Stone Junction

Volta refused or resisted, he’d quit AMO. No. He would tell Volta he was taking a few years off for independent study, not ask. He was still hurt Volta had shown no interest in his dream.

At six, Jean Bluer hadn’t arrived. Irked, Daniel downed his drink and made his way through the crammed terminal as the PA boomed static-fractured announcements of arrivals and departures.

‘I’m departing,’ Daniel, at least one sheet to the wind, muttered as he followed the arrows for ground transportation. But when he stepped outside into a raw dusk, he didn’t see any buses or taxis around. A porter whisked by with a rack of luggage.

‘Taxi?’ Daniel called.

‘Do I look like a fucking taxi?’ the porter snarled without breaking stride.

Daniel, scrambling to make the leap between high country solitude and the teeming arrogance of New York, fell short. An infinitely sweeter voice behind him purred, ‘Are you going into the city?’

Daniel turned. The speaker was a striking young woman with long, glossy black hair. She was barely an inch shorter than Daniel’s six feet, wearing a skirt the color of terra cotta and a loose red-silk blouse. The colors went well with her dark complexion and the lines complemented her body, more sleek than thin.

‘I’m looking for a taxi or a bus or something,’ Daniel told her. The whiskey and a rush of lust thickened his tongue.

‘So I gathered. These porters are becoming absolutely loutish, their insolence matched only by their capacity for obscenity.’

‘Yeah,’ Daniel said. He looked at her closely, trying to fix her nationality. She was wearing lots of makeup.

‘You didn’t say if you were going into the city, but if you are, you’re welcome to ride with me.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Daniel said, trying to muster a formality equal to her own. ‘I accept with gratitude.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Wildwood.’

Her large brown eyes looked pained. ‘There are better hotels in New York.’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Daniel said. ‘I’ve never been here. I’m meeting an old friend.’

‘Business?’

‘Indirectly. We’ve done a lot of gambling together.’ Inspired, he added, ‘That’s why we’re meeting at the Wildwood – there’s supposed to be a rather promising poker game there. Poker, you see, is my business.’

‘A gambler! How fascinating. You must tell me more.’

Daniel started to oblige when a black limousine hushed to a stop beside them. A chauffeur ushered her inside, inquiring, ‘And how was your trip, Miss Haruh?’

‘Work, as usual.’ Then, indicating Daniel, ‘This gentleman will be riding into the city with us, Phillips. Please drop him at the Wildwood Hotel.’

‘Of course, Miss Haruh.’

The limo was opulently appointed. ‘You travel very well,’ Daniel said as they pulled away.

‘When you travel as much as I do, luxury becomes a necessity.’

‘I can appreciate that, though in my business forsaking luxury is more often the necessity, especially if you play badly. My name, by the way, is Daniel Pearse.’

‘Mine is Imera Haruh,’ she said, bowing her head slightly.

There was something about her that Daniel suddenly didn’t trust. Her speech and gestures seemed too self- consciously graceful or formal – as if rehearsed. ‘Haruh?’ he said. ‘Is that Pakistani?’

‘Close. Indian.’

‘Your English is exceptional.’

She smiled. ‘It should be. I was born and raised in Madison, Wisconsin. My parents were Brahmins who did not like Gandhi any better than the British.’

‘So, what takes you on these travels where luxury is a necessity?’

‘I’m a model with the Sebring Agency. I just shot a spread for Elle with Raoul Villela – it seems only an hour ago I was in Madrid – and next month I’ll be on the cover of Vogue. Look for it. I’ll be wearing Oriental make-up, a bamboo hat, and halter-top pajamas. It’s their Vietnam Remembrance Look or something equally tacky.’ She arched her lip in distaste. ‘The editors, the advertisers, even the photographers – none of them have souls.’

Daniel said, ‘You don’t have to do it.’

‘Mr Pearse,’ Imera said tartly, ‘the world gives women very little of financial value other than their beauty, which it then wastes. I intend to – how do you gamblers say it? – cash in while I can.’

Daniel thought, That explains the brittle, practiced grace. A model, a Brahmin, and a pound of righteous feminine bitterness. ‘Miss Haruh,’ he said gently, ‘please don’t mistake my intentions, but after I’ve finished making arrangements with my friend at the Wildwood, would you be my guest for dinner? And not merely to reciprocate the generosity of this ride, but to sustain the pleasure of your company.’ That was good, Daniel thought, impressed.

Imera’s smile seemed more relaxed. ‘As long as it’s no place where I’d usually be recognized by the fawning flesh-dealers of this city.’