82 Desire

got to be kidding.”
    “Weird names run in my family. Seriously, I’ve often wondered if there was a Pill Man in her past, too—it’s spelled with a c, just like ‘larceny.’ “
    Darryl hooted, just once. And because of the momentary tension, Talba started to giggle. That got Darryl going, and next thing you knew, they were deep into a laughing fit that had people staring.
    When she got control, Talba had to wipe her eyes. “Whoo. What was that?”
    “I don’t know. Do you always have that effect on men?”
    “No. Usually they get down on their knees and call me ‘Your Excellency.’”
    “We might get to that. Your Excellency.”
    The mini-crisis evidently had been averted—if it was that. Talba wasn’t sure what harm it would do to let this man know what she was up to, but Allred had always stressed the importance of utter secrecy. He was paranoid, of course, but maybe he knew something she didn’t.

Seventeen
    SINCE THE DAY before yesterday, it had occurred variously to Jane Storey to quit her job, to disappear in the night, to swallow Drano, and to get unattractively drunk.
    She had settled on the last, which was, after all, the time-honored working journalist’s solution to immediate problems. Her good friend Jeffrey—gay, currently unattached, and always sympathetic—had been happy to join her at Vaquero’s for six or eight margaritas.
    She could remember Jeffrey grabbing her forearm and squeezing it tight. “Don’t let that asshole do it to you, sweetheart. I hate to see you like this.”
    “I’ve got a bad feeling we should have had this little talk a few days ago. He’s already done it to me. Or, more accurately, I’ve done it to myself.”
    “You get so precise when you’re drunk.”
    “Jeffrey, I went against every instinct I had. I broke all my own rules.”
    “Maybe it’s not too late for a life of prostitution.”
    “That’s what the problem is—I’ve already got one.”
    “Well, for heaven’s sake, you could at least make it pay—go back to television. You could probably name your price if you call tonight.”
    “Oooh. First the knife, and then the twist.”
    As a matter of fact, the local stations had broken the story of Mrs. LaBarre’s sudden, mysterious hospitalization the night before. David Bacardi saw it and called Jane at home. “Janie, are you watching the news? Why didn’t we have the attempted suicide?”
    “You don’t know that’s what it was.”
    “Well, why don’t I? Why didn’t you tell me and our thousands of loyal readers?”
    Jane felt so humiliated she couldn’t answer.
    “Janie, are you there? “
    She summoned all her resources, thought of what she wanted to say, and the gentlest way to say it. “David. Does it occur to you we’re causing a lot of pain here?”
    “Janie, for Christ’s sake!” He sounded furious. “Toughen up. This is your job—if you don’t like it, maybe you should consider a career in public relations.”
    That was supposed to be his biggest insult. It was an article of faith among certain newspaper folk that if you couldn’t cut it as a reporter, you became a flack.
    When she tried to explain it to Jeffrey, he said, “Let me get this straight. Am I buying the drinks tonight?”
    “If you insist—why?”
    “Do I always buy the drinks?”
    “Oh, you sweet thing. Are you offering?”
    “And why do I always buy the drinks? Because I make more money than you. Which brings up the question, Who doesn’t? Hold it, I’m getting at something here—you bust your butt at that crummy little job for pennies instead of getting some cushy, good-paying job in the highly respected public relations field, and this is supposed to make you better somehow?”
    “You don’t get it, Jeffrey. It’s like a fraternity or something. You know, a macho thing.”
    “Well, did it ever occur to you that that is garbahge?”
    She had to laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, about a million times. But it’s what I do.”
    “Personally, darling, I’d wish you a more lucrative life that would make you happier. And take you away from that Bacardi faggot.”
    “Jeffrey! Who’re you calling a faggot?”
    “Well, it’s what he’d call me, isn’t it? Tit for tat, dearie.”
    She laughed again. “Jeffrey, you’re a sketch.”
    “Listen, when you call people, are they happy to hear from you?”
    “Are you kidding? They get out their garlic and crucifixes.”
    “I know. And how do I know? You complain about it all the time. You don’t