Tick Tock

away, and Del continued onto the bridge, over the back channel, to the mainland.
    Tommy said, “What happens when he discovers the yacht on the sea wall is yours?”
    “He won't know. It's not in my name. It's registered to our off-shore corporation.”
    “Off-shore corporation? How far off? Mars?”
    “Grand Cayman, in the Caribbean.”
    “What happens when this car is reported stolen?”
    “It won't be. Mom'll have it brought back before it's missed.”
    “Scootie smells.”
    “It's only his wet coat.”
    “It better be,” Tommy said. “Truth—was it just chance that you happened to be driving by that vacant lot when I rolled the Corvette, or did you know I was going to be there?”
    “Of course, I didn't know. Like I said, though, we're clearly each other's destiny.”
    “God, you're infuriating!” Tommy said.
    “You don't mean that.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “Poor confused Tommy.”
    “Infuriating.”
    “Actually, you mean to say interesting.”
    “Infuriating.”
    “Interesting. In fact, you're enthralled with me.”
    He sighed.
    “Aren't you?” she teased. “Enthralled.” He sighed again.
    “Aren't you?” she insisted.
    “Yes.”
    “You're so sweet,” she said. “Such a sweet man.”
    “Want me to shoot you?”
    “Not yet. Wait till I'm dying.”
    “That's not going to be easy.”
     
    DeI's mother lived in a private guard-gated community on a hill overlooking Newport Beach. The guardhouse was finished in mottled pastel stucco with cast-stone wainscot and cast-stone coins at the corners, and it stood under several enormous, theatrically lighted phoenix palms.
    Because no resident sticker adorned the Ferrari windshield, the young guard had to open the gatehouse door and lean out to ask whom Del was visiting. He was slack-faced and sleepy-eyed when he first appeared, but the moment that he saw her, his face tightened, and his eyes brightened.
    “Miss Payne!”
    “Hi, Mickey.”
    “New car?”
    She said, “Maybe. We're test-driving it.”
    The guard came out of the gatehouse, into the rain, and stooped beside Del's open window to be at her level. “Quite a machine.”
    “My mom could make it go to the moon.”
    “If she had this,” the guard said, “the community would have to put in speed bumps the size of garbage dumpsters to slow her down.”
    “How's Emmy?”
    Although Mickey was not wearing a raincoat, he seemed to be oblivious of the downpour, as though Del so completely commanded his awareness that he simply didn't have the capacity also to notice the inclement weather—or anything else, for that matter. Tommy knew exactly how the poor guy felt.
    “Emmy's great,” Mickey said. “She's in total remission.”
    “That's wonderful, Mickey.”
    “The doctors can't believe it.”
    “I told you not to lose hope, didn't I?”
    “If the tests keep coming back clear as they do now, they'll probably release her from the hospital in about three days. I just pray to God she'll never… never have to… go back.”
    “She'll be fine, Mickey.”
    “It's so nice of you to go visit her the way you do.”
    “Oh, I adore her, Mickey. She's an absolute angel. It's no trouble at all.”
    “She thinks the world of you, Miss Payne. She sure loved that storybook you brought her.” Looking past Del, he said, “Hi, Scootie.”
    The Labrador chuffed.
    Del said, “Mickey, this is my friend, Tommy Tofu.” Mickey said, “Glad to meet you, Mr. Tofu.”
    Peering between Del and the dog, Tommy said, “Likewise. You're getting soaked, Mickey.”
    “Am I?”
    “Yes, you are,” Del said. “You better get back inside, dear. Tell Emmy I'll see her the day after tomorrow. And after she's been out of the hospital a while and put on a little weight, maybe she can come to my studio on the peninsula and sit for me. I'd like to paint her portrait.”
    “Oh, she'd love that, Miss Payne. Getting her portrait done—she'd feel like a princess.”
    Dripping, Mickey returned to the gatehouse, and Del put up the car window.
    In front of them, a massive iron gate ornamented with gilded balls rolled out of the way, admitting them to the private community.
    As Del piloted the Ferrari through the open gate, Tommy said, “Who's Emmy?”
    “His little girl. Eight years old, cute as a button.”
    “She's in total remission from what?”
    “Cancer.”
    “That's tough—eight years old and hit with cancer.”
    “She'll be absolutely fine now. Won't she Scootie-wootums?”
    The Labrador leaned over to nuzzle and lick her neck, and she giggled.
    They cruised along winding streets lined with enormous houses behind deep and