renewal, he made a far more advantageous deal than she had thought possible. And he never failed to get a check for expenses.
“Well?” Alan said.
“All right. You take her back to the hotel. But remember what you said. I’m better at getting the money. And I always will be.”
“Of course. You have a nose for it,” Alan said. His smile had no warmth. “You sniffed out Mary’s money pretty damned fast, didn’t you?”
“Go,” Max said.
“Too much truth in that for you?”
“Get out of here before you find yourself looking up your own ass for the rest of your life.”
Alan blinked.
Max didn’t.
Alan walked over to Harley Barnes.
Gradually Max became aware of a number of people in the crowd who were staring at him. He stared back at them, one at a time. Each grew self-conscious and turned away—but each looked at him again as soon as he moved his gaze.
None of them was close enough to have heard the argument. He realized that they were staring because his face was contorted by rage, because his shoulders were drawn up like those of a stalking panther, because his huge hands were in tight fists at his sides. He tried to relax, to let his shoulders fall. And he put his hands in the pockets of his raincoat so that no one could see he was too infuriated to uncurl them.
4
The hotel room had four ugly lamps with garishly patterned shades, but only one of them was on.
In a black vinyl armchair that stood on a swivel base Alan folded his hands around a glass of Scotch that he wasn’t drinking. The light fell over him from the left, carving his face with sharp shadows.
Mary was sitting up in bed, on top of the covers, well out of the light. She wished Max would get back so they could go out for a late supper and a couple of drinks. She was hungry and tired and emotionally exhausted.
“Still have a headache?” Alan asked.
“The aspirin helped.”
“You’re drawn . . . so pale.”
“There’s nothing wrong that eight hours of sleep won’t cure.”
“I worry about you,” he said.
She smiled affectionately. “You’ve always worried about me, dear. Even when we were children.”
“I care about you very much.”
“I know that.”
“You’re my sister. I love you.”
“I know, but—”
“He presses you too hard.”
“Not this again, Alan.”
“He does.”
“I wish you and Max could get along.”
“So do I. But we never will.”
“But
why?
”
“Because I know what he is.”
“And what’s that?”
“For one thing, he’s so different from you,” Alan said. “He’s not as sensitive as you are. He’s not as kind.” He seemed to be pleading with her. “You’re gentle, and he’s—”
“He can be gentle, too.”
“Can he?”
“With me he can. He’s sweet.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion.”
“Oh, thank you very much,” she said sarcastically. Anger flared briefly in her but was quickly extinguished. She couldn’t stay angry with Alan for more than a minute. Even a minute was stretching it.
“Mary, I don’t want to argue with you.”
“Then don’t.”
“We never had cross words, not in thirty years . . . until he came into the picture.”
“I’m not up to this tonight.”
“You’re not up to anything because he presses you too hard and too fast when he’s guiding you through your visions.”
“He does it well.”
“Not as well as I did it.”
“At first he was too insistent,” she admitted. “Too anxious. But not anymore.”
Alan put down his Scotch, got up, turned his back on her. He went to the window. Moody silence enveloped him.
She closed her eyes and wished Max would get back.
After a minute Alan walked away from the window. He stood at the foot of the bed, staring down at her. “I’m afraid to go away on vacation.”
Without opening her eyes, she said, “Afraid of what?”
“I don’t want to leave you alone.”
“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with Max.”
“That’s what I mean—alone with