But with any kind of luck, Brandon thought, by morning Toby Walker wouldn't be alive.
Diana couldn't sleep. The rooms of her house were too small, too confining. With Bone at her side, she left the house and paced the yard, remembering how it had been that morning when Gary came home. He had been out all night, and she had spent the night consumed with alternating bouts of rage and worry, sure at times that he was dead in his truck somewhere, and convinced at others that he was out with another woman, just like before.
Why had she believed him when he said all that was behind him? She had trusted him enough, had enough faith in the future of their marriage, to stop taking the pill at last, to start trying to get pregnant. How could she have been so stupid? All that long night Diana had sat in the living room, an unread book open on her lap, listening for Gary's truck, watching for his headlights. By morning she found herself hoping that there had been an accident, that he'd wrapped himself around a telephone pole somewhere, so she wouldn't have to face what her woman's intuition warned her had happened, so she wouldn't have to do anything about it, so she wouldn't have to make a decision.
It was long after sunrise before he came home. Her heart pounded in her throat when she heard his inept fumbling at the lock. She didn't wait long enough for him to come inside and close the door. She didn't care if she woke up the neighbors, if all the other teachers in the compound heard every word.
'Where were you?'
'Out.'
'Damn you. Where?'
'The dance. At San Pedro. I told you I was going there.'
A cloud of alcohol-laden breath surrounded him, filling her nostrils and wrenching her gut, reminding her of her father.
'I thought they drank wine at the dances, cactus wine.
I didn't know they served beer.'
Not looking at her, he started toward the bedroom.
'Please, Diana. Drop it. I've got to get some sleep.'
,sleep!' she screeched, heaving the book across the room at him. Her aim was bad. The book hit the wall three feet behind his head and fell to the floor with an angry thud.
,You need sleep?' she raged, getting up and coming across the room after him. 'What about me? I've been up all night, too, up and worried sick!'
He turned to face her, and the ravaged, stricken look on his face brought her up short. Something was terribly wrong, and she couldn't imagine what it was.
'I said drop it!'
The quiet menace in his words took her breath away. She had heard those very same words countless times before, spoken in just that tone of voice and with just that shade of meaning, but always before they had come from her father, always from Max Cooper. Never from her husband, never from Gary.
Without another word, he disappeared into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. For minutes afterward, she stood in the middle of the room staring at the door, too frightened to move, too sick to cry.
Room 831 in the Santa Rita Hotel was a reasonably plush two-room suite.
The bottle of champagne was on ice, and Johnny Rivkin had donned a blue silk smoking jacket by the time his expected guest turned the key in the lock. The blonde came in looking even more bedraggled than Johnny remembered. The dim light in the bar of the Reardon had been very kind.
'Welcome,' Johnny said with a smile. 'I'm glad you decided to come.'
'I almost didn't,' the blonde returned. 'I don't remember how to do this anymore.'
'Come on.' Johnny did his best to sound cheerful and encouraging.
'It'll all come back to you. The two of us will have some fun. If you like dressing up, you might check out the closet in the other room. I work in the movies, you see.
I always keep a few nice things on hand just in case.'
The blonde disappeared into the other room while Johnny busied himself with opening and pouring champagne. His hands shook some. He didn't know if it was nervousness or anticipation, maybe both. An unknown assignation was a lot like diving into an ice-cold swimming pool.
Once you were in, everything was fine, but getting in required nerve.
The blonde came back out wearing a long silk robe with nothing on underneath, walking with shoulders slouched, hands jammed deep in the pockets. His obvious nervousness made Johnny feel that much better.
'Here,' he said, passing a glass. 'Try this. It'll be good for what ails you.'
The blonde settled in the other chair, primly crossing his ankles, pulling the robe shut over his knees.
'Take off the wig,' Johnny ordered. 'It's dreadful, you know. I'd like to see you as you really are.'
'Are you sure?' the blonde asked.
'I'm sure.'
When the wig came off, Johnny found himself faced with a totally bald fifty-year-old man still wearing the garishly made-up features of an aging woman. The effect was disconcerting, like looking at your own distorted face in a fun-house mirror.
'What's your name?' Johnny asked.
'Art what?'
