LONG NIGHT IN A HOT TUB

A Novel by Jim Bowden

Sonoma, California

Copyright© 2008 by Jim Bowden

Also by Jim Bowden

Diana and the Peace Helmet (novella)

Mitosis (short story)

Idiots and Intellectuals (essays)

Robots and Giant Brains (ghosted)

Secure Identity: A New Freedom (article)

Chapter 1

Early Tuesday morning, the shrill chirping of the phone startled Jeff out of an exhausted sleep. He rolled on his side, curled up, and pulled the blankets over his head—knowing Diana would answer it in her bedroom or the machine would pick it up. The calls didn’t usually begin before nine. He’d have to remember to unplug the phone in his room after this.

        A soft thud near his feet told him Sheba had come in and jumped on the bed, hungry as usual. Her loud purr vibrated through the blankets. He could resist that, but worse was in store for him.

        “Jeff!” It was Diana’s voice, shouting loudly from her bedroom on the other side of the house.

        “Who is it?” he shouted back.

        “Can you come in here? Right now?”

        He groaned. “Coming.”

        His landlady was sitting up in bed, brown hair all in strings, tousled like Medusa’s snakes, face ghastly without makeup. Her silk pajama shirt, half unbuttoned, was twisted around her body. Jeff blinked at her, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He was having trouble remembering what an attractive woman she normally was.

        Diana held the phone out to him, but when he went to take it she put it in her lap and let her breath out in a long sigh.

        “So who is it?” he asked.

        “Colleen’s landlord. He wants us to come right over. He thinks she may be dead!”

        Jeff shook his head. It was definitely too early for things like this. Later, maybe, after coffee. “You don’t think she’s really dead, do you?”

        “I don’t know. The way she drinks...one of these days…. We’ve got to get over there!” She picked up the phone again. “We’ll be there in five minutes. Don’t do anything or call anybody till we get there.” She threw the comforter off, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and started to undo the re­maining buttons on her pajama shirt. Jeff got the idea and went back to his room.

        “Sorry Sheba, but you’ll have to wait,” he told the restless calico cat as he dressed. By now he was thoroughly awake, more aroused by Diana’s appearance than by concern over Colleen. His landlady had the body, if not the soul, of a volup­tuary. He pulled on a sweatshirt and jeans, slipped into a pair of sandals, grabbed wallet and keys, and headed for the car. With the engine warming and the radio going he tried to remember the way to Colleen’s apartment building. He’d been there a few days earlier to see her artwork. Ever since he had moved into Diana Thornton’s guest room, people had been eager to make him feel at home by inviting him over.

        The mellifluous voice on the radio said it was a beautiful Tuesday morning in April and the freeways were running smoothly. Smug bastard, Jeff thought sourly. From the rever­ential tone of his voice you would have thought he was an­nounc­ing the Second Coming, rather than weather and traffic. Jeff fumed, waiting for Diana. It was chilly, he hadn’t had time to make coffee, and his new friend Colleen was probably in an alcoholic coma or worse. He hoped Diana would at least have the decency to skip the usual lengthy process of putting on her face. For a moment he considered leaving without her.

        Colleen’s place was only a few blocks away, near enough for her to bicycle over to the Thornton house to visit and enjoy the hot tub. “She’s probably okay,” Jeff said hopefully as they finally got underway. “Didn’t you say she goes on a binge every month or two?”

        His passenger just stared ahead, tight-lipped, obviously in no mood for small talk. She had daubed a little color on her cheeks, which just accentuated their pallor. These past few months had been frantic ones, friends had said, and she was starting to show the strain.

        The landlord, a weathered man in blue-jeans, greeted them with a long face. As they climbed the stairs he explained what had happened, sounding vaguely apologetic. “I got waked up by a big crash upstairs, then a bunch of noises like things being knocked around. After that it was dead silent. I waited a little while, because I know how she is.” He rolled his eyes. “But then when I didn’t hear anything I went and knocked on her door. Nobody answered, so I knocked harder...”

        Diana pushed him aside and pounded on the apartment door. “Colleen? Are you all right? Colleen!” She turned to the landlord. “Well, aren’t you going to open the door?”

        The man hurriedly searched through his key ring and finally got the door open. “I didn’t want to take it on myself...”

        The tight-lipped woman went in first, carefully stepping over half-finished oil-paintings, sketch-books, brushes, and heaps of clothes. An empty vodka bottle lay on its side and cigarette butts littered the floor. Through the haze of smoke Jeff could see an easel resting crookedly against a chair where it had fallen. On the far side of the room a work-table lay on its side, surrounded by overturned tubes of paint. A smear of red added drama to the scene, but he saw that it was simply paint, squirted from one of the tubes. Diana picked her way over to the table.

        “Over here!” she said, pointing beyond it. He hurried to join her. Colleen’s body lay sprawled awkwardly among the debris, head thrown back and open mouth showing large front teeth with a gap in the middle. Her chest rose and fell slowly. “Thank God!” Diana sighed in relief.

        They lifted the limp body onto a small sofa and righted the table. “I think she’ll be all right, but it’s best if we try to wake her up. She might have hurt herself when she fell.” Diana patted her cheek and shook her gently. “Colleen darling, wake up.”

        Jeff watched for any signs of wakefulness, holding his breath against the stench of tobacco and alcohol. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be better just to let her sleep it off?”

        The landlord stood by the table, blinking and squinting, thumbs tucked into his belt. “I think you got to get her waked up. Make sure she’s okay.”

        Colleen sighed heavily as the older woman kept shaking her and slapping her cheek. Finally her eyes fluttered open. “Jesus! What’s going on? Leave me alone. I want to sleep.”

        “Are you okay, dear? You fell down. We were afraid you might have hurt yourself.”

        “I’m okay.” Her mouth worked briefly and she stuck out her tongue. “Yuck, what a taste!”

        “Are you sure you’re all right? What happened?”

        The young woman shook her head as if to clear it, further tangling the mop of flaming red hair. She lifted herself on her elbows. “I’m drunk as a skunk. I want a cigarette.” She slumped back on the sofa and passed out with a deep sigh.

        Diana looked up at Jeff, shaking her head. “We’ve got to get something into her. She’s bound to be dehydrated after all that booze. See if you can find some fruit juice while I check her body for bruises.” Diana glanced up at the landlord and jerked her head in the direction of the door. “Thanks for being concerned. I think we can handle it from here on out.” The man appeared reluctant to leave, but finally moved toward the door, glancing over his shoulder as Diana began undressing Colleen.

                                     *   *   *   *

        Later, back at the Thornton residence, he changed his clothes and made coffee as Diana showered. The cat rubbed against his legs. “Okay Sheba, I guess you deserve to be fed. Emergency’s over.” He reached into the bag of dry cat food and put a handful in Sheba’s dish. She looked up at him, twitching her tail.

        “There! In your dish! Oh, all right.” He opened a can with a picture of Garfield the Cat on it. “Here. I should know better by now. Spoiled cat.”

        Whose fault is that? Sheba asked, daintily tasting the wet food.

        He started washing the mountain of dishes that always seemed to grow faster than anyone could keep up with, thinking back on the morning’s events. Getting Colleen undressed so they could check for bruises had finally awakened her. It had been necessary to explain what was going on, but she immed­iately understood and thanked them. Fortunately the only bruises were small ones, and she felt that everything inside was all right—except for the effects of the alcohol. The refrigerator had been empty, so he had gone out for orange juice. At Col­leen’s insistence they had left her to recover at leisure.

        Washing dishes was the perfect activity for musing on things, Jeff had discovered. It was something about the monot­ony and having his hands in warm water. His thoughts drifted back to the letter from Martin Schofield that had begun the whole saga. The letter had intrigued him with its suggestions of high-tech excitement and romance—just what he needed for his next novel. He’d taken Schofield at his word and called Diana from New York, intending to make polite inquiries. What he discovered was a new dimension. When he got off the phone two hours later it was with the conviction that his destiny had been decided for him, in some mysterious fashion.

        Two weeks later he and his faithful laptop computer Toto had moved into the cramped guest room in the Thornton res­idence, initially under an assumed name. It wasn’t wise for people to be aware of his real mission, he had found. They tended either to freeze up or become annoyingly effusive. Having a recognized name might be convenient at a hotel or nightclub, but when you were gathering material for a novel it was more of a hindrance.

