Last Night - James Salter [6]
— The stupidity! He wanted to wave it around so people could see it, make himself important. Exactly what one needs, isn’t it? If there’d been anything, the least little thing wrong here at the hotel, I’d have flown straight back to New York. Bye-bye. But of course, they know me here, I’ve been here so many times.
— I guess so.
— So, what are we going to do? she said. Let’s have a drink and figure something out. There’s white wine in the fridge. I only drink white wine now. Is that all right for you? We can order something.
— I don’t think we have enough time, Keck said.
— We have plenty of time.
The dog had gripped Keck’s leg with its own two front legs.
— Sammy, she said, stop.
Keck tried to disengage himself.
— Later, Sammy, he said.
— He seems to like you, she said. But then who wouldn’t, hm? You have your car, don’t you? Why don’t we just drive down to Santa Monica and have dinner?
— You mean, without Teddy?
— Completely without her.
— We should call her.
— Darling, that’s for you, she said in a warm voice.
Keck sat down by the phone, uncertain of what to say.
— Hello, Teddy? It’s Booth. No, I’m at the hotel, he said. Listen, Deborah’s dog is sick. She isn’t going to be able to come to dinner. We’ll have to call it off.
— Her dog? What’s wrong with it? Teddy said.
— Oh, it’s been throwing up and it can’t . . . it’s having trouble walking.
— She’s probably looking for a vet. I have a good one. Hold on, I’ll get the number.
— No that’s all right, Keck said. One is already coming. She got him through the hotel.
— Well, tell her I’m sorry. If you need the other number, call me.
When he hung up, Keck said,
— It’s OK.
— You lie almost as well as I do.
She poured some wine.
— Or would you rather have something else? she said again. We can drink here or we can drink there.
— Where’s that?
— Do you know Rank’s? It’s down off Pacific. I haven’t been there in ages.
It was not quite night. The sky was an intense, deep blue, vast and cloudless. She sat beside him as they headed for the beach, her graceful neck, her cheeks, her perfume. He felt like an imposter. She still represented beauty. Her body seemed youthful. How old was she? Fifty-five, at least, but with barely a wrinkle. A goddess still. It would have once been beyond imagination to think of driving down Wilshire with her toward the last of the light.
— You don’t smoke, do you? she said.
— No.
— Good. I hate cigarettes. Nick smoked day and night. Of course, it killed him. That’s something you never want to see, when it spreads to the bone and nothing stops the pain. It’s horrible. Here we are.
There was a blue neon sign from which the first letter—F— was gone; it had been gone for years. Inside it was noisy and dark.
— Is Frank here? Deborah asked the waiter.
— Just a minute, he said. I’ll go and see.
Some heads had turned when she walked past the bar, her insolent walk and then seeing who she was. After a few minutes a young man in a shirt without a tie came back to where they were sitting.
— You were asking for Frank? he said, recognizing them but politely not showing it. Frank isn’t here anymore.
— What happened? Deborah said.
— He sold the place.
— When was that?
— A year and a half ago.
Deborah nodded.
— You ought to change the name or something, she said, so you don’t fool people.
— Well, it’s always been the name of the place. We have the same menu, the same chef, he explained cordially.
— Good for you, she said. Then to Keck, Let’s go.
— Did I say something wrong? the new owner asked.
— Probably, she said.
TEDDY HAD CALLED and cancelled the reservation. She wondered about the dog. She hadn’t bothered to remember its name. It had lain in its bed on the set, head on paws, watching. Teddy had had a dog for years, an English pug named Ava, all wrinkled velvet with bulging eyes and a comic nature. Deaf and nearly blind at the end, unable to