territories. But the thing is, a doctor who came out of medical school ten years ago, let's say, was told that you couldn't do anything about migraine. 'It's psychological,' they told him. So he still believes it, and he won't listen to you. And if he doesn't read anything, and he won't listen to you, if a patient has a migraine and goes to him, he'll tell him that the headache's all in the mind. It's a shame really, because such people can be helped by our drug."
"I've never had a migraine."
"They're pretty bad. They can last for hours, or even for days, sometimes. You're nauseated, and you lie flat on your back in a dark room with a wet towel over your eyes. It'll go away, eventually, but when a person gets a warning it's coming—you know, the tightening of the temples and so on—he has time to take our product and prevent the damned thing—or at least to reduce the force of it."
"Here," she said, passing me the stick, "take a drag. Sharing is part of the high, you know."
To please her, I took a short toke and returned the butt.
There was a happy shout, and I watched the guests gathering near the bar. It was time for Don to open his presents.
I rarely talked about my work, and not always truthfully when I did talk about it. But I had opened up to Jannaire, and probably bored the hell out of her. She had seemed interested, however, and the subject was interesting—at least to me. I wanted her to like me. She was a mature woman, at least thirty, I figured, and I couldn't talk to her about inconsequential matters the way I did with younger women. I also realized, sitting there, that I hadn't dated or slept with a woman older than twenty-five since I came to Miami. I wanted to kiss Jannaire. In fact, I wanted to rape her, right there on the No. 8 green, and yet I was reluctant to put my arm around her, afraid that I would be premature. Talking with Jannaire gave me an entirely different way of looking at a female.
"Do you want to watch Don open his presents?" I said.
"Not particularly. I should go, I think. I haven't even met the host or hostess..."
"This isn't a good time to meet them, either. Suppose we go somewhere and talk? To my apartment, perhaps?"
She laughed. "Apparently you like me better than Larry did."
"I'll just say 'so long' to Don, and wish him a happy birthday. Do you really want to meet him?"
"No, not in the middle of the big production number."
It was a production number. A circle of chattering bodies surrounded Don and the card table loaded with presents. Don sat in a chair beside the table, while his daughter, glorying in being the center of attention, opened the presents, one at a time, and handed them to him for inspection. Don would read the card aloud, and the guests laughed or applauded his loot. Clara, with a pencil between her teeth like a horse's bit, held a yellow legal pad. She would write the donor's name down, make a cryptic note of the present, and later on she would write nice letters of thanks, which Don would sign as his own. It was a grim business.
I stepped up to Don, put a hand on his shoulder. "Happy birthday, Don," I said in an undertone. "I'm splitting."
"What the hell is this?" He said unhappily. "Eddie is in Chicago, Larry just left, and now you—my best friends, for Christ's sake!"
I grinned. "Look what I'm leaving with—no, don't look now, and you'll understand."
I nodded politely to Clara, and ran after Jannaire, who was already at the end of the patio and opening the gate in the Cyclone fence that led to the street.
CHAPTER NINE
As I drove down Dixie Highway toward Hojo's I hugged the right lane and drove as slowly as I could get away with, wondering why I had exaggerated the healing properties of mygrote. Mygrote was
"I've never had a migraine."
"They're pretty bad. They can last for hours, or even for days, sometimes. You're nauseated, and you lie flat on your back in a dark room with a wet towel over your eyes. It'll go away, eventually, but when a person gets a warning it's coming—you know, the tightening of the temples and so on—he has time to take our product and prevent the damned thing—or at least to reduce the force of it."
"Here," she said, passing me the stick, "take a drag. Sharing is part of the high, you know."
To please her, I took a short toke and returned the butt.
There was a happy shout, and I watched the guests gathering near the bar. It was time for Don to open his presents.
I rarely talked about my work, and not always truthfully when I did talk about it. But I had opened up to Jannaire, and probably bored the hell out of her. She had seemed interested, however, and the subject was interesting—at least to me. I wanted her to like me. She was a mature woman, at least thirty, I figured, and I couldn't talk to her about inconsequential matters the way I did with younger women. I also realized, sitting there, that I hadn't dated or slept with a woman older than twenty-five since I came to Miami. I wanted to kiss Jannaire. In fact, I wanted to rape her, right there on the No. 8 green, and yet I was reluctant to put my arm around her, afraid that I would be premature. Talking with Jannaire gave me an entirely different way of looking at a female.
"Do you want to watch Don open his presents?" I said.
"Not particularly. I should go, I think. I haven't even met the host or hostess..."
"This isn't a good time to meet them, either. Suppose we go somewhere and talk? To my apartment, perhaps?"
She laughed. "Apparently you like me better than Larry did."
"I'll just say 'so long' to Don, and wish him a happy birthday. Do you really want to meet him?"
"No, not in the middle of the big production number."
It was a production number. A circle of chattering bodies surrounded Don and the card table loaded with presents. Don sat in a chair beside the table, while his daughter, glorying in being the center of attention, opened the presents, one at a time, and handed them to him for inspection. Don would read the card aloud, and the guests laughed or applauded his loot. Clara, with a pencil between her teeth like a horse's bit, held a yellow legal pad. She would write the donor's name down, make a cryptic note of the present, and later on she would write nice letters of thanks, which Don would sign as his own. It was a grim business.
I stepped up to Don, put a hand on his shoulder. "Happy birthday, Don," I said in an undertone. "I'm splitting."
"What the hell is this?" He said unhappily. "Eddie is in Chicago, Larry just left, and now you—my best friends, for Christ's sake!"
I grinned. "Look what I'm leaving with—no, don't look now, and you'll understand."
I nodded politely to Clara, and ran after Jannaire, who was already at the end of the patio and opening the gate in the Cyclone fence that led to the street.
CHAPTER NINE
As I drove down Dixie Highway toward Hojo's I hugged the right lane and drove as slowly as I could get away with, wondering why I had exaggerated the healing properties of mygrote. Mygrote was
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