        So far, he had been unable to decide exactly what was going on with Diana and her “VirGen”—the Virtual Reality Generator that was the center of this beehive of activity. People came and went. The phone rang all day, or she was furiously tapping at the touch-tone pad and drumming her fingers on the table as she waited to be connected. He’d picked up hints of romance, of deals being made, of serious problems. But when he tried to get to the bottom of things, some bizarre new inter­ruption always seemed to frustrate his efforts. This morning’s episode with Colleen was no exception. He had been planning to visit the showroom where the VirGen was on display, just to get a feel for the scope of the operation. He had been hoping for a personal demonstration, but the machine was down at the moment, in need of a critical part. Diana told him again and again that once he’d experienced the remarkable injector of programmed hallucinations he’d be a changed man.

        She herself appeared to be a magnet for the dramatic events that got in the way of his pursuit of facts. There was no identi­fiable pattern to these events and he could not fault her for being secretive. It was simply that all too often chaos ruled at the Thornton household. When it came to a plot for his book he was at a loss, so far at least, and had resigned himself to typing notes into Toto’s voluminous memory.

Chapter 2

With the pots and pans still unwashed, he was jarred from his musings by an ominous gurgle from the faucet. The water dribbled to a stop. Instantly there was a shriek from the bath­room. Diana ran out in a terrycloth robe, hair lathered and dripping bits of foam.

        “What happened to the water? Did you turn it off?”

        He raised his hands helplessly. “Don’t look at me! I’m trying to do the dishes.”

        “Those bastards! They actually did it! They turned off my water! That’s it. I’m calling the mayor.” She strode back into the bathroom, then returned to the kitchen for a small saucepan, muttering something about the water in the toilet tank. A min­ute later she came out and asked Jeff if he could get her a bucket of water from the hot tub so she could rinse off. He did that, then dried his hands and looked happily at the slowly-filling pot of coffee. At least that hadn’t been interrupted.

        He went out the back door, walked around to the front of the house, and found the thick Los Angeles Times in its plastic wrapper on the front lawn. He brought the paper back inside and sat at the kitchen table, shoving some manila folders aside on the red-and-white checked oilcloth to make room. The hectic pace of life in the Thornton house didn’t leave much time for catching up on the news. In the bathroom Diana was talking to herself, sounding like an angry truck-driver trying to change a tire at night in a blizzard with the wrong tools.

        The Mr. Coffee machine completed its cycle with an officious burp. He poured himself a cup and had just started to read about the current murder trial when Diana came back into the kitchen, still in the robe but with a Turkish towel wrapped around her head.

        “Were you able to rinse off?” he asked her.

        “What? I can’t hear you.” She arranged the towel to let one ear peek out and sat at the table with him.

        “I said...what’s this about them turning off the water?”

        She pursed her lips. “I screwed up, that’s all. I’ll have to run over there and pay them enough to turn it back on. God, I’ll be glad when I have some money again. Being broke sucks. It absolutely sucks! By the way, thanks for doing the dishes.”

        “That’s okay, somebody’s got to do them. But I wish Craig would get his carcass back here. He’s a top gun in the kitchen.”

        She brightened at the mention of her new squeeze and smiled softly, momentarily forgetting the crisis. “The kitchen’s not the only room Craig’s a top gun in, sweetie. I miss him a bunch. I can hardly wait till this weekend!”

        “I’ll bet. So, do you think Colleen will be all right?”

        “Sure. Normally she gets to the sofa before she passes out. By this afternoon she’ll be hungry and talkative. She’ll pedal her bike over here and want to soak in the hot tub and stay for supper.” Diana peeled a banana part way down and held it out to him. “Bite?”

        “Thanks.”

        “But you know, I think it’s about time she got her act together. This bingeing has got to be destroying her liver. Col­leen’s always taken good care of her body. She even does work­outs. Did you know that? She has a deal with a health club. They let her use the facilities and she paints murals on the walls.”

        “Clever gal! How old is she, anyway?”

        “Around thirty. Too old to act the way she does. One time they found her passed out under a bush in the park.” Sigh. “I do wish she’d get herself straightened out. I’ve got other things to do than clean up after her.”

        That seemed to remind her of the empty water pipes. She pushed her chair back from the table and stood. “Yuck! I’m sticky all over. Well, there isn’t going to be any water until I go over there and give them their pound of flesh. Hmm....” She pinched her midriff. “Maybe I should give them five or ten pounds!”

        “I like you the way you are. Listen, let me drive you over to the water company. It’s the least I can do, and it’ll give me a chance to talk to you without being interrupted, for a change.”

        He knew it would take her at least half an hour to dress and put on her face—maybe even more without water. Might as well use the time to catch up on correspondence. Let the L. A. Times wait. Toto was always ready on the small desk. He sat in front of it and clicked the email icon.

Nelson—Just a brief update. Sorry if I was short with you the other day, but things are pretty hectic here at the Thornton beehive. As I started to tell you on the phone, I think Martin Schofield may be out in left field. Did I ever give you a copy of his letter? Frankly, I doubt whether this will be my next novel. I still haven’t had a chance to test the VirGen. A klystron tube, whatever that is, blew out and they don’t have money for a new one. I think our queen bee has been living on money put up by friends and relatives. Starla, her daughter, has a job but it doesn’t pay much. If things don’t start happening in a week or so, it’s back to the Big Apple for me.

          Got any new sales figures on Scarlet Lips? Have they picked up the motion-picture option yet? Guess not, or you would have told me.

          Incidentally, it’s better if you use email rather than trying to call, since her majesty’s on the phone most of the day. She has call-waiting, but it always irritates her to be interrupted.

Jeff

        As the novelist was waiting for the message to transmit, Diana appeared in the doorway, dressed and newly faced. “Jeff, are you sure you don’t mind taking time out? I do have a car, you know.” She came over to see what he was doing, with no thought for his privacy. He had noticed that trait in her in the brief time he’d lived here. To his landlady nothing was secret, including the most intimate details of her own life. It bespoke a certain grand innocence that both flattered and annoyed him. Flattered, because it meant intimacy and trust; annoyed, be­cause for him there still had to be secrets. Quickly he closed the computer’s lid and stood, hoping it didn’t look as if he were trying to hide something.

        “Hey, I enjoy riding around with you. Gives me a chance to pick up local color. Let’s go! I can finish this later.”

        As he drove, Jeff marveled at the seething mini-malls on Sepulveda Boulevard. New York City had nothing to compare, at least not in the neighborhoods he frequented. But he was more interested in the water bill, since it could be a clue to what was really going on here. “Listen, not to pry or anything, but how did you manage to let the water bill go this long? Don’t they send reminders, final notices, and all that?”

        She gave him a shaman’s smile. “I never pay bills on time anymore. How else do you think I get by? I have to juggle ac­counts to make the money last. This time I got caught, that’s all!”

        He found a parking place near the water-company’s office. Crossing the building’s plaza, they were forced to go around an immense fountain made of poured concrete and twisted steel beams. Water dribbled out of rusted pipes. The sight prompted a wry comment from Jeff. “That has got to be the ugliest sculp­ture I have even seen. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was rubble left over from the earthquake.” He paused to gaze at it, hands on hips, frowning.

        “I know, but what can you do? The artist is making a statement.”

        “What’s he saying, do you think?”

        She shrugged. “Something about society disintegrating, most likely.”

        The author scowled at the ugly jumble. “I don’t mind an artist making a statement, as long as he doesn’t do it in public. It hurts my eyes. It would frighten the horses, if there were any horses.”

        Diana laughed. “If my water-bill money goes to pay for junk like this, it’s no wonder society’s disintegrating!”

        They continued on their way, circling the monstrosity. Inside the building’s cavernous lobby thick bulletproof panes separated the clerks from the customers.

        “Why all the glass? It looks like an aquarium.”

        “This is California, darling. When it comes to water, people are apt to shoot first and ask questions later! Remember all those movies? It’s a favorite plot device.”

        In line ahead of them a short man with a drooping black mustache confronted the clerk with waving hands and Spanish epithets. He was clearly not convinced the tiny microphone embedded in the glass would carry his voice through to the other side. Ultimately he forked over some money and left, mumbling to himself.

        Diana paid the clerk. “That should hold them for a month. By then I should be rolling in money.”

        “Good. I don’t care about the dishes, but I insist on showers!”

        They returned to the car and headed back home. This had been one more of those bizarre interruptions that threw him off track, but at least now he had Diana to himself for a few min­utes and decided to take advantage of the situation.

        “Do you think I’ll have a chance to try out the VirGen pretty soon? It’s the main reason I’m here, you know.”

