“What about you?”
“I was writing.”
“Me, too,” Joe Winder said. “You were working on your phone fantasies?”
“My stories, yes.”
“That’s the main reason for the call. I had an idea for you.”
Nina said, “I’ve got some good news, Joe. I’m getting syndicated.”
“Hey, that’s great.” Syndicated? What the hell was she talking about. Ann Landers was syndicated. Ellen Goodman was syndicated. Not women who write about bondage on Olympic diving boards.
“There’s a company called Hot Talk,” Nina said. “They own, like, two hundred of these adult phone services. They’re going to buy my scripts and market them all over. Chicago, Denver, even Los Angeles.”
“That’s really something.”
“Yeah, in a few months I’ll be able to get off the phones and write full-time. It’s like a dream come true.”
She asked about Joe’s idea for a fantasy and he described it. “Not bad,” Nina admitted. “It just might work.”
“Oh, it’ll work,” Winder said, but Nina didn’t take the bait. She expressed no curiosity. “Remember,” he added, “it has to be a fishnet suit with absolutely nothing underneath.”
“Joe, please. I understand the principle.”
He was hoping she would ask how he was doing, what he’d been up to, and so on. Instead she told him she’d better go because she didn’t want to keep Miriam awake.
Winder fought for more time. “Basically, I called to see how you’re doing. I admit it.”
“Well, I’m doing fine.”
“Things might get crazy in the next week or so. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“I’ll try not to.” Her tone was disconcertingly sincere. Winder waited for a follow-up question, but none came.
He blurted: “Are you seeing anybody?”
“Not exactly.”
“Oh?”
“What I mean is, there’s a man.”
“Oh, ho!” A hot stab in the sternum.
“But we’re not exactly seeing each other,” Nina said. “He calls up and we talk.”
“He calls on the 976 number? You mean he’s a customer?”
“It’s not like the others. We talk about deep things, personal things—I can’t describe it, you wouldn’t understand.”
“And you’ve never actually met him?”
“Not face-to-face, no. But you can tell a lot from the way a person talks. I think he must be very special.”
“What if he’s a hunchback? What if he’s got pubic lice?” Joe Winder was reeling. “Nina, don’t you see how sick this is? You’re falling in love with a stranger’s voice!”
“He’s very sensual, Joe. I can tell.”
“For God’s sake, the man’s calling on the come line. What does that tell you?”
“I don’t want to get into it,” Nina said. “You asked if I was interested in anyone, and I told you. I should’ve known you’d react this way.”
“Just tell me, is he paying for the telephone calls?”
“We’ve agreed to split the cost.”
“Sweet Jesus.”
“And we’re meeting for dinner Tuesday up in the Gables.”
“Wonderful,” said Joe Winder. “What color trench coat did he say he’d be wearing?”
“I hate you,” Nina remarked.
They hung up on each other at precisely the same instant.
Pedro Luz slithered beneath Carrie’s mobile home. Lying on his back in the cool dirt, he listened to the shower running and laughed giddily. He placed both hands on a wooden floor beam and pushed with all his strength; he was certain that he felt the double-wide rise above him, if only a few millimeters. With a bullish snort, he tried again. To bench-press a mobile home! Pedro Luz grimaced in ecstasy.
He was proud of himself for tracing the car, even if the detective work entailed only the pushing of three lousy buttons on a computer. He was equally proud of himself for locating the address in the dark and remaining invisible to the occupants of the trailer. At dawn he had watched the woman drive off to work, leaving him alone with that crazy doomed bastard, Joe Winder.
Pedro Luz had spent a long time fueling himself for the task. He had strung the intravenous rigs in the storage room of the Security Department at the Amazing Kingdom of Thrills. There, stretched on a cot, he had dripped large quantities of horse steroids into both arms. Afterwards, Pedro Luz had guzzled nine Heinekens and studied himself naked in a full-length mirror.