Would I rather be in my sunny little apartment with all my books than in this—this
aviary
, or whatever it is? You bet your ass, I would. But would I rather be there without you or here with you? Well, hell, you know the answer to that.”
“But should you have to? I mean, thank you for what you just said. It’s, um, it makes me feel good for the first time in a really bad day. But shouldn’t I have asked you where you wanted to be? Shouldn’t I—”
“Maybe,” she said. “But you know what? Who gives a damn? Maybe you could be marginally more sensitive, but you know, one of the things about this relationship is that we know how to leave each other alone. We’re not always touching each other’s moist noses to double-check whether every little thing is all right.”
I said, “No.”
“So, what I asked you before. Is this—this thing we’re doing—is it going, as far as you’re concerned, in the direction of love?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Then I don’t care,” she said, and she rolled over and put her hand on my cheek. “We can sleep in the fucking car as far as I’m concerned.”
She had six little moles on the side of her neck that looked a little like the Big Dipper, which is to say they looked slightly more like the Big Dipper than they didn’t. I traced the dipper with my forefinger for the hundredth time and said, “I’m getting off too easily.”
She pushed her shoulder into me, just getting closer, and said, “I tell myself that every day.”
The next morning—the beginning of my first full day in a world without Herbie in it—Wattles was still unfindable and Janice had apparently followed him. I wondered how Limpopo was this time of year.
It had to be better than the Valley, which was suffocating. It couldn’t have been hotter if the sky had been a big brown electric blanket set to high—brown because the inversion layer, which I understand intermittently, had slammed its lid on top of the mountains, sealing in the hydrocarbons and the stench and the little quick-shimmy cough-ticklers that smog plants in the back of your throat. It wasn’t that long ago that the Valley was all blue skies and orange trees and red tomato plants, but progress had had its way with us, and now for consolation we had a lot of pavement and a system of alerts to reassure us that suffocation was safely months away.
Louie had replaced the gunperson on Kathy’s street with another one, who would be replaced after six hours by yet another. They would park within fifty or seventy-five yards of the house, facing it, with the gun no more than a few inches from their preferred hand.
“Got you a bargain,” he said. “You know who’s out there right now? Debbie Halstead.”
“It better be a bargain. Debbie gets five figures, and the first figure is usually a seven.”
“One-eighty an hour, she said, special for you,” Louie said. “Girl last night was one-ten, but Debbie, Debbie could shoot out every other eyelash at fifty paces.”
“Well, say hi to Debbie for me.” Debbie was a hitperson with a big smile and an infectious laugh who cozied up to targets and stuck a tiny .22 into the nearer ear. She’d essentially saved my life eight to ten months ago. No, not
essentially
. She’d saved my life,
She laughed. “Boy, does that sound bleak. But you know, they were all okay, except for the journalist, and he was the one who looked best on the surface.” She broke it off and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her palms. “So I’m telling you all this because it’s like an imitation of being intimate. It’s about as close as I can get to it right now, and that’s probably one reason things feel static to you. But this is the deal: I met you, I fell for you, and I’ve gone wherever you went and I’ve appreciated it that you haven’t told me to get lost—wait, it’s not as abject as that. Let’s take your first question at face value, shall we? Would I rather be in my sunny little apartment with all my books than in this—this
aviary
, or whatever it is? You bet your ass, I would. But would I rather be there without you or here with you? Well, hell, you know the answer to that.”
“But should you have to? I mean, thank you for what you just said. It’s, um, it makes me feel good for the first time in a really bad day. But shouldn’t I have asked you where you wanted to be? Shouldn’t I—”
“Maybe,” she said. “But you know what? Who gives a damn? Maybe you could be marginally more sensitive, but you know, one of the things about this relationship is that we know how to leave each other alone. We’re not always touching each other’s moist noses to double-check whether every little thing is all right.”
I said, “No.”
“So, what I asked you before. Is this—this thing we’re doing—is it going, as far as you’re concerned, in the direction of love?”
“Hell, yes.”
“Then I don’t care,” she said, and she rolled over and put her hand on my cheek. “We can sleep in the fucking car as far as I’m concerned.”
She had six little moles on the side of her neck that looked a little like the Big Dipper, which is to say they looked slightly more like the Big Dipper than they didn’t. I traced the dipper with my forefinger for the hundredth time and said, “I’m getting off too easily.”
She pushed her shoulder into me, just getting closer, and said, “I tell myself that every day.”
The next morning—the beginning of my first full day in a world without Herbie in it—Wattles was still unfindable and Janice had apparently followed him. I wondered how Limpopo was this time of year.
It had to be better than the Valley, which was suffocating. It couldn’t have been hotter if the sky had been a big brown electric blanket set to high—brown because the inversion layer, which I understand intermittently, had slammed its lid on top of the mountains, sealing in the hydrocarbons and the stench and the little quick-shimmy cough-ticklers that smog plants in the back of your throat. It wasn’t that long ago that the Valley was all blue skies and orange trees and red tomato plants, but progress had had its way with us, and now for consolation we had a lot of pavement and a system of alerts to reassure us that suffocation was safely months away.
Louie had replaced the gunperson on Kathy’s street with another one, who would be replaced after six hours by yet another. They would park within fifty or seventy-five yards of the house, facing it, with the gun no more than a few inches from their preferred hand.
“Got you a bargain,” he said. “You know who’s out there right now? Debbie Halstead.”
“It better be a bargain. Debbie gets five figures, and the first figure is usually a seven.”
“One-eighty an hour, she said, special for you,” Louie said. “Girl last night was one-ten, but Debbie, Debbie could shoot out every other eyelash at fifty paces.”
“Well, say hi to Debbie for me.” Debbie was a hitperson with a big smile and an infectious laugh who cozied up to targets and stuck a tiny .22 into the nearer ear. She’d essentially saved my life eight to ten months ago. No, not
essentially
. She’d saved my life,
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