Benchley, Peter - Novel 07 (43 page)

 
          
 
CLARISSE wasn't THERE.

 
          
 
Lupone and Twist had accompanied
Preston
and Duke to the lobby and waited while they
checked out and carried their bags to the curb by the roundabout. There had
been more hugs and pats on the back, more pledges that they'd keep in touch and
would try to get together at least once a year. Then Lupone and Twist had gone
in to lunch.

 
          
 
"She knew we got out at
noon
,” Duke said, looking at his watch. It was
twelve-fifteen.

 
          
 
“She probably got hung up with a client,” said
Preston
.

 
          
 
“Yeah.”

 
          
 
“She could've had car problems.”

 
          
 
They sat on the curb and reminisced about the
day they arrived, about Duke's rabbit suit and how scared
Preston
had been.

 
          
 
At twelve-thirty, Duke said, “You don't have
to wait around."

 
          
 
“I can't go anywhere without Chuck. He's
performing surgery on the limo."
Preston
lit
a cigarette. "Besides, my plane isn't till three."

 
          
 
They talked about what would happen to Banner.
Preston
bet he'd go to jail for a while, maybe a
token sentence. Duke thought Banner had so many contacts that he'd get off with
probation and community service.

 
          
 
That gave them a good laugh.

 
          
 
At
twelve forty-five
, Chuck pulled up in the limousine.

 
          
 
“Come on,"
Preston
said. “We'll drop you in
Emerald
City
. It's on the way."

 
          
 
"Suppose she shows up and I'm not here.
She'll go off like a Roman candle."

 
          
 
“If we pass her coming this way, we'll stop.
There's only the one road."

 
          
 
Duke considered. He looked awful.
"Okay," he said, and they climbed into the Cadillac.

 
          
 
"One of her buddies prob'ly got
sick," Duke said as Chuck slowed on the outskirts of
Emerald
City
, a hamlet that existed only as support
structure for the spa, a turquoise-and-gold neo-Moroccan fat farm. "She
had to fill in, didn't have time to call."

 
          
 
Bitch! Where are you? Don't do this to him.
"Exactly,"
Preston
said. "Makes sense."

 
          
 
"Where you want I should drop you?"
Chuck asked over his shoulder.

 
          
 
"Anywhere." Duke looked out the
window. "Here. Here's fine."

 
          
 
Chuck pulled over and stopped.

 
          
 
Where are we?
Preston
looked. There was nothing here, nothing but
a shoe store, a dress shop and across the street ... a bar and grill. Villa
Margarita.

 
          
 
Preston
held his breath. He turned to Duke. “Duke ..."

 
          
 
“What?" Duke wouldn't look at him.

 
          
 
“Don't."

 
          
 
“Don't what?" He was blushing.

 
          
 
Preston
tipped his head at the saloon. "Don't do it.”

 
          
 
"I gotta sit somewhere, don't I? Can't
just go in and stand around the lobby there, waiting for her."

 
          
 
Preston
paused. "Okay," he said. "I'll go with you."

 
          
 
"You'll miss your plane."

 
          
 
"Piss on the plane. There are other
planes. What've I got to rush home for? Let's go. We'll have a Pepsi."

 
          
 
Preston
reached for the door handle. Duke stopped him. "Remember I told you, I
never said I wanted to quit. Not really quit.''

 
          
 
"Duke! Are you nuts? Four weeks, you
didn't learn anything?"

 
          
 
"A lot. I learned what I can handle, what
I can't. Hey . . . something's wrong, Scott. She didn't show, something's
wrong. I can't handle that. I gotta have one, just one. Then I can deal with
it."

 
          
 
"Chuck,"
Preston
said, "mm this thing around. Take this
stupid bastard back and lock him up till he—"

 
          
 
"Fuck you!" Duke shouted, and he
grabbed his little overnight bag and flung open the door and jumped out.
"You think you know everything. You don't know dick!” He began to run.

 
          
 
Preston
started after him, but Chuck was out of the car now, and he put a hand on
Preston
's shoulder and stopped him.

 
          
 
"You can't," Chuck said.

 
          
 
"I got to!"
Preston
struggled, but his feet were off the
ground.

 
          
 
"You can't. Oh, we can drag him outa
there and lock him up, but in a day or a week, whenever, he'll find a
way." Gently, Chuck allowed
Preston
's
feet to touch the ground. "Thing is, Scott, if a man don't want to do it,
he ain't gonna do it. And there ain't a thing on God's green earth we can do
about it."

 
          
 
They watched as Duke dodged a car and cursed
the driver and, without once looking back, marched into the dark and soothing
bar—the anteroom to the abyss.

 
          
 
Chuck put an arm around
Preston
's shoulder and led him back to the
limousine.

 
          
 
“You okay?" Chuck said as he handed
Preston
his suitcase and closed the trunk.

 
          
 
"I keep thinking—"

 
          
 
"Don't. Thinking sucks. First while out,
you gotta shut off your thinker. Only one thing matters, and that's you.
Imagine everybody else died and took their problems to heaven. Want me to hang
with you till the plane comes?"

 
          
 
“No, I'm okay."

 
          
 
They embraced and shared a joke about sending
each other tapes if another impossible mission called for their special skills.
Then
Preston
hefted his suitcase and walked into the
airport.

 
          
 
The air-conditioning was broken. Technicians
had roped off an area and were working on the machinery, while mothers
comforted squawling infants and college kids lolled on the marble floor and
businessmen fanned themselves with newspapers.

 
          
 
Preston
passed the bar. It looked cool and dark, and the overhead lights made the
bottles arrayed against the mirrors shine like jewels.

 
          
 
Its scent reached him: beer and peanuts and
stale smoke, leather and cleanser and bourbon. He felt himself salivating.

 
          
 
Maybe he'd stop in and have a glass of soda
water.

 
          
 
Maybe he wouldn't.

 
          
 
But, Lord! was it hot in here! Had to be a
hundred and ten. At least.

 
          
 
Then something occurred to him: There he was,
dressed in a suit and tie, carrying a heavy suitcase, walking through this oven
. . .

 
          
 
And he wasn't sweating.

 
          
 
Not a drop.

 
          
 
He laughed softly and kept walking.