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only hope that the serpent was an aftereffect of the drug he had taken, and
that it would wear off.
He had wanted to thrust.
Such movement taken to a level of almost superhuman violence had been what had
caused Patricia's greatest injuries.
Superhuman violence.
Tommy himself opened the door to the famous Backroom. Jonathan
wheeled Patricia in. Inwardly he was desperate. How could he dare to
love her? How could he help it? Now that he had seen the true
miracle of her beauty and tasted her secret essence, she seemed
invested with magical light, as if a goddess.
Would he kill a goddess?
Lately he had been retreating to a fantasy of another life, very different
from this one. They shared it in peace and privacy and love.
I want her. Even the wheelchair it doesn't concern me. I want her so much.
Image of the snake: the shadow in the deep, rising to movement above.
His fantasy was of a house on the Pacific coast of Mex-ico not Puerto Vallarta
or one of those tourist traps, but some exotic and hidden village where you
could rent an old villa. They'd have a pool overlooking the Pacific, and from
poolside you'd see yachts and sailboats in the near water, and maybe a cruise
ship sparkling on the horizon.
He had a running dream of what they'd do there. She'd want the sun, he'd
want sex. He figured they could make love three or four times a day at
least. She'd laugh, she'd ask him if he ever got tired. They'd bake awhile in
the sun, then go into the air-conditioned bedroom and make love and her
skin would taste of sun and coconut oil, and then maybe they'd drink
awhile by the pool. . . .
Not a very uncommon fantasy. Just an everyday man's dream. No serpents.
He was jarred from his fantasy by the reality of the room they had entered.
Farrell's Backroom was a fluorescent bedlam. Along one wall was a bar covered
in wood-grained shelf paper. Behind it was a massive mirror completely
outlined in blue fluorescent tubing, with a red Farrell's sign in the middle.
The ceiling was outlined in more blue tubing, as were the mirrors around the
walls. There were round tables with black tablecloths and red napkins on them,
and a bandstand that, thank whatever saint presided over the suppression of
bad music, was empty of everything except a massive red fluorescent
F on the wall behind it. The room went zzzt! zzzt! zzz zzzt! and the
gray-green specters that were Mike and Mary and friends looked as if their
blood had been replaced by phlegm.
Mike turned, gave Jonathan a look that said, all right, so it's ludicrous,
then went back to the conversation he was having with Mary and Lieutenant
Maxwell.
"You've obviously, never had the pleasure of coming here," Patricia said
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acidly. "I love what it does to makeup." The women looked like they were
wearing wax masks. Their eyes were glittering holes.
"When were you here?"
"The bank had a celebration Friday. I went back to work, remember?" Her voice
was dry.
"A celebration? How touching."
"Very."
A waiter began laying out trays of steam-table eggs and sausages.
Mike came forward, leaned down to Patricia, and kissed her forehead.
"Honey, I hope you aren't too upset about this Lourdes thing. I know
it's what's the word "
Jonathan supplied it. "Mawkish."
"That sure as hell isn't it. Nothing to do with birds. Anyway, it's a little
hokey but Mary suggested it to me and she and Maxwell kind of got things
rolling and all of a sudden well, hell, we're on our way. I put in a word for
Miami Beach but nobody would listen."
"Hey, Father," Lieutenant Maxwell called to the silent, watching form of
Father Goodwin, "how about saying grace so we can dig in?"
Father made the sign of the cross. "Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts
which we are about to receive from Thy bounty through Christ Our Lord. Amen."
Catholic grace at least was quick.
"Stay right where you are," Mike said to Patricia and Jonathan. "Let me get
your plates. I'm sure after all the hard work you've done this morning you're
starving. I'll pile 'em high."
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