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Burgess holds up his hands.
“Guilty as charged.”
“You were getting too comfortable. The market was slumping,” says Sandoval.
“And we’re the ones rescinding county’s order, so calm down. You did enough for us getting Vincent and McCarthy together.”
“Rescind Julie’s order too.”
“Of course.”
My head hurts. I wonder for a second if they put something in my drink. No. They said they weren’t out to get me, and as insane as they are, what profit would there be for them?
“Do either of you have an aspirin?”
Burgess calls down the table, “Does anyone have an aspirin?”
Lots of shrugs and shaking heads.
“Sorry,” he says. “We don’t really get sick.”
Sandoval says, “Technically, we do. But we have people who do it for us.”
“A sort of Dorian Gray situation,” says Burgess. “Surely you know that story.”
“That’s a movie I’ve seen.”
“Excellent.”
I look around at Geo
ffrey Burgess and Eva Sandoval, at their friends, the food, and oil pumps. All the miserable trappings of their astonishing power and wealth. I haven’t eaten much today. The whiskey is dancing around in my stomach.
“Thanks for lunch. Can I go now?”
“Of course. No one is keeping you here,” says Sandoval.
“Okay. Then I’m going.”
I get up and start walking.
“Safe driving,” she calls.
“Yes. Remember to take your vitamins,” Burgess yells. “We want you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”
Before I go around the first set of oil pumps, I turn and give them all the finger. More laughter and applause.
Black smoke coils up into the sky and blows down Stocker Street. I walk to the shoulder of the road.
The Crown Vic is on fire. Fully engulfed. Don’t bother calling an ambulance. The patient cannot be resuscitated. I stare at it for a couple of minutes.
It’s a mild day. In the midsixties. My head and my arm hurt. I wish I’d brought some of Allegra’s pills along. I start walking to Hollywood.
I’m not more than a few hundred feet down the road when some genius starts honking at me. I flip him off and keep walking. He honks again. I reach under my coat. Maybe I can scare him away with the Colt.
I turn and sitting a few feet away in a red 1960 Ferrari 250 GT is Thomas Abbot. He’s as young and handsome and posh as ever. I want to hate him, but I’m too tired.
He rolls down his window.