        “Can you hold on for another week?”

        “I think so. Why?”

        “I’m working on a deal that should net me fifty thousand dollars. I need that much to pay for a new klystron tube and take care of old bills. There’s back rent and salaries, and pay­ments on parts and test equipment. As soon as I get the money, we’ll be back in business and you can have your demo. In fact, I’ll make sure you get the first demo, just as soon as the Hallu is working again.”

        “Hallu?”

        “That’s what I call the VirGen for short. It injects hallu­cinations. Adam’s working on the software while we wait for the money. It’s going to be even better than before. That man is a genius! He’s a little nuts, but he’s the most creative computer programmer I’ve ever met. Have I told you about the Auto­scripter? It was my idea originally, but I never thought it would be possible without a multi-million-dollar investment in pro­gram­ming. Well, Adam actually came up with a way to do it!”

        “Okay, I’ll bite. What does the Autoscripter do?”

        “It controls the VirGen. You just type up a script and feed it into the scanner, instead of having to film live actors and use sets and all that. It draws on stored images and sounds. You’ll see for yourself just as soon as we get the new klystron tube.”

        Jeff mulled this over, weaving in and out of the congestion that was Sepulveda Boulevard. Another week or so he could handle, if that was all it was going to take. Martin Schofield’s description of the Virtual Reality Generator itself had sounded impressive, and now there was the Autoscripter program. This was definitely worth waiting for. Jeff recalled the excitement of Nelson, his editor, jaded as that man was. “Virtual Reality is what’s happening,” he had said. “I need it! Go out there and wallow in it. Make it into a book. Do a potboiler if you have to, but do it!”

        As he drove, Jeff glanced at his companion’s face, marveling at its serenity. The thick brown hair was now well coifed, and the skillful use of makeup had transformed her into a thing of beauty and a joy forever, truly a queen in appearance as well as manner. All she lacked was money.

        A car cut suddenly in front of him and he hit the brakes just in time. This was not the time or place to be admiring queens, with or without money. He pressed on, hoping for more infor­mation.

        “What exactly is a klystron tube?”

        “It’s what generates the microwaves. However, the one we need isn’t just an ordinary tube. It uses gallium arsenide micro­chips and a cryogenic container. The microwaves interrupt the normal brain-body connections so the hallucinations can be injected.”

        “Of course. I might have guessed!”

        She ignored his mild sarcasm. “The microchips tune the klystron’s output. Gallium arsenide works faster than silicon. The cryogenic container keeps everything cold enough to superconduct. Luigi helped me work through the technical terms in the patents.”

        Jeff made a mental note to the effect that this queen had brains as well as beauty. “So much for the technical part. Now, how do you plan to raise the fifty grand, if I may ask?”

        She was pleased to explain all. It seemed there had been the need for a lawyer, one Bernie Manson, to set up the VirGen project as a corporation, check into the patent situation, fight off competing claims and lawsuits, and file all the usual appli­ca­tions for permits to do business in the State of California. Diana had been in need of money and he had generously of­fered to put up whatever it took—something approaching six figures, Jeff gathered—in return for a piece of the action. He had even fi­nanced additional patentable improvements. She said he was a man in his mid-thirties, ambitious, smart and ener­getic, but—as it turned out—just a bit too greedy for his own good. His legal fees mounted quickly and eventually exceeded the amount he had advanced. Presently he notified her that he wanted the money, now. Since she was still without funds, he had taken out a lien against the assets of the corporation.

        She went on, grimly. “When I confronted him with this obvious attempt to steal my company out from under me, he acted as if I was trying to cheat him, instead of the other way around! That was about a year ago, just when we were ready to start manufacturing. We had Sony interested in a joint venture, but of course they had to know who had the legal rights to the Hallu technology.”

        He nodded, keeping his eyes on traffic.

        “Then this asshole of a lawyer hit me with a lawsuit and threatened to tell Sony about it unless I did what he wanted—which was basically to turn everything over to him. Naturally I didn’t do that. I would have counter‑sued, but I had no money to pay another attorney. The way it stands now, if I don’t pay him off the judge could award him the Hallu and all the patents pending. The case comes up in a couple of weeks. Meanwhile, Sony got wind of it and backed out.”

        Jeff made a whooshing noise. “Bad news! But I don’t see what this has to do with raising fifty thousand dollars.”

        “I’m coming to that.” She appeared to be gearing up for the next chapter, but they had arrived back at the house. “Let me check my messages, then I’ll pick up where I left off. I want to run it by you anyway—you might have some suggestions. Colleen read your book about Wall Street and told me all about it. You seem to know a lot about finance and business law.”

        He took the L. A. Times into the living room. She went to the glassed-in back porch she referred to as her office to check the answering machine. Somehow the Bernie Manson story, currently unfinished, was going to conclude with another fifty thousand dollars going into Diana’s pocket. Jeff was impatient to learn exactly how she planned to pull it off.

        The newspaper left him cold. It was the same old litany of other people’s troubles, and he was more interested in Diana’s at the moment. He went to his room and brought up the VirGen computer file. As he worked, he could hear his landlady’s voice on the phone. Had it been an ordinary voice he could have worked through it—but she cooed, chuckled, laughed, con­soled, cajoled, shouted, screamed, and argued. Even with the door closed, her racket periodically shattered his focus. But he kept going, developing a new respect for war correspondents reporting under fire.

Chapter 3

That afternoon Colleen showed up as predicted. The April weather had taken a turn for the better, producing summerlike conditions. Diana was inside on the phone and Jeff was on the patio, again trying to fight his way through the Times. The wooden gate swung open with a creak. Colleen wheeled her bike inside and leaned it against the concrete-block wall surrounding the back yard and patio.

        He greeted her, putting down the paper. Colleen was wearing shorts and a halter and immediately kicked off her sandals. Tanned and firm of body, she exuded health except for a bit of darkness around the eyes from last night’s binge.

        “You’re looking pretty good, considering.”

        “I’m feeling pretty good! Thanks for the orange juice.”

        “My pleasure. Maybe next time you’ll let me take you out for breakfast.”

        “Maybe I will.” The redhead stretched out on a chaise next to his chair. “Don’t let me interrupt what you’re doing. I just want to relax and catch a little sun.”

        Jeff expected she would light up a cigarette. When she showed no sign of doing so, he asked her about it. “I thought you were a smoker.”

        “I only smoke when I drink.”

        “That’s a relief. The smog level in your room this morning probably set a record for Los Angeles!”

        She snorted. “You produce a thousand times more smog driving that big car.”

        “Touché! You’re obviously right. And I can’t claim that I only drive when I drink, can I?”

        Diana came out with soft drinks and crackers. She sat and looked at the young woman. “Colleen baby—why do you torture yourself like this?” With a sigh and a shake of the head, “Why do you do it, anyway?”

        “Do what?” Colleen said brightly. “Get shit-faced? It’s just what I do. It’s part of my life. It’s—amor fati.”

        The concerned matron looked at her uncomprehendingly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

        “It’s from Nietzsche. Amor fati, the love of your fate. What about you? Why do you keep torturing yourself about all this hallucination business?”

        “The VirGen? I’m not torturing myself. I do what I have to do.”

        “Exactly! So do I.”

        The phone rang in the house. Diana had forgotten to bring the cordless one outside so she ran to answer it, shouting over her shoulder, “Don’t let me forget to finish telling you about Bernie Manson.”

        Jeff kicked off his sandals. It was a way of identifying with Colleen. He felt foolishly formal in the dacron slacks and striped sport shirt he’d changed into. Saying good-bye to New York and hello to California was not an easy transition for one with established habits, but at least he was making the effort. He put one bare foot on the lounge near Colleen’s leg and opened a Pepsi for himself and one for her.

        “How is it you know so much about Nietzsche?”

        “I read a lot, always have. No big deal.”

        In the bright sun he squinted at the lightly-freckled maiden, not knowing quite what to make of her. “So you think Diana tortures herself. Has she ever told you what she’s trying to do?”

        “Only about eight million goddam times!”

        “I see. Well, I happen to think she may succeed.” It was a lie, but with a little probing the redhead might give him a lead.

        “For her sake I hope she does. But I don’t think it matters one way or the other. Who gives a shit if we get some hifalutin new media machine? Life goes on, one way or another.”

        He put the other foot on the lounge and touched her ankle with his toe. She gave him a gap-toothed smile. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll catch something, like a sudden craving for cigarettes or booze?”

        “I’m immune. I used to smoke and drink with the best of them.”

