'What does that mean?'
'A plum, little girl. A rich, dark plum. You squeeze it right, you get sweet juice. You tear it apart, all you get is the pit.'
'Tell me what to do,' she said.
I leaned over, kissed her. Hard. Her mouth blossomed under mine, yielding, finally opening to me.
I left at first light. Fancy was still asleep. A lush deep sleep, a woman sleep. Soaking in her own sweet juices.
I stood in the dawn, looking across at the big house standing like a fog–shrouded fighter plane, locked in by enemy radar.
The light was on in the kitchen as I pulled up. I went over. The kid was working on some concoction in a blender, pouring in ingredients.
'What's that?' I asked him.
'I'm not exactly sure. Wendy gave me the stuff. It's supposed to…clean you out or something.'
'Clean you out from what?'
'Drugs, booze…anything that's toxic.'
'So how come you…?'
'From the tanking. I don't do it anymore. Wendy says, there's no point taking this stuff unless you really stopped. It flushes everything out, but you can't be doing it every day.'
'Sounds good to me.'
'You want some?'
'For what?'
'Uh…cigarettes?'
'I think I'll pass.'
He flashed me a grin, one with some strength in it. 'Guess what? We got a call. From Dr. Barrymore. He said you could see him…looking at his wristwatch, 'today. He said he had a cancellation at eleven, and you could have the time he was gonna use.'
'You spoke to him?'
'No, it was a message. On the machine.'
'Good.' I looked over at the kid. He wasn't asking to come along.
I dressed carefully, went downstairs. Then I pulled the pistol loose from its housing under the fender of the Lexus, stashed it back in the Plymouth.
By a quarter of eleven, I was at the gate. The guard was casually dressed in a dark maroon blazer over steel gray slacks. He didn't look like a rent–a–cop, something ex–military about the way he strolled over to the driver's window.
'Can I help you, sir?'
'I have an appointment. With Dr. Barrymore.'
'Yes sir. Your name, please?'
I told him. He walked back to the guard shack standing to the side of the gate. There was a window, but I couldn't see inside. One–way glass? He was back in a couple of minutes.
'If you'll just go straight up the driveway and turn right at the stanchion, you'll see Dr. Barrymore's residence about a hundred yards away,' he said, pointing. It was an old house, dark wood with shuttered windows.
'I got it,' I told him. 'Thanks.'
His eyes were unreadable behind tinted lenses. I had a hunch they wouldn't be any more open if he took them off.
I drove slowly, watching for speed bumps, checking the manicured grounds. The house looked as if it had been airlifted from some other location and plopped down— nothing about it synced with the austere, clean hospital corners of the surrounding lawn. I walked up three wooden steps onto a wide porch, rang the bell. The door was opened by a young woman in a burnt orange business suit, chestnut hair piled on top of her head in something a stylist had worked on to look careless. A diamond glittered on her left lapel— some kind of stickpin.
'Hi! Can I help you?'
I told her my name, said I had an appointment.
'Oh! You're just a bit early. Can I ask you to sit in the waiting room while Dr. Barrymore finishes his session?'
'Sure.'
'Just follow me.' When she turned around, I could see her dark stockings had black seams. It didn't fit, somehow, didn't match the tightly controlled sway of her hips. She ushered me into a small, comfortable–looking room, offered me coffee. I passed.
'I'll be back as soon as he's ready,' she said, stepping out of the room. I looked around, didn't see any ashtrays, took the hint.
Before I could really check out the room, she was back, her hand full of papers. 'Will you come with me?'
