“I haven’t but I’ve got a lunch on with a client from Seattle. It’s the only day he’s here—I tried to change it but I couldn’t. Can you meet the plane?”

“We both ought to be there.”

“I’ll see how early I can get away.”

“It lands at half past two.”

“I’ll try.”

“Please do.” She took his glass and carried both empties out to the kitchen. When she reappeared she looked drowsy—the drinks were catching up. “Well take me to bed, then.”

It took him by surprise but he walked her to the bedroom with his hand on the small of her back; he felt through the thin fabric the warmth of her skin. They undressed in silence, peeled back the covers neatly and got into bed. He reached up for the light switch; they made love in darkness and she did not kiss him.

4

By the time he reached the airport Jan had already collected Ronny. Mathieson saw them coming along the concourse together, the boy maintaining a stiff distance from his mother: Ronny was eleven and painfully determined that no one mistake him for a momma’s boy. He seemed to have grown at least another two inches since June.

Ronny held out his hand gravely and Mathieson shook it. “How you doin’, son?”

“Fine, Dad. How’re you?” Very grown up.

They walked toward the baggage-claim turntable. “You look damn near bowlegged, boy. Didn’t they ever get you off a horse in the past ten weeks?”

“Oh sure. We had all kinds of activities. Man, you wouldn’t believe it, that’s a bad place.”

Jan said, “When ‘bad’ comes to mean the spectacularly good, I wonder what that tells us about ourselves?”

“Oh, Mom, sheesh.”

The boy stood straight up and flashed his white California smile and Mathieson was proud of him. Ronny rattled on about his adventures while they waited for, and collected, his duffel bag. They walked out into the thick heat of the parking lot. The boy got in the narrow bench that passed for a back seat in the Porsche and Mathieson gave him a critical look. “You’re growing too long to scrunch up back there.”

Ronny was alarmed. “You wouldn’t sell it!”

“No. But I might have to hang a U-Haul trailer on behind for those mile-long legs of yours.” Mathieson flipped the bucket seat up for Jan; but she was looking back toward the terminal and she’d gone bolt still.

He peered back that way. A man was standing on the curb by a taxi, looking at them. Then the man stooped to enter the taxi.

Jan said, “Isn’t that …?”

“Bradleigh.”

“But I thought …”

“If he wants to see us he knows where to find us.”

Ronny leaned forward. “Who’s that?”

“Just an old acquaintance.” But sensations of alarm rubbed against Mathieson. He fitted the key into the ignition. Jan’s eyes had gone wide. He gave her hand a quick squeeze.

5

When they walked into the house the phone was ringing. He put down Ronny’s duffel bag and went to the receiver.

“Hello, Fred?”

“Yes.” He recognized the voice. Jan was in the doorway watching him and he contrived an indifferent shrug to reassure her.

“You were right, that was me at the airport. I’m glad you didn’t try to approach me. I’m in a phone booth right now—I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Go ahead, talk.”

“Not on the phone. You remember where we had that drink together the first time we came to Los Angeles?”

“Wasn’t that at the——”

“Not on the phone. But you remember the place. Is it still there?”

“Far as I know.” Mathieson watched Ronny lug the duffel bag toward the back of the house. Jan was locking the front door. It was something she almost never did in the daytime.

“Meet me there in half an hour.”

“Look, it’s an awkward time. My son just got home from summer camp and we …”

“It’s important, Fred. Important, shit, it’s vital. Make sure you’re alone before you show up there. You get me?”

“I—Should I bring Jan and the boy along?”

“Does he know?”

“No.”

“Then don’t bring him. I won’t have time to explain things to him. You’ll have to do that yourself, later on.”

“Why? There’s no reason why he ever has to …”

“There is now.”

Mathieson gripped the phone hard. “Why?”

“Have you got neighbor friends Jan and Ronny could go visit for a few hours?”

“The Gilfillans. They’ve got a kid Ronny’s age …”

“Send your wife and the boy over there.”

“But they just came home and …”

“I don’t want them home alone right now. You get me? Hang up and get a move on.”

Click.

She was still by the door; now she came toward him, anxiety on her face.

“Glenn Bradleigh. He wants me to meet him.”

“What is it?”

“He wouldn’t explain on the phone. Those guys are all paranoids.”

“Something must have happened.”

He said, “Maybe it’s a routine drill of some kind.”

“You don’t need to tell me reassuring lies, you know.”

“I don’t see what else it could be. But he wants me to send you both over to Roger and Amy’s until I get back.”

“He’ll be so disappointed—he’s bursting with things to tell you about camp.”

“He can tell me when I come back. I won’t be long.”

Ronny came through from the back of the house with a clumsily gift-wrapped package. “For both of you.”

Mathieson began to rip at the Scotch tape. Jan had the boy’s face between her hands: “Oh Ronny, how sweet.” Ronny shied away and regained his composure at a wary distance. He eagerly watched the opening of the package.

They were belts, Indian style, beaded with multicolored patterns.

“I made them in shopcraft.”

“My God,” Mathieson said, “that’s fantastic!” He wrapped the belt around his middle and laughed. “It’s a foot too long. Trying to tell your fat old dad something?”

“We can cut it down. See, I wasn’t sure so I figured I’d better make it too big, so I didn’t punch holes for the buckle yet either …”

Jan’s was a perfect fit and she wore it over her skirt and beamed at her son.

“We’d better go,” Mathieson said.

“Go? Hey, we just got home and I was going to …”

Jan said quickly, “Your father has an appointment, Ronny, and I know Billy Gilfillan’s dying to hear about your summer. Why don’t you and I go over to Roger and Amy’s until Dad comes home?”

“We’ll have a celebration dinner tonight, how’s that sound?”

They’d said the right thing: The boy had adventures to mesmerize Billy Gilfillan; the prospect was enough to make him forget his disappointment.

Mathieson watched them stride down the curving pitch of the street, Ronny breaking into a run and racing on ahead. Mathieson locked up and got into the Porsche. He answered Jan’s wave.

Downhill into Sherman Oaks and Culver City he had his eye on the rearview mirrors constantly; he saw no sign he was being followed but he put it up onto the freeway and went through a series of maneuvers designed to disclose pursuit. Eight years ago Bradleigh had taught him things he’d never expected to have to put to use but this was the sort of thing you didn’t forget once you’d learned it. He went down an off-ramp and around under the cloverleaf and got right back up on the freeway. He went past Universal City, got off at Vine and got back on, northbound. He left the freeway in Burbank and drove completely around the same block twice. No car followed him. When he was positive about it he went up Hollywood Way and parked the Porsche on the concrete lot behind Berk’s Bar.

His hands were sweating when he went inside.

6

It had no windows. The light was poor and each booth had a squat candle burning inside a red glass cup.

Mathieson searched the shadows but did not find Bradleigh. He slid into a corner booth at the rear and the barmaid took his order for a Bloody Mary. Mathieson wiped his palms on a napkin.

Bradleigh appeared and stood just inside the door acclimating his eyes to the darkness. When he began to search the room he found Mathieson. He came over, put his palms on the table and slid in across from Mathieson. “You didn’t pick up any company, I hope.”