        A flock of large crows flew overhead, hacking raspily. He looked up at them. In New York they had pigeons, here they had crows. One more difference to get used to.

        “So you’re not interested in the dream machine? Have you tried it?”

        “Oh, sure. It’s pretty incredible—it’s like you’re off in another world. But I like it better right where I’m at. The sex is better, for one thing. They haven’t got that angle figured out yet.”

        “You don’t care about Diana’s vision of a New Age of Light that she’s always spouting off about?”

        “Not particularly.”

        “What if she turns out to be a prophet?”

        “That’s all we need—another fucking prophet!”

        “You have something against prophets?”

        “Frankly, yes. The way I see it, a prophet preaches to all the assholes who can’t think for themselves, and jerks them off until they’re maxed out. They sell all their worldly goods and go up on a mountain in white robes to wait for Arma­geddon.” She looked thoughtful. “Or they start a new religion and kill everybody who won’t convert. No thanks, I can do without any more prophets!”

        “You’re quite the philosopher.”

        “Bullshit. I just live my own life and try to stay out of trouble.” She raised up on her elbows and eyed the redwood tank in the corner of the patio. “I don’t suppose anyone has turned the hot tub on, by any chance?”

        “No, but the cover seems to keep the heat in. I’ll go turn it up if you like.”

        “Thanks. I’m going inside to change. Why don’t you join me? Or maybe you have to finish your newspaper first.”

        He aimed a skeptical eyebrow at her. “If the time ever comes when reading the newspaper takes precedence over hot tubbing, you can be sure the world’s coming to an end.”

        She was surely a strange duck, he reflected as he pulled the thick round cover off the tub and fiddled with the controls. By the time the feisty redhead returned, he had changed into his trunks and was already in the tub soaking. She tossed her towel on a folding chair, climbed up the two steps and over the rim of the tank, and settled herself on the submerged seat. “Ahh! That feels good. Sometimes I can’t decide whether I like screwing or soaking best.”

        He gave her a sympathetic chuckle but not much more, grateful for his internal poise-machine. He had tinkered with the psychological mechanism over the years until it ran like well-oiled clockwork. By now it was a device he could trust in most situations that might otherwise have produced such incon­ven­iences as blushing or choking up. He took his time respond­ing. There was the sprinkling of freckles on her heart-shaped face to savor, the turned-up nose, the big teeth with the little gap in the middle, the sparkling green eyes and brilliant red hair.

        “Screwing or soaking, eh?” he said at length. “I wouldn’t have any trouble choosing! Tell me something. How is it a person with your habits looks so unspoiled?”

        “What is this unspoiled crap? You’re putting me on.”

        “Seriously. I grant you, any woman your age looks good to a man of my age—I just turned forty-six—but even so you have a look of uncanny freshness.”

        “Is that a fact? Well, you tell me something, Mr. Fox. Back when you were being ‘Mr. Fellows’ you weren’t so hip, you with your ridiculous little pointy beard that looked like my whatsis. How come the big change?”

        Jeff stroked his newly-shaven chin, glad he’d decided to eliminate the hirsute adornment. He’d gotten rid of the beard but let the mustache stay in place for now, trying to decide if he liked it. “I was trying to go incognito, but it didn’t work. Some­one spotted me and that was that.”

        “So why the Mr. Fellows thing anyway?”

        “I figured I could blend in better if people didn’t think I was anybody special—not that I am, of course.”

        “Are you kidding? You’re the Jefferson Fox, for Christ’s sake! I’ve even got your book with the picture on the back. So don’t give me that shit about not being somebody special.”

        He felt a sudden warmth creep into his cheeks, poise-machine or no. “All I’m saying is that if people don’t know who I am, they’ll act more natural.”

        “Okay, I can dig that, what with you coming from New York and all. But I don’t think anybody out here is going to give a fuck who you are. This is Hollywood, dude. Everyone’s a star, or thinks they are!”

        He grimaced. “So I’ve noticed. That’s why I dropped the act.” At the moment he didn’t feel like the Jefferson Fox, what­ever that was, and his poise-machine was starting to go pock­eta-pocketa-pocketa. The first pocketa was because of what she had said and the way she had said it, and the other two were because Colleen was now untying the strap on her bikini top.

        “Listen, would it stress you out if I took this swimsuit off? There ought to be a law against wearing anything in a hot tub. It’s totally stupid!”

        “It wouldn’t stress me out, but what about Diana? I thought there was some kind of rule about when you could be nude.”

        “She and Starla decided they’ll wear suits when each others’ boyfriends are around, but that’s all. Diana and I go nude all the time, and so does Craig when he’s here.”

        “Okay. In that case you won’t mind if I do too.”

        The redhead shrugged and quickly finished slipping out of the swimsuit. She hung it over the side, where it dripped onto the patio tiles. He did the same and settled down to enjoy hot water jetting against the neglected parts of his body, only wish­ing the swirling bubbles didn’t make it virtually impossible to see beneath the surface of the water.

        A little while later Diana came out the back door. She had changed into camouflaged fatigue shorts and tee-shirt, which gave her sumptuous body a formidable appearance. On some days she was never satisfied with what she had on, and had to change almost as often as the phone rang. Other times she would go from one day to the next in the same outfit. She was not to be pigeon-holed, the novelist was discovering.

        “Jeff...weren’t we in the middle of something?”

        He put on a concerned face. “I was just killing time, waiting for you to get off the phone.”

        The two dripping suits caught her eye. “Uh-huh. Do you always wait in the nude? Never mind darling, I’m just teasing. Actually, I’m jealous! If I had the time, I’d join you. But I’ve got to make a call to Steven Spielberg right now. I think he might be interested in backing the VirGen. I can finish telling you about Bernie some other time. Are you staying for supper, Colleen?”

        “Sure, if you don’t mind. Is anyone else coming over?”

        “No, and it’s a good thing, because I’m getting low on food.”

        Jeff offered at once to make a grocery run, but she told him it wasn’t necessary. Maybe tomorrow. She went back in the house.

        Jeff shook his head admiringly. “Love that woman! But let’s talk about you instead. Where do you come from, and what were you before, and how did you get to be who you are now?”

        “That’s easy! I’m a retired whore from Mustang Ranch. I moved on to Las Vegas when the IRS shut them down. But pretty soon I figured there wasn’t much future in that line of work and decided to retire early and take up painting. Anything else?”

        That was both more and less than he’d expected. It threw him just slightly off balance, poise-machine notwithstanding. Of course, it was just possible she was putting him on.

        “You don’t say. Aren’t you a bit young to be retired?”

        “So what? I didn’t like the hours. Now I get to see the sun. Can you blame me?”

        “Certainly not! It must have been tough being…a person in your profession.”

        “It was at first, but once I learned the ropes, I was able to limit my services to a few well-paying customers. My heart goes out to the girls on the street who have to turn fifteen-minute tricks all night long or get beaten up by their bloodsucker pimps.”

        “Then you weren’t so much a prostitute as a call girl.”

        “What’s the difference? I sold my body, you sell your mind. We’re all whores, one way or another. And please don’t tell me that’s a cliché! I’m sick of writers who go around with their noses in the air saying everything is a cliché. I hope you’re not one of those.”

        “I don’t think I am,” he said quickly, wondering if she were right. “On the other hand, if you think about it, life itself can seem like a cliché. There’s nothing new under the sun.”

        She gave him a suspicious look, but went on. “It wasn’t a bad life. I even got some sexual enjoyment out of it, now and then. I know whores aren’t supposed to enjoy sex, but I did, sometimes.”

        “Would you ever consider going back?”

        “Fuck, no! I’ve got a good life now, even though it may not seem like much to you. I’ve got my freedom, I’ve got my art, and I’ve got my friends.” She thought of something else. “And sometimes I do massages. I’ll give you one, compliments of the house, just to show my gratitude for this morning.”

        “Thanks. I might take you up on it some time, but I probably won’t. No offense, but I have to watch myself. I find it’s too easy to become addicted to things I find pleasurable.”

        She grimaced and threw up her hands. “It’s your loss! Don’t say I never offered.”

        “I won’t.” He let it go at that. It was time to go in and give his landlady a hand in the kitchen. She always insisted he eat with them if he was around, and he tried to make himself useful in small ways.

        “Had enough? Any longer and I think I’ll pass out. We New Yorkers aren’t used to the rigors of California. The only hot tub I’m familiar with is the Jacuzzi at my health club. It’s indoors and it’s always full of naked men. I never get into it.”

