"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.
Peter Benchley, Rummies
(Series: # )
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends