“What about Dirk Jakes?” Morgan asked. “Seems like he’s going full blast all the time.”

“He’s an anomaly.” She shrugged. “Or maybe a prophet. Cautionary example.”

Morgan said, “This isn’t your first glass of wine, is it?”

“I’m out of my hole for a look-see,” she said. “I split a bottle of Chablis with my friend.”

When the bartender brought the martini, Annette sent him back for more wine.

“What happened to you?” Morgan wasn’t laughing now. He thought Annette’s worldview sad and gray.

“I looked at life too directly the first time around. Good husband, good life, good everything, then I got the rug yanked. I’m lighter on my feet now. It won’t happen again.”

Morgan thought he understood, knew what it was like to have your guard up all the time.

The drinks came. Annette drank hers in two gulps. “Let’s go upstairs and screw.”

“Okay,” Morgan said.

They leaned against each other in the elevator, her fingers light on his back. His heart fluttered, pumped hot blood to all the appropriate areas. His head swam. They went to her room.

Morgan had seen this before. There was something erotic and hypnotic about hotel lounges and hotel rooms. Maybe it was being away from home. Maybe it was the little soaps and shower caps and one-use shampoo bottles and everything that hinted how temporary it all was. You didn’t even have to make the bed.

Or maybe it was the ultracold air-conditioning. Annette’s tan, smooth skin broke out in gooseflesh when Morgan slipped her dress off her shoulders. It shrunk to the floor around her ankles. The bra was easy to unsnap. He took a nipple into his warm mouth, and she threw her head back, moaned, grabbed the back of his head, twirled his ponytail in her fingers.

They stumbled to the bed, and her hands went to his belt. She unfastened him. Soon both were naked. He entered her quickly, and her ankles locked behind his back. He found a rhythm, sped up. She thrust back against his hips, grunting, panting, all the pent-up frustration heaving out with each slam of him against her.

She screamed her orgasm. He shook, released, went limp on top of her.

The whole thing had taken about ninety seconds.

“I think you’d better go,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s just… I feel embarrassed.” She scooted out from under him and ran into the bathroom and slammed the door.

Morgan crawled off the bed, schlong dangling wet. He was dazed, bewildered. He gathered up his clothes, cradled them. He noticed absently he still wore his socks.

Annette came back wearing a white robe. “It’s not right. We work together.”

“But-”

“We got carried away.” She pushed his shoulder gently, herded him toward the door.

“Let me get dressed!”

She paused, let him get into his boxers and trousers, then opened the door. She pushed him out. He opened his mouth but couldn’t get a word out.

“I’m sorry,” Annette said. “But we let the moment overcome our good judgment.”

And the door was closed.

He put his shirt on, started down the hall, mouth still hanging open. Stunned.

Just that quickly Annette Grayson had scurried back to her hole. She’d been out for only a glimpse, grabbed herself a chunk of Jay Morgan, and was gone again. Would she pay for it like the cheese pizza? Could she work off the memory of him on the stationary bicycle?

He stopped walking, looked down at his feet. He’d forgotten his shoes.

One-thirty in the morning, and Morgan had painted himself into the corner of the hotel lounge. He knew he was in for an apocalyptic hangover but couldn’t make himself care. He was maxing his Visa card on Sheraton martinis.

After Annette had kicked him out, he’d waited in his room for an hour in case she regained sanity and wanted to call. No call. He’d gone down to the bar in his socks. He’d kept drinking, hunched over the table, eyes going glassy and unfocused.

He stumbled to the house phone, dialed his room.

Reams answered, sleepy, mumbled something that might have been “hello.”

“Reams, buddy. Any calls for me?” Morgan heard his own voice loud in his ears. Good. A time to be loud. Let the trumpets sound.

“Morgan?”

“Morgan.”

“Glad you phoned.” Reams woke up, spoke more clearly. “I scheduled a breakfast with a Professor Klein. That one-year job I told you about. Klein runs things over at San Gabriel College. He can get you on the short list.”

“I didn’t ask you about that,” Morgan said.

“What?”

“Did I have any calls?”

“What? Here in the room? No, no calls.”

“Not from-” He almost said her name. That might not be good. They all had to work together in the same department. “Not from a woman? Did a woman call?”

“I told you. No calls.”

“Goddammit.” Morgan hung up. He almost dialed Annette’s room but knew it was a bad idea.

He went back to his table in the lounge. Somebody was sitting there. A man.

“Hey,” Morgan said.

The man looked up. A crooked smile. Jowls. A cheap suit, polyester and wrinkled. Red eyes. “Your table?” he said.

“Yes.”

He stood. “Sorry.” He rubbed his chin stubble with hairy knuckles. “Nobody around this time of night. Nobody to talk to. How about I sit down, buy you a drink.”

“Sure.” Morgan sat.

“I’m Deke.”

Morgan gave his name, and they shook hands.

“Here for the conference?” Morgan asked.

Deke Stubbs shook his head. “Other business.”

Stubbs bought Morgan a martini. He drank beer from a big, green bottle. Morgan asked about it.

“Grolsch,” Stubbs said. “It’s foreign. Somebody put me onto it recently.”

“That’s good. You’ve got to try new things,” Morgan said. “You’ve got to come out of your groundhog hole.”

“How’s that?”

“We all live in little holes,” Morgan said. He slurred his words, swayed in his seat. He took a swig of the martini. Most of it ran down his chin. “Got to come out of our holes and screw and drink foreign beer and run back in before anybody sees us.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Stubbs said.

“Something to do with God and life and stationary bicycles.”

“Maybe you’ve had enough.”

“Maybe.”

Stubbs put a cigarette in his mouth. “You don’t mind, right?”

“No. Good idea.” Morgan pulled out one of his cigars, bit the end off, and spit it like Jones had shown him.

Stubbs lit his cigarette, then Morgan’s cigar. Both men puffed. They sat back in a gray-blue cloud of tobacco. A couple of guys enjoying drinks and a smoke. Sudden chums at the end of a long day. Morgan was seized with an irrational fondness for the man. How friendly to buy him a drink, keep him company during his fruitless brooding over Annette Grayson.

“Let’s get some pancakes,” Morgan said.

“Is the kitchen open?”

“We’ll go someplace, get out of this fucking hotel.” Morgan pushed his drink away, stood, almost tumbled over the table. Stubbs caught him.

“We’ll find someplace open,” Morgan said. “Come on. I got a car we can use.”

“Okay, sport,” Stubbs said. “You lead the way.”

Morgan made a point of verbally abusing the parking valet, then felt guilty and tipped him twenty bucks when he brought Dirk Jakes’s Mercedes. Morgan took the wheel, and Stubbs climbed into the passenger’s side.

“That way out of the parking garage.” Stubbs pointed straight ahead.

Morgan maneuvered the car, circled down a level. His steady hands on the wheel surprised him. He knew he was drunk.

“You don’t got any shoes.” Stubbs watched him work the pedals.

“I don’t need any goddamn shoes!”

He circled the garage, followed the EXIT signs. A red vest caught his eye, a guy walking along the edge of the garage, cute little bow tie pulled loose. It was the prick from the gift shop, off work. He was walking toward the big Dumpster in the corner. Morgan hit the accelerator, bore down on him, teeth clenched, eyes blazing.