Chapter 4

Jeff was talking with Diana in the living room that evening when a knock sounded at the back door. He went to answer it, but as he reached for the knob the door flew open and a slender woman of slightly more than average height carrying a small black suitcase pushed past him. Heavily made up, she wore a sequined 20’s-style ballroom gown and a hat with a big feather slanting down over one eye. Without pausing she said, “Hi! Is Diana home?”

        “Sure. Come on in, I guess,” he said to her back.

        “Who’s there?”

        “I think it’s Theda Bara.”

        “Who?”

        “Never mind. Before your time.”

 By now the woman was halfway to the living room.

        “Sorry to barge in like this, Diana, but I just need a minute to change. Is it okay?”

        “Of course, Raquel! What’s going on?”

        By the time Jeff returned, the woman had already taken off the hat with the feather, put the suitcase on the coffee table, and opened it. Now she held up a slinky black dress with a frilly bodice. “What do you think of it?”

        Diana inspected it, eyes shining. “You lucky dog! Can you actually get into something like that? Even if you can, it won’t cover your butt. You’ll be arrested.”

        “They wouldn’t dare. I’d scream sexual harassment.” She glanced at Jeff and back at her friend.

        “This is our writer-in-residence, Jefferson Fox. I told you about him.”

        By habit, he braced himself. People’s reactions to his name were unpredictable. Sometimes they froze. Sometimes they gushed. This woman did neither, but extended a warm hand.

        “Hi, I’m Raquel, Luigi’s wife.” She inspected his face closely. “Diana said you had a beard.”

        He smiled wryly at her, remembering Colleen’s brash comment on his beard’s resemblance to female pubic hair. “I did have a beard, but it itched so I got rid of it. How come the Theda Bara outfit?”

        “Who?”

        “There I go again! Never mind.”

        “I just left Antonini’s. I do dinner theater there. I would have changed before leaving, but a stage-door johnny’s been hassling me. Now I’ve got to get ready for my next gig.”

        “Which is?”

        “Selling long-stemmed roses in restaurants.”

        “Ah, so. I’ve seen people like you going from table to table. Any money in it?”

        “On a good night, maybe three hundred.” The actress took the skimpy dress into the bathroom, shouting over her shoulder, “Wait till I tell you who was there tonight, so close I could have touched her!”

        The phone rang. “Where’s that damn cordless?” Diana heaved herself up and went to answer it in the kitchen.

        Raquel came out of the bathroom, wriggling and tugging at the dress, trying without success to work it down over her bottom, apparently too anxious to go on talking to be modest. Finding that her friend was not there, she went back into the bathroom muttering obscenely about how well the dress had fit in the store.

        Diana returned, and presently Raquel emerged again, this time triumphantly sheathed in the minimal dress.

        “You did it!”

        The actress twirled around several times to show it off. “It fit perfectly in the store, but I must have picked up a few ounces since then. Anyway, like I was saying, you won’t believe who was in the audience tonight, so close I could have touched her! It was Lisa Marie! Elvis’s daughter! They told me later. And I didn’t recognize her! I fucking didn’t recognize her.” She repeated the last few words to drive home the utterly humil­iating fact. Then she was out the door again and instantly back with a huge package of long-stemmed roses. “I’ve got to get these things potted. Can I do it in the kitchen, Diana, or should I use the bathroom?”

        “Let’s go in the kitchen, so I can tell you what’s been happening. Come on Jeff, you can listen and take notes.”

        The author settled himself at the table and got his notepad and pen ready. Raquel began putting small glass vials of water on each rose stem to keep them fresh. Jeff wrote, “Tricks of the trade,” on his pad, and drew a picture to remind himself later.

        Diana went into high gear. “This morning we had to resus­citate Colleen. Another binge. Luckily the landlord didn’t call the police. Her place was a mess! She was sprawled on the floor, on top of tubes of paint and cigarette butts. We had to lift her onto the couch and undress her to check for bruises, but I had to chase the landlord out because he wanted to watch. What a creep! Jeff went out and got her some orange juice. Colleen and Jeff spent the afternoon in the hot tub together, buck naked. I wanted to join them, but I was on the phone trying to get Steven Spielberg’s office to track him down. I know he’ll go absolutely ballistic when he hears about the VirGen. It’s a challenge he won’t be able to resist, and with him money is no object. He’s a billionaire like Bill Gates. It seems like everyone is a billionaire these days. I remember when a million dollars was a big deal! I’m working on a plan to raise money for a new klystron tube, and then we’ll be showcasing again. Jeff’s going to get the first live demonstration because he hasn’t checked out the Hallu yet. He may even write a script for the Autoscripter! Did I tell you he’s agreed to be my Chief Financial Officer when the project gets going? Craig’s going to be the C-O-O.”

        “C-O-O? What’s a ‘Coo’?” Raquel asked, bewildered.

        “Not ‘Coo’, C-O-O. Chief Operating Officer. I’ll be C-E-O, of course.” Diana went on about her plans for the company and how much money it would make, and how she planned to set up spiritual healing centers.

        Raquel made little noises to indicate she was listening, but went on busily potting the long-stemmed roses. Fifteen minutes later she was gone in a whirlwind of petals. Jeff put away his notepad. Except for “Tricks of the trade” and the picture, it was covered with doodles. “So that’s Luigi’s wife. She’s a real ball of fire! By the way, did I really say I’d be your CFO?”

        She thought back. “I think you did. We were talking about the need for corporate officers, once the company gets going. Since you wrote that book about Wall Street, I asked you if you’d consider being my Chief Financial Officer.”

        Jeff tried to recall the conversation. It had probably been shortly after he moved in. “I think I might have said I’d be glad to help distribute the profits, once they start rolling in.”

        “There! I knew I remembered correctly. That’s what the Chief Financial Officer does, doesn’t he? But you don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I won’t hold you to it.”

        “Thanks. Meanwhile, maybe you shouldn’t tell people I’ve agreed to do it. They might get the wrong idea.”

        She shrugged. “Okay.”

        “By the way, you were going to finish telling me about the lawyer, and how you were going to raise another fifty thousand. I’m really curious to...”

        The phone rang.

        “Hello? Mother! What’s going on?”

        Jeff left the room and dutifully entered the Raquel episode in his computer journal. Diana’s voice went on for what seemed like hours. Meanwhile he could hear other people coming in, and someone turned the television on to catch the latest scores. He wondered how long he could put up with this madhouse, and the frustration of never being able to get to the bottom of things. Earlier, in the living room, Diana had been giving him a blow-by-blow account of an earlier involvement with a banker, a media consultant, and a shipping magnate. Just when it looked as if she had a deal, the banker got a heart-attack while having intercourse with his mistress, who was coincidentally the consultant’s wife. The outraged husband then showed up at the hospital with a gun, while the banker was still in intensive care.

        At that point in the story Raquel had shown up. Diana’s stories had a way of being interrupted at the critical point, leaving the upshot forever in doubt—unless she could be reminded, at an opportune time, and felt like picking up where she had left off.

        This evening, Jeff decided not to join the noisy bunch in the living room. After wrapping up his notes and some corre­spond­ence, he crawled into bed and pulled a pillow over his ears. He resolved that the next time Diana launched into a story, he’d suggest she first finish the ones left hanging.

Chapter 5

During the next few days Jeff stayed holed up in his room organizing his notes and sketching out possible plot-lines. It was the way he always began a new book. At first he had held off taking notes, wanting to be where the action was, but now he began to suspect that Diana was longer on words than action. Furthermore, from what others had said, things must once have looked brighter than they did now. The machine was on the fritz and she was scraping the bottom of the money barrel. Jeff began to wonder if the plan to raise fifty big ones was anything but a figment of her imagination.

        He looked forward to Craig’s return this weekend, even though the two of them had not exactly hit it off. Diana’s newest lover had been packing for his trip back to Chicago when Jeff first moved into the guest room, and he made it clear the arrangements were not to his liking. He did not see why the writer couldn’t stay in a motel. Diana had tried to explain Jeff’s need to be in the midst of things at all times, but Craig was obviously jealous and in no mood to listen to reason. The two men had managed to be civil to each other, but that was all. Jeff’s main memory of Craig was of him up to the elbows in dishwater. That was to his credit, since in other ways the burly man with the big mustache appeared to be typically macho. He spent a lot of time drinking beer and watching sports on tele­vision.

