Jeff drove into Hollywood. He found the right street and the taco stand just around the corner from Sunset. A small crowd of typical street people were hanging out in front of the place. He pulled over, shifted the car into park, and sat with his signal light blinking. He had decided not to wait more than one minute, but almost at once the passenger door opened, and a large, heavy young man got into the car. One look at the way he filled out his T-shirt ex plained the man's nickname. He had long, wispy sideburns, and his hands were empty, which puzzled Jeff at first.
"Hi, you're a friend of. . ." The man deliberately left the sentence unfinished.
"Diane," Jeff said. "And you're ..."
"Knobs, right," the man replied in a way that discouraged jokes. "Let's go."
Jeff put the car in gear and drove down the street at a moderate speed. Knobs picked up the folded newspaper on the seat and let the envelope in it slip onto his lap. God, Jeff suddenly thought, what's to stop him from jumping out at the next corner and disappearing with my money? But nothing like that happened. Knobs held the envelope on his lap and counted the bills.
"Very good," he said. "Very good."
He crammed the cash into his right front pants pocket and tossed the envelope on the floor-a gesture that annoyed Jeff.
"Turn here and swing back up to Sunset," Knobs said, pointing. He reached behind and fished something out of his back pocket. He slipped it into the newspaper, which he refolded and set down on the car seat. "You're all set, pal. It ain't much, so if you want more, give me a call. You know the drill now."
"Uh, yeah ..."
Jeff thought he should inspect his purchases before Knobs left, but they were at a traffic light at Sunset now. Knobs got out of the car and disappeared into the crowd before Jeff could bring himself to say any thing. Well, if I've been burned, it serves me right, he thought. At least it's over. He'd spent less than five minutes with Knobs, but he'd been uncomfortable the entire time. He drove carefully back to Santa Susana, stopping for every yellow light. That is what is so damn stupid about all this, he reminded himself. If a cop finds these things on you now, you're fucked, plain and simple.
When he got home, he flung the newspaper down on the coffee table and poured himself a large Scotch to steady his nerves. He took a couple of gulps and lit a cigarette before examining the items he'd bought. There were two Manila envelopes, each about the size of a grocery clerk's pay packet. In one was a small plastic bag containing white powder, in the other a piece of hard plastic.
He had no desire to try the cocaine, but he touched it with a moistened fingertip and tasted it. Bitter, definitely alkaloid, as it should be. Satisfied, he got some flour from the kitchen, along with a spoon and a small bowl. He dumped the coke into the bowl, added an equal amount of flour, and stirred them thoroughly. Then he poured the cut mixture back into the plastic bag and hid it in his bedroom.
The other item was no less important. It was a phony state of California driver's license. The tiny photograph was the one Jeff had sent to the box in Santa Monica, and the physical description of height, weight, hair, and eye color matched his own. But the license was in the name of Philip Headley, who might or might not actually exist and who supposedly lived out in Loma Linda. Jeff was pleased that the license looked every bit the real thing, and he made a mental note to practice the signature until he could dash off a good approximation of it. He placed the laminated license between two volumes in the bookcase, and left the Manila envelope on the shelf in front of them so he wouldn't forget the location.
As he sat down to enjoy the rest of his whiskey and smoke another cigarette, he was starting to feel something like pride in what he'd done. He wanted to believe that he'd taken the first step toward the solution of his problem. Perhaps he was just indulging in a fantasy, but he thought it was better to do something, even if it subsequently failed to bear fruit, than to continue doing nothing at all. Maybe he'd fall short. Maybe he didn't have any real chance of winning the woman he wanted and loved. But if he lost Georgianne again, this time it wouldn't be for lack of trying.
He thought about calling her. Just to hear the sound of her voice on the telephone. But he knew he couldn't do that; it would be a mistake. No matter. She was more alive in his mind now than ever, and he had the extra comfort of knowing that his plan was finally getting underway. He was doing somethingsomething about and for Georgianne.
If it didn't work out, there was still Bonnie. Now that was an exotic thought. Was he too old for her? In four years, when she graduated from Harvard, she'd be twenty-one and Jeff would be forty-two. Exactly twice her age, a significant difference. But not impos- Bible. There were many instances of men marrying women who were thirty or even forty years their junior. Besides, Jeff wouldn't necessarily have to marry her; a steady, intense, long-term affair would do just as well. He'd made up his mind before he left Connecticut that when Bonnie was in her final year at Harvard he would offer her a good job, an excellent salary, and relocation expenses.
He began to laugh out loud. The audacity of it! Now he wanted both women, mother and daughter. It was crazy. But at the same time-why not? Go for broke, he told himself, you have nothing to lose and everything to gain. You might even pull it off. He still wasn't sure if he was serious, or if he was merely letting his mind go too far ... but it was a line of thought he was eager to follow. Bonnie was not out of the question, not by any means. In fact, the more Jeff considered the situation, the more certain he became that it was entirely in his favor. And that could only help him with Georgianne.
But did he really want either of them? And if so, why? How he felt was answer enough; what he had carried around inside him for over two decades was more than justification. Yes, he wanted Georgianne, because he had finally come to face the truth that life was unacceptable without her. And, with or without Georgianne, Bonnie would inevitably come.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At lunchtime the next day, Jeff went out and bought a jogging suit. It was gray, with maroon trim. He also picked up an expensive pair of running shoes. He had no intention of taking up jogging, but when he got home that evening and tried on the outfit, he was surprised by how comfortable it felt. He could picture himself lounging around the house in it.
Jeff went nowhere that weekend. He stayed indoors, smoking, drinking, and staring vacantly at the television. Occasionally he nibbled a piece of fruit or a raw vegetable. He slept in his underwear and didn't bother to shave. He never turned on a light, and he kept the drapes drawn. Because he'd switched the air conditioner off, his rooms were not merely hot, but stifling. He stayed away from the bath and shower, didn't brush his teeth or even splash cold water on his face. He sat in the dark or wandered from one room to another. He seemed to be sweating all the time, but it wasn't just from the heat and it certainly wasn't due to anxiety. He thought of it as a kind of purification, as if his body were literally and physically exorcising a deadness within itself. This ritual was a rebirth, and if he'd been able to shed his skin, he would have done so proudly.
All he'd have had to do to make a plane reservation was pick up the telephone and dial one of the airlines, but as early as Friday night Jeff knew he wasn't going anywhere. Not that weekend. It wasn't hesitation born of fear. He knew the difference now. He was a man who had come a long way over a great period of time, and this was nothing more than a final pause, a last check, to be sure he knew what he wanted to do. Once it began, there would be no going back.