reason to think about anything at all until Friday night. Friday was payday.
The soft electronic female voices were alternating on the public address system: "Telephone for Mr. Harrison Rand. Harrison Rand, telephone. Telephone for Princess Karina. Princess Karina, telephone," a steady murmur going out across the swimming pool from nowhere in particular, the volume just high enough to flicker across the corner of your consciousness. There was no more urgency to it than the constant whir and click of the slot machines in the casino.
This, he thought, was the only place he knew of where clock time didn't matter.
You measured time against the size of your bankroll—unless you were lying on a chaise longue next to the swimming pool, he remembered. Then the sun would damned well remind you what time it was if you weren't careful. Enough for today.
He sat up and put on the dark brown terrycloth robe and zoris he'd picked up in one of the hotel stores this afternoon. Then he changed his mind again.
The vast empty surface of the swimming pool sparkled at him. There was time enough for one more dip in the water, he thought. There was no reason not to do exactly as he pleased, and swimming was good for you—the best thing in the world for damaged muscles, and it would be time to stop when you didn't feel like it anymore.
The water was warm, almost hot, like a gigantic Roman bath. He swam lazily from one end to the other, testing the flex and fluidity of his muscles against the solidity and support of the water. It had always struck him as funny that they should have a heated pool that was twice the size of the ones they used in the Olympics, and that he should be alone in it every time. People who were serious about swimming didn't drive through the desert to do it. He stopped at the shallow end and let himself go limp in the warm water, feeling the deliciousness of it, held there as though by a broad, gentle hand. He floated on his back, surveying the people sprawled on lawn chairs, absorbing the sunlight. Most of them had probably been up all night, he thought. Gambling, drinking, fucking, and now they were recharging their batteries by the energy of the sun. No, they weren't swimmers, but it seemed to comfort them to be near all that water. Something to look at through your polarized sunglasses while you waited for night.
He swam back to the deep end, acutely aware of the workings of his muscles as he stroked. He was going to be all right. Everything felt exactly as he wanted it to. At least his body did. His head was going to take longer. It felt big and soft and sensitive today, a peeled pumpkin held in anxious balance on a neck too thin for it. Just so there weren't any scars on his face. The pain he could live with.
He pulled himself up out of the pool and flopped down on his chaise longue. In a few seconds he could feel the water on his body disappearing into the parched desert air, leaving his skin feeling tight. He let the sun settle its 50
gentle pressure on his face for a few moments before he put on his sunglasses.
Then he closed his eyes and let himself slip into a state that felt as good as sleep but wasn't quite a relinquishment of consciousness. "Telephone for Mr. Arthur Walters. Arthur Walters, telephone. Telephone for Mrs. Natalie Beamish, Natalie Beamish, telephone," crooned the soft unanxious voices in monotonous alternation.
"You do all that to yourself or did you have help?" said a voice above him.
His eyes flicked open for an instant like camera shutters behind the sunglasses, and brought back with them into the darkness an imprint of the familiar, hulking shape. Little Norman .
"You know how it is, Little Norman," he answered. "You want something done right, you have to do it yourself." He heard the scrape as Little Norman dragged a lawn chair across the pavement to his side. Little Norman . The first thing anybody said when he heard the name was that he never wanted to see Big Norman.
The soft electronic female voices were alternating on the public address system: "Telephone for Mr. Harrison Rand. Harrison Rand, telephone. Telephone for Princess Karina. Princess Karina, telephone," a steady murmur going out across the swimming pool from nowhere in particular, the volume just high enough to flicker across the corner of your consciousness. There was no more urgency to it than the constant whir and click of the slot machines in the casino.
This, he thought, was the only place he knew of where clock time didn't matter.
You measured time against the size of your bankroll—unless you were lying on a chaise longue next to the swimming pool, he remembered. Then the sun would damned well remind you what time it was if you weren't careful. Enough for today.
He sat up and put on the dark brown terrycloth robe and zoris he'd picked up in one of the hotel stores this afternoon. Then he changed his mind again.
The vast empty surface of the swimming pool sparkled at him. There was time enough for one more dip in the water, he thought. There was no reason not to do exactly as he pleased, and swimming was good for you—the best thing in the world for damaged muscles, and it would be time to stop when you didn't feel like it anymore.
The water was warm, almost hot, like a gigantic Roman bath. He swam lazily from one end to the other, testing the flex and fluidity of his muscles against the solidity and support of the water. It had always struck him as funny that they should have a heated pool that was twice the size of the ones they used in the Olympics, and that he should be alone in it every time. People who were serious about swimming didn't drive through the desert to do it. He stopped at the shallow end and let himself go limp in the warm water, feeling the deliciousness of it, held there as though by a broad, gentle hand. He floated on his back, surveying the people sprawled on lawn chairs, absorbing the sunlight. Most of them had probably been up all night, he thought. Gambling, drinking, fucking, and now they were recharging their batteries by the energy of the sun. No, they weren't swimmers, but it seemed to comfort them to be near all that water. Something to look at through your polarized sunglasses while you waited for night.
He swam back to the deep end, acutely aware of the workings of his muscles as he stroked. He was going to be all right. Everything felt exactly as he wanted it to. At least his body did. His head was going to take longer. It felt big and soft and sensitive today, a peeled pumpkin held in anxious balance on a neck too thin for it. Just so there weren't any scars on his face. The pain he could live with.
He pulled himself up out of the pool and flopped down on his chaise longue. In a few seconds he could feel the water on his body disappearing into the parched desert air, leaving his skin feeling tight. He let the sun settle its 50
gentle pressure on his face for a few moments before he put on his sunglasses.
Then he closed his eyes and let himself slip into a state that felt as good as sleep but wasn't quite a relinquishment of consciousness. "Telephone for Mr. Arthur Walters. Arthur Walters, telephone. Telephone for Mrs. Natalie Beamish, Natalie Beamish, telephone," crooned the soft unanxious voices in monotonous alternation.
"You do all that to yourself or did you have help?" said a voice above him.
His eyes flicked open for an instant like camera shutters behind the sunglasses, and brought back with them into the darkness an imprint of the familiar, hulking shape. Little Norman .
"You know how it is, Little Norman," he answered. "You want something done right, you have to do it yourself." He heard the scrape as Little Norman dragged a lawn chair across the pavement to his side. Little Norman . The first thing anybody said when he heard the name was that he never wanted to see Big Norman.
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