        While Craig was in Chicago, there was a certain awkward­ness in the situation. Jeff felt he was playing the part of surro­gate boyfriend, but without the perks. He and Diana would spend all day in the same general vicinity, rubbing elbows and sharing food, conversation, and the company of friends. Yet when it was time to retire, they headed off to separate bed­rooms. In New York he had always managed to carry on at least one discrete affair, which satisfied his libidinous urges. Here, he had no one.

        True, his eye was on Karen Reich, a female psychotherapist of about forty who resembled Elizabeth Taylor at the same age. She came to Diana’s Saturday night salons regularly and often read sections of the novel she was working on. But Karen ap­peared to have no interest in developing a relationship of any kind. He wondered if she had a regular lover and concluded that it was likely, given her intelligence and attractiveness.

        Meanwhile, living in the same house with Diana posed its problems. Jeff found himself in a state of perpetual arousal around his sexy landlady. She radiated energy of the most sensual kind, yet appeared blithely unaware of the fact. He began to crave any excuse to get out of the house.

        Thursday morning when he turned the computer on there was a message from Nelson complaining that he’d never seen Martin Schofield’s original letter. How about attaching a copy along with the next message? Jeff was reluctant to spend the time. He had to remember where in Toto’s memory he had stored the letter. The original paper letter had been discarded once it had been scanned into the computer. Eventually he found the file and inserted a few paragraphs of it in his message.

Nelson: Here’s the guts of Schofield’s letter. I’ll spare you the details of Diana’s early life as an Ohio farm girl among the Bruderhof, her college days at Antioch, and how she raised two kids in Xenia after her husband died.

Dear Mr. Fox:

  I enjoyed “Blue Chips, Scarlet Lips” immensely. You really gave it to Wall Street! I always look forward to your newest book with keen anticipation.

  Now let me get to the point quickly. Diana Thornton, a beautiful woman who attracts men the way honey attracts bears, is developing a remarkable device she calls the VirGen--which stands for ‘Virtual Reality Generator’. It’s derived from an Air Force training-simulator which was scrapped and sold as war-surplus after swallowing the usual billions. Using a garage for a laboratory, she and some engineer friends turned it into a cutting-edge multimedia system.

  Diana is confident it will earn her and her associates a fortune as it ushers in the new age of Virtual Reality. Her daughter, a luscious blonde, is always at her side when they meet the public. If that sounds sexist, I apologize, but I think it’s both true and relevant--this story is a Hollywood romance from start to finish. I think it would make a good novel and an exciting movie, especially since there is reason to believe the competition is out to destroy the machine before it ever sees the light of day. Diana’s been tricked, attacked, sued, and slandered during the course of the project, but she’s tough and sticks to her guns! Remarkably, she is also the sweetest, kindest, most considerate person you could ever know. Her loyalty to friends is absolute.

  The device is revolutionary, to say the least. Its essential principle is to inject a controlled hallucination into the mind of anyone connected to it. I’m not sure exactly how it works, or why the project was canceled by the military.

  This is an ongoing story whose last chapter is yet to be written. Diana gave me her personal assurance you would be welcome to spend as much time and ask as many questions as you like....

          How much of Schofield’s letter is true I can’t say, even after meeting Diana and her daughter—except that both are babes.

          So here I am, living in a bedroom about the size of a monk’s cell, which they refer to as the “guest room”. The project itself looks to be dead on arrival for lack of money. To make matters worse, I’m horny as hell and no one seems to care.

          No doubt you’re touched by all this, but not to worry. I’ll find some way of coping. You can put your hanky away and go back to rejecting manuscripts.

Jeff.

        He was feeling irritable from trying to remember all the people he’d met and the conversations he’d listened to in the last few weeks, wishing now he’d taken the time to get every­thing down as it happened. There had been computer program­mers, artists, engineers, technicians, and media people. As a rule, people seemed to regard 2:00 a.m. as normal bedtime at the Thornton beehive. He was still trying to get a handle on the situation, sort out the people, and decide what was worth noting in the computer journal and what was not. As a rule he entered everything, if he had the time, not knowing what would turn out to be useful. Most of his entries seemed trivial when he set them down, and would probably be dis­carded—but sorting the wheat from the chaff could be done later.

        On Thursday evening while he was enjoying supper with Diana and her daughter, Jeff had once again asked about her plans to raise money and when he could expect a demo when the phone rang—in typical fashion—just as she was starting to explain. He listened carefully, jotting down entries in his mental journal as he did when it didn’t seem appropriate to take notes with a pen and pad.

        She had picked up the phone. “VirGen, Incorporated! Yes, this is Diana. Well, that’s the name of my company, that’s why. It’s a spiritual enterprise, dedicated to the New Age of Light. Who? Jacqueline who? Oh, Jacque! Jacque Verbost! I didn’t recognize your voice! It’s been years! How are you? Good! I’m fine, great, never been better! What’s the occasion?”

        Diana put a hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “It’s an old friend of mine from Xenia. She was always a pain in the ass. I wonder what she wants?”

        The phone call was no reason to stop eating. Diana tucked the phone between cheek and shoulder and made comments between bites. “Uh-huh. Me? Sure, most every time. Well, that’s too bad. You finally did? Really? Great! He did? How long? You’ve got to be kidding! You poor thing. What did he do next? And then what did you do?”

        Jeff lifted an eyebrow solemnly at Starla. “Sounds pretty bad. Or pretty good.”

        “With Mother you never know.”

        Diana’s plate was clean and she had refilled her wine glass three times when the conversation ended. She held her hands to her head, shaking it from side to side woefully. “Why me, oh Lord?”

        Jeff waited expectantly, mental pen poised over mental notebook.

        “This woman—Jacqueline Verbost, Jacque—I haven’t spoken to her in years! I didn’t know if she was dead or alive. No phone calls, no Christmas cards. Nothing. Not that I cared. But now this!”

        “Okay, Mother, what?” Starla said, irritably.

        Her mother inhaled deeply. “She’s just had her first orgasm! She’s forty-eight and she’s never had one before! It lasted twenty minutes. She’s completely freaked out.”

        Starla perked up. “A twenty minute orgasm? And she freaked out? Why, for gosh sakes?”

        “She said it felt wonderful, absolutely heavenly, but she came all over the bed. She didn’t know women could ejac­ulate.”

        “You’re kidding! That’s what freaked her?”

        “Yes, she was totally embarrassed. The man had sense enough to act like it happened every day. Gee, I’d like to meet him! Naturally she had to give me a blow by blow description.”

        Starla looked pained. “Really, Mother.”

        “What? Oh. Anyway, she even called her ex-husband. She said it was just to get his reaction, but I think there was more to it than that.”

        Starla smirked. “He must have been thrilled to get the news.”

        Jeff told Toto all about it when supper was over. If he did manage to cobble a novel together out of all this, the story might serve to provide atmosphere. It was certainly typical of the tenor of life in the Thornton residence. As he typed, he could hear Diana on the phone again. Before morning everyone in greater Los Angeles would know exactly how long Jacque’s first orgasm had lasted.

Chapter 6

By Friday afternoon, suffering libido pangs from living in close quarters with Diana and her daughter, Jeff gave Colleen a phone call. Under the circumstances, it might have been exactly the wrong thing to do, he suddenly realized, as she answered the phone in a sultry voice.

        “It’s Mr. Nobody Special, Colleen. What’s happening? Oh, I’m fine, I guess. Just going a little stir-crazy. Living in the middle of a three-ring circus without anything getting accom­plished is starting to bug me, and I need a break. I thought may­be we could go out for coffee or something.”

        She thought that was a fine idea, except for going out for coffee. Why didn’t he just come over?

        The place had been cleaned up since the last time he was there, and the odors of tobacco and alcohol were gone. She was working on the canvas that had been knocked off the easel when she crashed into the table. It appeared to be a self-portrait, but in a style reminiscent of Gauguin, as if she were a native Tahiti woman. The picture showed her in a colorful wrap, naked from the waist up.

        “Nice,” he said. “Your subject has a great body.”

        “Thanks,” she responded easily, “I do my best to keep it in shape. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll go on working, if you don’t mind. I can talk while I work. There’s beer in the fridge.”

        He accepted the offer and tried to make himself comfort­able on the small sofa. “I appreciate this, Colleen. It’s a relief just to get away from her royal highness and all that incessant phoning. Sometimes I can’t picture her without a phone glued to her ear. She carries the cordless one in her pocket when she goes outside.”

        “I know.”

