If this life lacks excitement, it also lacks chaos.
“Have your cognitive techniques had any effect?” Stan asked drily, in regard to her difficult client.
“Not yet,” she answered.
Now she sits and tries to focus on Kim’s umpteenth and constantly changing repetition of her story-her upbringing in a wealthy albeit emotionally unavailable family, which provoked her young marriage to a “white knight” savior who was just another version of her remote father and who doesn’t understand or appreciate her and how she cannot seem to relate sexually no matter how hard she tries, and what Diane is thinking is I want a baby.
149
John takes a carpet cutter and methodically slashes the tires of the BMW.
Then he turns to Taylor and says, “ Now go.”
“That’s my car, ” she says.
A new silver 528i.
“I bought it for you,” John answers.
“That doesn’t mean you can just mutilate it.”
John shrugs-apparently it does. He bought the Beamer, he bought the Porsche 911 that sits next to it, bought the three-car garage that also holds the ’54 Plymouth wagon, bought the house on Moss Bay.
Cocaine been bery bery good to me.
“Now you’re just going to have to pay for new tires,” Taylor says.
Which means she isn’t leaving, John thinks with mixed feelings. She says she’s going to leave, she threatens to leave, she even starts to leave, but she doesn’t leave.
The coke is too good, the sex is too good, the house is too good. She’s not about to move back into some efficiency apartment in West Hollywood and blow producers for one-line roles on shitty TV shows.
John loves her in his own way, which is sort of detached.
She’s so fucking beautiful, will do anything in bed, looks good on his arm when they go out, and can actually be pretty nice when she doesn’t want to fight.
But the girl does like to fight.
John doesn’t know how this latest one started. He doesn’t even know what it’s about because she hasn’t told him yet. All he knows is that he came home from “surfing” with Bobby and she was waiting with a head of steam worked up.
“I have enough problems today,” John said, hoping to hold it off.
Nah “I want to talk about the ‘c’ word,” she snapped.
“‘Cunt’?” he asked.
Because he’s not a big believer in argument foreplay. Might as well just get into the fucking fight.
Yeah Next thing John knew, shit was flying around the kitchen like The Amityville Horror. When she figured she’d broken enough expensive glassware she went upstairs to pack. John stood in their bedroom doorway and watched her jam things into suitcases.
Dresses he bought her, shoes he bought her, jewelry he bought her.
Suitcases he bought her.
“This time you’re really leaving, right?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
She stormed down into the garage, and that’s when he slashed the tires.
Now she stands there looking at him.
God, she is fucking gorgeous, John thinks. He grabs her by the waist and sets her on the hood of the car. Spreads her legs, tears off her panties, and does her right there. Only thing that could have made it better is if he could have started the engine first.
He pulls out, tucks himself in, looks at her, and says, “Now I’ll have to get it detailed, too.”
She says, “I’m pregnant.”
150
Kim thanks God that among the long list of things at which Brad did not succeed, one of them was knocking her up.
He didn’t succeed at taking over his father’s car dealership, didn’t succeed at investments, didn’t succeed at the club, didn’t succeed in the bedroom. He did succeed at getting blow jobs from his receptionist, that was one thing. (My God, if he had failed at that.)
He did succeed at being her Starter Husband, providing her with a good divorce settlement and enough income to live, as they say, the life to which she had become accustomed.
And on which she wants an upgrade.
She thinks now of quitting therapy, it doesn’t seem to be doing her any good and she sniffs a scent of condescension in Diane’s tone these days, as if Kim’s problems are not sufficiently compelling to warrant her full attention.
No, she decides, the money would be better spent on improving her nose, which, let’s be honest, is somewhat less than perfect
Twenty-three now, the body requires maintenance, as it will soon be reentering a very competitive market. The next husband will have to be a
Stockbroker
Real estate developer
Better yet
Old money.
And for that, the nose must be perfect, the boobs perfect, the stomach flat and taut, and, thank God, again No stretch marks.
Sometimes terror strikes her like a blow to the chest.
She feels like she can’t breathe.
This existential fear.
Of the nothingness of herself.
151
John arranges to meet Doc down at Dana Point Marina.
Doc shows up in a bloodred Lamborghini Countach and pulls up beside John’s Porsche.
It bothers John because cops hate this kind of flash. The straight cops think you’re rubbing it in their noses and go after you all the harder; the guys on the arm don’t like you flaunting it, because the honest citizens see what they think are drug dealers tooling around openly and wonder why, if they can see it, the cops can’t.
Plus, the cops on your payroll see you riding a $300,000 sled and think maybe you’re not paying them enough.
It’s just a bad idea.
Doc sees the look of disapproval on John’s puss and says, “Hey, we take the risks, we should enjoy the rewards, right? Otherwise we might as well be selling insurance.”
“There are limits, Doc.”
“That’s not exactly a Toyota,” Doc answers, pointing at the Porsche.
John sees that there’s no point in arguing-Doc is tooted up. It’s becoming a problem, Doc hoovering his own product. It makes him irrational, unpredictable, prone to mistakes. Maybe one of those mistakes got him popped, John thinks. Maybe it’s true.
It’s a problem. John and Doc aren’t just in the dope business together-they have a restaurant together, a bar, a couple of apartment buildings. John gets popped and the feds could take it all.
They walk through the marina, then across the bridge out toward the long, narrow jetty.
“Taylor’s pregnant,” John says.
Doc says, “They know what causes that now, you know.”
“She was on the Pill.”
“That’s what she told you.”
“You’re saying she got knocked up intentionally?”
“You saying she didn’t?” Doc says. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Grow up.”
John gets what he’s saying. Another word for “baby” is “income.” A fat check once a month for the next eighteen years. Taylor wouldn’t be the first woman to palm the Pill for a payday.
“No,” John says, “she’s getting an abortion.”
“She wants you to stop her,” Doc says.
“You don’t know Taylor.”
(“I have my career to think about,” Taylor said. “I can’t audition if I’m all fat and blotchy and shit.”
John wanted to answer, “What fucking career? Six seconds on Mannix and you haven’t been to an audition in a year.” But he didn’t need another fight.
Quit while you’re ahead, right?
Anyway, she already called the clinic and made an appointment. She only told him because [a] she needed the money to pay for it, and [b] it would be nice if he took her and brought her home.
Which he’s not real keen about doing, but will.)
“Okay.” Doc smiles.