The bartender put the fresh drink before him.
“Seriously,” he said, “you interested in somebody?”
David looked at him.
“Black, white, Chinese, you name it,” the bartender said.
“Golden,” David said.
“What?” the bartender said.
“Labrador retriever,” David said.
“I’m serious,” the bartender said.
“Am I to believe, sir,” David said, “that you are offering me a lady of the night?”
“What?” the bartender said.
“A hooker?” David said.
“These ain’t hookers,” the bartender said.
“Then what are they?”
“Women who will offer you their comfort.”
“In that event, I’ll take two of them,” David said. “I need all the comfort I can get.”
“Two would be easy,” the bartender said.
“Then make it three.”
“Three would cost you,” the bartender said.
“How much would it cost me? Do you know how much it costs to go to the hospital four times a day? Eleven, two, four, and seven?”
“What’s those figures? Is that what it costs?”
“Those are the hours.”
“This would cost by the hour,” the bartender said, nodding.
“Terrific,” David said. “I charge by the hour, too.”
“You really want a couple of girls?”
“Three, I said.”
“You think you can handle three?”
“No.”
“So how many you want?”
“How many colors you got?”
“Colors?” ”
“I want a rainbow.”
“Why you going to the hospital four times a day? You sick?”
“Very,” David said.
“What’ve you got?”
“Terminal shittiness.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s what you get when you’re fifty,” David said.
“I’m fifty, and I ain’t got it,” the bartender said.
“Lucky you,” David said, and sipped at his drink.
“Seriously, you want two black girls?” the bartender asked.
“I want an Indian girl,” David said.
“Indian girls are a little difficult down here,” the bartender said. “I can get you a Cuban, some of them got Indian blood.”
“I want a pure-blooded Indian. American Indian. Mohican,” David said. “I want the last of the Mohicans.”
“You want a Chinese girl?” the bartender said.
“I want a Hindu.”
“Be serious, okay? You want a girl, or don’t you?”
“I already got a girl,” David said.
“So where is she?”
Who the hell knows? David thought.
“Twenty bucks for the agency fee,” the bartender said. “The rest is between you and the girl.”
“What agency?” David asked.
“Me,” the bartender said.
“You’re some agency,” David said.
“White, black, Chinese, Cuban, you name it.”
“Between me and the girl, huh?”
“Strictly.”
“How much between me and the girl?”
“It usually runs a hundred an hour.”
“That’s almost what I charge,” David said.
“That’s the going rate.”
“That’s the coming rate, you mean.”
“What? Oh, yeah,” the bartender said, and grinned. “So what do you say?”
“I say my father’s dying.”
“What?”
“Send three girls to my father’s room at St. Mary’s. Tell him they’re a present from his son.”
“What?”
“Who doesn’t love him,” David said.
“What?” the bartender said.
“Never mind,” David said.
The bartender shrugged and walked off.
Two o’clock in the morning, David thought. The telephone doesn’t ring at two o’clock in the morning unless somebody’s dead. He couldn’t think of anybody who might be dead. He hoped it was his father.
Hey, wait a minute, he thought.
Hey, shit, I didn’t think that, did I?
Did I?
Your mother is dead, his father told him.
Flat out.
Your mother is dead.
A heart attack. Sixty-nine years old, perfect health, she dies of a heart attack in the middle of the night; his father calls at 2:00 a.m., your mother is dead, bingo.
David said, “I’ll be right there.”
“It can wait till morning,” his father said.
Well, everything can wait till morning, David thought. Your mother dies, it can wait till morning, right? Probably wished she would die, the bastard, so he could—
Well, wait a minute, you don’t know if that’s true.
Your Honor, I beg the Court’s indulgence. Hearsay...
Sustained.
It was true, David thought.
Shit, it had to be true. He left home, didn’t he? Well, she kicked him out, he thought.
I don’t want to think about it, he thought.
He sipped at his martini. The bartender was watching him. He ambled over to David just as he was finishing the drink.
“You want another one of these? Or you want a girl instead?”
“Neither,” David said.
He added a tip to the check, signed it, and walked out of the bar and up the long curving marble steps that led to the ornate lobby. Hillary Watkins was sitting in one of the brocaded chairs. Elementary, my dear Watkins, he thought.
“Ah, there you are,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He could not recall having asked her to wait for him. Married men were not supposed to ask young, long-legged English girls alone in a deserted town to wait for them.
“How are you?” she said.
“Fine,” he said.
“Have you had dinner yet?”
“No.”
“Neither have I. Why don’t we eat together? I’m ravenously hungry, it’s almost nine o’clock.”
“No, thanks, not tonight. Thank you.”
“Tomorrow night then?”
She was watching him closely. Her long legs were crossed. She was wearing a white dress. A sprig of flowers was in her hair. She looked like a bride. A young bride.
“Well, I don’t know what tomorrow will be,” he said.
“Tomorrow will be Friday,” she said.
“I suppose it will,” he said. He felt suddenly very weary.
“It might do you good to forget your troubles for a while,” she said.
“It might indeed.” What troubles? he thought. My father is dying is the only trouble I’ve got.
“Let’s make it definite for tomorrow night, shall we?”
He said nothing.
“Or would you rather ring me up when you get back from the hospital? What time do you normally get back from the hospital?”
“Seven-thirty,” he said.
“Ring me,” she said. “I’m in room seventeen-twelve.” Her green-eyed gaze would not leave his face. “Will you ring me?”
“I’ll see what happens tomorrow,” he said.
“Or later tonight, perhaps. If you find you’re hungry.”
He looked at her.
“I have no other plans,” she said. “I’ll be in my room.”
“Well, thanks,” he said.
How is you father? she asked.
“So-so,” he said.
“I’m awfully sorry.”
“Yes, well,” he said, and shrugged.
“I lied to you,” she said suddenly. “I’m not twenty-nine. I’m thirty. I was thirty last month. I simply can’t bring myself to admit it.”