        “Did you know Craig’s flying in tomorrow? That should be a change in pace, at least. She’s excited. Says he’s getting a divorce and is going to move in with her as soon as it’s final. What do you think? Is he on the level?”

        She paused, brush in hand, squinting at the painting. “Why do you ask?”

        “I’m getting fond of her and wouldn’t want to see her get hurt. He seems okay, but you never know.”

        At his urging, Colleen filled him in on Diana and her succession of lovers. He felt no compunction about asking, since the queen bee had urged him to do just that. “There are no secrets among friends,” she had said. He’d made the usual promises to disguise people’s identities, but her response was just a shrug. Colleen had known Diana for about three years and turned out to be a fount of information. Jeff wished he’d thought to bring a tape recorder.

        Diana had lived with the chief inventor of the original Air Force training-simulator, the basis of the VirGen. She had tracked him down after buying the equipment, and they had moved to Los Angeles to develop it, with the idea of going into business together. Unfortunately, he had turned out to be an alcoholic who quarreled incessantly about how to exploit the machine, and even what to call it. Instead of “VirGen”—her idea—he preferred the military’s “KAHI”, for Klystron-Assisted Hallucination Injector.

        “KAHI—that sounds like a radio station instead of a machine. I’m surprised you can remember what it stands for.”

        “Some things stick in my mind. Of course, I might be wrong. Anyway, Diana kicked him out, and then lived with different guys, one after the other. I have the feeling she chose each one for his usefulness as much as anything. Let’s see—there was a business executive, another inventor, a scientist, and an artist, I think, but not necessarily in that order. Craig is only the latest.”

        Jeff thanked her for the information. “Diana seems reluctant to tell me what her new boyfriend does. I never got a chance to ask him, and when I ask her she changes the subject or goes vague on me. I wonder why?”

        Colleen smiled. “Craig sells bulldozers.”

        “You’re shitting me!”

        “I shit you not. He sells bulldozers and those things that look like big praying mantises.”

        “Backhoes.”

        “They met at a blues bar where she hangs out sometimes. She must have figured if he could sell bulldozers he could sell VirGens. It’s not that she’s cold-blooded,” Colleen quickly explained, noting his look. “They really did hit it off. But then she’s like Will Rogers. She never met a man she didn’t like.”

        Jeff watched the artist’s deft brush-strokes in silence, ad­miring her body and the way it moved. She was barefoot as usual and wore frayed jeans and a long shirt that served as an artist’s smock. Slim and taller than average, she could have been the perfect fashion model—or not. Too much in the bosom department. He sighed unhappily. Watching her at work was having the same effect on him as being around Diana.

        “By the way, how about that coffee? Have you got time for a break?”

        “Yeah, why not? It’s not like I’ve got a deadline to meet.”

        They drove to a nearby café. Fortunately, the distraction of traffic was helping him cope with his libido problem. How annoying it was, he mused, to be bossed around by your instincts as if you were a dog or a rabbit.

        Sitting in a booth now, with their coffees steaming in front of them and a muffin they’d agreed to split, he decided to get Colleen’s take on the libido matter. The redhead had a way of making insightful, if cynical, comments. But he would have to sneak up on the subject.

        “There’s something I usually ask people once I get to know them. But remember, I’m one of those weird literary types, so please bear with me. Tell me—what do you think about consciousness?”

        “What’s to think? Either you are, or you aren’t.”

        “I mean, what is it and where does it come from? Is it just something that the body produces, or is it a separate principle?”

        Colleen stared blankly at him. “You are asking the wrong person. I happen to think questions like that are a waste of time. Besides, just because I read doesn’t mean I think.”

        “That sounds like something Descartes would say.”

        “Oh yeah?”

        He was disappointed. Not one to give up easily, however, he took the risk of pushing her. “You’re probably right—it’s a waste of time. Still, I can’t help wondering about the nature of the ‘will’. For example, when you go on one of your toots, is it a conscious decision or do you feel as if your body—or some­thing else—is forcing you to do it?”

        This time she didn’t give him a flip answer but considered the question, stirring her black coffee needlessly. “I honestly don’t know. I wish I could tell you. It’s like a tension that keeps getting worse. It’s as if I can’t relax because something is trying to get out, and I don’t want it to. I know that if I start drinking, it’ll be gone when I come to.”

        “I see. What about the cigarettes?”

        “As long as I’m smoking, I can go on drinking. That’s the only way I can drink enough to get thoroughly polluted before I pass out. I hate to do it, knowing what it does to my body.” For a moment she looked sad. “Don’t you have anything like that?”

        He broke the muffin in two and nibbled on it to gain time. He should have foreseen that she would turn the conversation around.

        “Yes, but I think what I have is different. My problem is simply part of nature’s plan to keep the species going.”

        Colleen curled her lip. “I’m not talking about getting your rocks off! I’m an expert on that subject. Do you have anything else that drives you bananas?”

        “No, I don’t think so. Or if I do, I probably deal with it sexually. Is that likely? As you say, you’re the expert.”

        She suddenly looked bored and that was not a good thing. The interlude had been distracting but was of little help when it came to his essential quandary. As they went back up the steps to her studio apartment Colleen said, “What about that massage I offered, compliments of the house?”

        He felt his heart pounding as he followed her inside. “Would I have to undress and get covered with oil?”

        “Well yes. Of course! Is that a problem?”

        He chuckled ruefully. “I hate to confess this, but the only massage I ever had was by a nurse in a hospital. So—are you a trained masseuse?”

        “Absolutely! Don’t worry, I won’t spill oil in your ear.”

        “Hmm.”

        “Oh, come on. It can’t hurt and might even cure what ails you.”

        He agreed, but was torn between desire and fear. Something could go haywire in a way he didn’t want to pursue mentally. After all, she had been a prostitute, and he had never been intimate with a woman in that profession. What if she were planning a sexual massage—the idea intrigued him—but what would it entail? He felt like a child facing his first day at school.

        Undressed, but with a towel around his hips, he lay face-down on the folding table she produced from a closet while she put a disk in a player. He wondered if the sheet covering the pad had been used by someone before him, although it appeared clean enough. Despite the relaxing music, he realized he was frowning. He tried to put on a confident smile.

        “That’s better,” she said, rubbing a handful of oil on his back. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen to you—at least nothing you don’t want. Such a baby! It always amazes me that you big cheeses turn out to be such little boys when you’re not in control.”

        That helped set his mind at ease. At least she wouldn’t try anything without his okay. He told himself there was no need to worry. Most likely sexual massages were reserved for paying customers, not friends—assuming she still gave them at all.

        Colleen was stroking his back with long, smooth motions. He could feel the tension beginning to drain away. She took her time on his back and legs, then had him turn over. He kept his eyes shut in order to fully enjoy the sensation of her hands gliding around on his body. It was good to be kneaded, squeezed, lightly pummeled, and stroked. She gave him plenty of time to adjust to what she was doing to him. Periodically he would murmur, “Ahh, that’s nice,” or, “That really feels good.”

        A half hour into the massage he asked, “How long does this take? Just curious.”

        “As long as necessary. Don’t worry about it.”

        She had him roll over from time to time, and was so pains­taking and patient and careful where and how she massaged him that he found his earlier erotic tension melting away. It gave him a new sense of confidence in his ability to remain cool. He imagined Diana coming into the kitchen in her slinky kimono, all voluptuous curves. He would glance up at her and say hello, then open the morning paper. She would lean over to stroke Sheba, and her bare breasts would be visible momen­tarily under the gaping kimono. He would look at them and yawn, turning to the business news. The idea of being so utterly cool produced a sense of empowered peace.

        He was lying on his back when she said softly, “How’s that?”

        “Great!” He opened his eyes to find her smiling down at him.

        “How about a little variety?”

        “Ah...variety?”

        “Sure. I could give Peter and the twins a workout.” Her fingertips lightly brushed the towel where it bulged slightly. It could have been a casual accident. “Just a little icing on the cake. It’s up to you.”

        He shrugged uncertainly. “Sure. Why not?”

        “Now relax, this isn’t going to hurt. I can see you tensing up again.” She resumed the massage, but added certain vari­ations that he found pleasurable, once he’d gotten used to the idea. She would stroke his thigh, sliding the towel up an inch or two higher with each stroke. It brought back a memory of his doing more or less the same thing with a girlfriend’s skirt.

        “How’s that feel? Should I stop?” Colleen was teasing him, he realized, and he decided not to answer except for a contented sigh. She had offered. Let her follow through.

