they did, don’t you give them a big tip and go to them again?”
“At my age, I’m not sure I’ll have any more moving jobs for you, unless it’s moving us into the old-age home,” Francis said.
“You never went to a whore, did you?” Don said.
“Shut up,” Jim said.
“I’m not bragging,” Don said. “I never did it in Kuwait. I did it once in Las Vegas, and once in the Combat Zone, when one almost pulled me outta my car. She was terrible, but the one in Vegas had red hair.”
“I’ve been to Vegas,” Francis said. “But you’re right—not for anyone’s services. I was with Hugh Hefner, who had to fly there to pick up the sister of that month’s Playmate, to help Miss November, or whoever she was, get her twin into rehab. They were only seventeen, lying that they were eighteen.”
“What?” Jim said. “You’re puttin’ us on.”
“No,” Francis said, with the dismissive tone of someone telling the truth. “No, I was advising Hugh Hefner about a legal matter I’m still not free to disclose. We talked business on the plane, because we thought a trial might be coming up soon. I found him to be a gentleman. This was long before he went everywhere in pajamas.”
They rode in silence for a moment. Then Jim said, “So did it work out O.K. with the sister?”
“She completed rehab but died in a skiing accident,” Francis said. He could feel it as if it were yesterday: Hefner’s broken voice on the phone, going straight into his ear.
“You wouldn’t have struck me as the sort of guy who hung out with Hugh Hefner,” Don said.
“I was a lawyer,” Francis said. “Lawyers meet all kinds of people.” He let the comment hang in the air. What he still did not know was how one calculated a tip. He decided to delay payment until the furniture was unloaded, which might have been the way to do it, in the first place.
By the time they got on the road with the truck, it was after ten o’clock. They drove for a while, and then Francis blinked his lights several times; eventually, Jim responded by pulling to the side of the road. It was late and Francis was tired. He asked Jim if they could check into a motel. The two detours had cost them several hours, and Francis was having trouble staying awake. He was worried for Jim, as well, and insisted on paying for their room. Jim thought it over for a second. “Sure,” he said.
Half an hour later, as they registered for two rooms at a Hampton Inn, Francis handed Jim a folded-up wad of money. “For the decoy,” he said solemnly, as the night clerk handed them their key cards. Don had fallen asleep in the truck but stumbled out, groggily, when he realized where they were. He stood outside the door on the passenger side, blinking, his hair matted. He looked young, and helpless, and for a second Francis felt sympathy for him—he’d acted impulsively, then regretted what he’d done, because he wasn’t a bad guy, after all. Tough lives, both of them had. Fighting in the Gulf War. Having a damaged child.
Jim said that he would wake Francis early if he was sure he wanted to follow the truck. Why did he want to follow them? But Francis insisted that he did, and then Jim and Don hopped back in the truck to drive to a faraway but well-lit area that the clerk had said was for large vehicles. They went their separate ways without saying good night.
“Bern?” he said, sitting on the side of his bed.
“God! I thought you’d never call!” she said. “Where are you?”
“A Hampton Inn,” he said. “Has everything gone to hell?”
“It’s terrible,” she said. “Lucy’s mother calling, like a woman possessed, forgetting it’s three hours later on the East Coast, and poor Lucy at wit’s end, trying to calm her. And Francis, it is unbelievable to me, but Sheldon is no help whatsoever. He went out for a walk! A walk! If I were Lucy, I’d never speak to him again.”
The non-smoking room smelled of cigarette smoke. Did it come as a surprise to him that people did not follow rules, when unobserved? He pinched the tip of his nose between thumb and finger, let go, but the itching continued. He rubbed his nose. “What is her mother so upset about?” he said.
“The crash landing! What do you think she’s upset about? Three people died.”
Francis let his mouth drop open. “Crash landing? The plane crashed?”
“You heard it on the radio, didn’t you? Somewhere?”
“No,” he said.
“You didn’t? Then what did you mean by asking—”
“I thought there was trouble between them,” he said.
“I just assumed you’d heard. They almost didn’t let the passengers who survived leave the airport. The investigators are coming to our house, Francis, at the crack of dawn. Something about someone on the plane telling his seatmate it was going to happen. Francis, go turn on the television.”
Francis didn’t move. He took in what she’d said with dumb shock.
“And Francis,” she said, “I do not have the slightest idea how we raised a son who could not reach out and comfort poor Lucy—who stalked off, instead, to take a walk.”
“Maybe he lives in his own head, like his father.”
“This is not the time to reproach me for criticizing you, Francis. Whether you do or do not live in your own little world, in the larger world, poor Lucy was two seats behind someone who died.”
“Horrible,” he murmured. “He’s still on his walk? Would it help if I spoke to Lucy, do you think?”
“I’ve given her an Ambien, poor thing. Her mother is hysterical about the U.S. government and wants to give us all a civics lesson, dragging in the war in Iraq. She’s a terrible woman.”
“Lucy’s asleep upstairs?” he said. He suddenly felt quite exhausted himself.
