“My God, what a romantic distinction,” Candy said. “So flowery too.”
I nodded and drank some coffee.
“More than flowery,” Candy said. “Victorian. Women make love, and men fuck.”
“No need to generalize. We did more than fuck last night, but we’re not in love. For Susan it wouldn’t have to be love, but it would involve feelings that you and I don’t have: interest, excitement, commitment, maybe some intrigue. For Suze it would involve relationship.
“I can’t say for you, although I bet it had a little something to do with the agent you used to sleep with. For me it was sexual desire satisfied. I like you. I think you’re beautiful. You seemed to be available. I guess rae could say that what was involved for me was affectionate lust.”
Candy smiled. “You talk well,” she said. “And it’s not the only thing.”
“Aw, blush,” I said.
“But if you tell-what’s her name?”
“Susan.”
“If you tell Susan, won’t it make her a little unhappy to no good purpose?”
“It may make her a little unhappy, but the purpose is good.”
“Easing your conscience?”
“Pop psych,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“The world’s not that simple. I tell her because we should not have things we don’t tell each other.”
“Would you want to know?”
“Absolutely.”
“And if you knew, would it be the end?”
“No. Dying is the only end for me and Suze.”
“So you’re not so all-fired wonderful. You don’t risk that much by telling her.”
“True,” I said.
“But?”
“But what.”
Candy’s hash was barely nibbled. She poked at it with her fork.
“But there’s more,” she said. “I’ve oversimplified it again.”
“Sure.”
“Tell me.”
“What difference does it make?” I said.
“I want to know,” Candy said. “I’ve never met anyone like you. I want to know.”
“Okay,” I said. “I wouldn’t do anything I couldn’t tell her about.”
“Are you ashamed of this?”
“No.”
“Would you do something that would make you ashamed?”
“No.”
She poked at her hash some more. “Jesus,” she said. “I think you wouldn’t. I’ve heard people say that before, but I never believed them. I don’t think they even believed themselves. But you mean it.”
“It’s another way of being free.”
“But how-”
I shook my head. “Eat your hash,” I said. “We have a heavy crime-busting schedule. Let’s fortify ourselves and not talk for a while.” I ate more hash.
Candy opened her mouth and closed it and looked at me and then smiled and nodded. We ate our hash in silence. Then we paid the check, went out, got in Candy’s MG, and drove to Century City.
Oceania Industries had executive offices high up in one of the towers. The waiting room had large oil paintings of Oceania’s various enterprises: oil rigs, something that I took for a gypsum mine, a scene from a recent Summit picture, a long stand of huge pines. On the end tables were copies of the annual report and the several house organs from the various divisions. They had titles like Gypsum Jottings and Timber Talk.
There was no one in the reception room except a woman at a huge semicircular reception desk. Her fingernails were painted silver. She looked like Nina Foch.
“May I help you?” she said. Elegant. Generations of breeding.
I asked, “Are you Nina Foch?”
She said, “I beg your pardon?”