        “Would you like me to take my shirt off?” Quickly action matched the words. “There—I can see that got your interest up! Now you won’t keep your eyes closed all the time. I was afraid you were going to sleep.” She prattled on, probably as much to ease her own nervousness as anything. Clearly she was a master at this sort of thing, but he was not her typical customer.

        As with the cake itself, so with the icing. The massage had been languorous, a break in the hectic fabric of twentieth-century time. Similarly, what she was doing now took so long he wondered that his body was capable of enduring it without peaking out. He craved that, but wanted to postpone it— knowing it would mean the end of the exquisite treatment he was being given. The sway of her breasts was mesmerizing.

        But of course it had to happen! After his breathing had slowed, Jeff gave her an appreciative grin. She looked down on him benignly. “Was that good?”

        “Was that good! That was magnificent! Thanks. I don’t know what else to say. I had no idea it could be like that.”

        “My pleasure. So how do you feel about massage, now?”

        “You can count me among the converted.” He got up and started dressing. “Listen...I’m not sure what’s acceptable at a time like this, but I’d like to show my appreciation somehow without insulting you.”

        “You already did that, remember? The other morning when I was dying and you put me on the couch and went out for orange juice? I’m the one trying to show appreciation.”

        “Okay. But if I can give you a ride sometime or help out in any way, just let me know.” He remembered something. “By the way, are you coming over for dinner tonight? Diana men­tioned she had invited you.”

        “I don’t think so. Adam usually comes over on Friday, and I’m pissed at him right now. He was going to give me a ride to the beach and he never showed up, never called or anything. He can be a real fuck-off. Besides, Diana said Naomi might be there. She’s a good person but she gets under my skin. Will you be at the salon thing, tomorrow night?”

        “I wouldn’t miss it. You’re coming aren’t you?”

        “Sure. I usually bring sketches to show. I guess I’ll see you there, then.”

Chapter 7

When he got home, Diana was measuring out ingredients, her nose in a recipe book. She glanced at the novelist as he took a seat at the table. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d gotten swallowed up by a black hole.”

        He turned over sundry clever responses, quickly rejecting them all. “No, I was over at Colleen’s asking questions and generally making a pest of myself, as usual.”

        She gave him a sharp glance. “Did you learn anything?”

        “Nothing you’d mind my hearing, I’m sure. Filled me in on the history of the VirGen. Colleen’s a fascinating person and I’m starting to fall in love with her—just as a friend, of course. By the way, does she have something against Naomi?”

        “Why? Did she say something?”

        “Didn’t want to come to supper if Naomi’s going to be there.”

        “Colleen probably didn’t have to worry about that. Naomi always backs out at the last minute with some cockamamie excuse. Usually it’s something to do with Michael, her father. He’s had health problems for years, apoplexy or whatever, although it doesn’t keep him from working. He does special effects for the studios. I think Naomi irritates Colleen in some way I can’t quite fathom, although they seem to get along okay.”

        Jeff got a soft-drink from the fridge and sat again at the table. “I think Naomi’s charming. She’s got a fresh innocence about her, a certain virginal look that I find very appealing.”

        “That may be what irritates Colleen. Naomi actually is rather innocent and looks much younger than twenty-three. She could play the part of Lolita with no trouble.”

        “I’m surprised. Her writing shows considerable worldliness.”

        “Yeah, well that may be because Naomi listens to Colleen talk about her life, and then puts the information into her stories. I think that’s what really irritates Colleen.”

        Jeff found that interesting. He’d been impressed with Naomi from the first time he met her at one of Diana’s salons. She looked like a Maxfield Parrish nymph. She had read her short stories to the group, stories replete with details about the seamy side of life. Now it began to make sense. It was Colleen’s life she was writing about.

        Adam knocked at the back door. The only people who knocked on the front door were first time visitors and Jehovah’s Witnesses. Adam opened the unlocked door, went past the laundry tubs and the door to the half-bathroom, and joined them in the kitchen, waving a limp greeting. After pulling a beer from his six-pack, he put the others in the fridge and sat at the table next to Jeff. He tipped his chair back against the wall.

        Diana, cookbook in hand, gazed down at him fondly. “How’s it going, Adam?”

        “Okay, I guess. Tired. Had a rough night.”

        “Work or play?”

        “All work, sad to say.”

        “Did you know Craig’s coming back tomorrow? But just for a few days. He’ll be at the new sales office most of the time—wouldn’t you know it? I’ll be glad when he finally moves out here permanently. I can sure use him.”

        Adam threw his head back and gulped down half the can of beer. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and went ahhhh. Diana shifted into high gear. Cooking always had this effect on her. She hummed with energy like a human dyna­mo, talking and chopping food, her impressive body swirling this way and that as if she were performing an exotic dance. Talking seemed to be an essential part of cooking, and the actual words didn’t matter. She would change the subject at will, without transition.

        “This waiting is killing me. I want to start manufacturing machines! I want to write plays! I want to set up healing cen­ters! Damn that klystron tube anyway. Why do the things have to cost so much? I want to start showcasing again!”

        Adam looked glum. “Tell me about it. I can’t even test the software. So what’s happening on the money front?”

        “I’ve got a deal cooking, and I think Rupert Murdoch may be interested, if we can give him a demo.” She stretched to get a package of spice from a high shelf. “Adam, could you reach that for me?” While he was getting it, she started filling a skillet with chunks of meat. Then she ran to the sink for a saucepan of water, sliced vegetables, and lighted the oven, still talking. Jeff estimated that Diana could talk six times as fast as any other human, once she got up to speed. Before either of the men could comment on a remark, she went on to the next subject. Did they know her son Nick and his wife had a new baby girl? It was her second grandchild. She was now twice a grand­mother. She wanted them to call the baby Lucy but they pre­ferred Nicole. “At least they didn’t name it after me. I hate it when people do that—you get little Diana and big Diana, and I can do without that!”

        The cordless phone rang and she tucked it between cheek and shoulder, directing her words at the phone instead of the two men. Adam finished his beer and got another one from the fridge. He looked at Jeff and shook his head as if Diana’s outpourings were too much for him to handle in his present condition.

        She went on. “I only wish Craig could be here when we talk to the venture capitalists. People love him! On top of that he knows how to spot phonies. He says he’s anxious to help us with the injector. I hope Peggy doesn’t give him any more shit about the divorce. What a bitch she is! He’s afraid he won’t be able to see his kids if he moves out here. His boss says it’s fine if he wants to head up the Los Angeles sales office. Craig’s the one who’s been setting it up, so it’s only right he should do it. He wants to move out here to be with me in the worst way. Peggy better not try to stop him! I wonder what he ever saw in her, anyway. Sometimes I wonder if he gets soft on her when he’s there. He says sometimes she tries to sweet-talk him. He’s such a big pussycat. People take advantage of him. I don’t think his kids appreciate all he’s gone through for them. I know Peggy doesn’t. The man’s a saint! That’s what I call him some­times. Saint Craig. When he moves in with me, his office will only be twenty minutes from here. In his spare time he can help with the Hallu. Once we’re on a roll I’ll make him Chief Oper­ating Officer. He’s looking for a new career anyway. At his age, why not? Did you know we’re both the same age, forty-five? I’m a Virgo and he’s a Pisces. Lots of people make career changes in their forties. Why not Craig? He’d be a good media man.”

        Diana put on reading glasses and buried her nose in the recipe book for three seconds, frowning intensely. She measured out some curry powder. Adam got another beer from the fridge.

        “I’m worried about the so-called venture capitalists we’ve been talking with,” she fretted. “Sid Lethe reminds me of a used-car salesman. He always talks like he’s Daddy Warbucks but I don’t think he has a pot to pee in. He sells tee-shirts with butthead logos on them. Stuff like that. Supposedly he’s head of an investment syndicate. I don’t believe he’d be putting up any of his own money. But if he won’t tell me whose money he’s fronting, I’m not interested. What if they’re involved with the Mafia? I don’t want to wake up and find a horse’s head in bed with me! What do you think, Adam? What would you do?”

        “What would I do? I’d carry a gun.”

        Jeff decided he better listen more attentively. He’d talked with Sidney Lethe and his confederate, Francesco. Diana had told them the novelist was her financial adviser, Jeffrey Fellows. He’d played along with the gag just to learn more. They seemed to like him, but that was most likely because they knew he could keep Diana under control long enough for them to talk in complete sentences. She had the nasty habit of char­ging into the middle of a phrase and utterly demolishing it, leaving little bits of words stuttering in her wake.

        “I’ll tell you