it
seemed unnecessary to do more. Who needed fripperies like tiny white
lights in ficus trees with the neon Domino Sugar sign across the water
in Locust Point blazing red throughout the night?
Yet when Whitney arrived, she was in no
hurry to go outside.
"Do you have
any…?" she asked, sniffing delicately. Esskay
wandered over to see if Whitney was good for a few pats, or a morsel of
food. She stroked the dog's head, never bothering to ask how
or why Tess had acquired such an ugly beast. Incurious Whitney.
Reporting had never come naturally to her.
"Have any what,
Whitney?" Tess knew exactly what she meant, but loved to
torture the answer out of her friend, force her to say what she wanted.
"You know." Her voice
was now a stage whisper. "The little box under your
bed."
"My sweaters? Dust
balls?"
"Your pot. Your dope. Weed. Mary
Jane. Ganja. The 1970s smokable herb now making a comeback, as they say
in the New York Times every time they do one of those
‘Whatever-happened-to-marijuana?' stories.
Satisfied?"
"Oh, that .
I stopped making purchases when I went to work for Tyner, given
it's a crime. A condition of my employment." A
half-truth. Tyner disapproved of marijuana only because it hampered the
lungs' ability to maximize oxygen intake.
Whitney looked so blue that Tess took pity
on her. "I still have a little left, though. I've
been hoarding it."
"Well, dig it out. And
let's order pizza from BOP or Al Pacino's. Do they
deliver?"
"They do to Kitty's
address."
Within an hour, Esskay was nosing through
two grease-stained boxes in a corner of the terrace, searching out
stray bits of pepperoni and Whitney's uneaten crusts. The
night was not at all springlike, but Tess and Whitney, warmed by doses
of bourbon and pizza, were inured to the temperature as they shared a
second post-dinner joint. Time had collapsed. They could have been in
Washington College again, smoking on the banks of the Chester River.
The joint almost gone, Whitney improvised a
roach clip with a garnet stickpin from the lapel of her blazer.
"I like your boy-toy Crow, but I'm not sorry
he's away tonight," she said, coughing a little.
"I wanted to have you to myself. It makes me feel like
I'm nineteen again. That, and this ."
Another furtive puff.
"I was thinking the same thing.
Except the nights were so black on the Eastern Shore and
they're so bright here. Have you ever noticed the city looks
faintly radioactive from here? It has this smudgy glow, from the
anticrime streetlights and all the neon."
"What did we talk about back in
college, all those nights we smoked and drank and talked?"
"Our classes, our love lives, our
futures. I was going to be a street-smart columnist and you were going
to be the New York Times Tokyo correspondent. You're still on track, at least. We also
played Botticelli. Remember?"
"You called it Botticelli. My
family called it ‘Are You a Wily Austrian
Diplomat?' And you picked the most incredibly obscure people.
"Jackie Mason is not obscure, Whitney."
Tess's turn to inhale. It
wasn't very good pot. The mild buzz was giving her a mild
headache right between the eyebrows. Ever the good hostess, she let her
guest have the last toke. Whitney pulled hard on the stub of the joint,
then tossed the remains off the roof, to the graveyard of vices in the
alley below—broken bottles, limp condoms, Twinkie wrappers.
"So you had drinks with Feeney
last night," she said suddenly. "Did he say
anything of note?"
"You know Feeney. Sometimes you
can't get a word out of him all night."
Whitney snorted. "The only thing
you can't get out of Feeney's mouth is his
foot." She started to bring her fingers to her lips, then
realized the joint was gone and refastened the stickpin to her lapel
instead. "He told you about his story, didn't he?
That's why you asked me about it today."
"He told me it was on life support
and not expected to make it through the week."
Spike's face flashed in her mind, and she suddenly felt
guilty for her glib
seemed unnecessary to do more. Who needed fripperies like tiny white
lights in ficus trees with the neon Domino Sugar sign across the water
in Locust Point blazing red throughout the night?
Yet when Whitney arrived, she was in no
hurry to go outside.
"Do you have
any…?" she asked, sniffing delicately. Esskay
wandered over to see if Whitney was good for a few pats, or a morsel of
food. She stroked the dog's head, never bothering to ask how
or why Tess had acquired such an ugly beast. Incurious Whitney.
Reporting had never come naturally to her.
"Have any what,
Whitney?" Tess knew exactly what she meant, but loved to
torture the answer out of her friend, force her to say what she wanted.
"You know." Her voice
was now a stage whisper. "The little box under your
bed."
"My sweaters? Dust
balls?"
"Your pot. Your dope. Weed. Mary
Jane. Ganja. The 1970s smokable herb now making a comeback, as they say
in the New York Times every time they do one of those
‘Whatever-happened-to-marijuana?' stories.
Satisfied?"
"Oh, that .
I stopped making purchases when I went to work for Tyner, given
it's a crime. A condition of my employment." A
half-truth. Tyner disapproved of marijuana only because it hampered the
lungs' ability to maximize oxygen intake.
Whitney looked so blue that Tess took pity
on her. "I still have a little left, though. I've
been hoarding it."
"Well, dig it out. And
let's order pizza from BOP or Al Pacino's. Do they
deliver?"
"They do to Kitty's
address."
Within an hour, Esskay was nosing through
two grease-stained boxes in a corner of the terrace, searching out
stray bits of pepperoni and Whitney's uneaten crusts. The
night was not at all springlike, but Tess and Whitney, warmed by doses
of bourbon and pizza, were inured to the temperature as they shared a
second post-dinner joint. Time had collapsed. They could have been in
Washington College again, smoking on the banks of the Chester River.
The joint almost gone, Whitney improvised a
roach clip with a garnet stickpin from the lapel of her blazer.
"I like your boy-toy Crow, but I'm not sorry
he's away tonight," she said, coughing a little.
"I wanted to have you to myself. It makes me feel like
I'm nineteen again. That, and this ."
Another furtive puff.
"I was thinking the same thing.
Except the nights were so black on the Eastern Shore and
they're so bright here. Have you ever noticed the city looks
faintly radioactive from here? It has this smudgy glow, from the
anticrime streetlights and all the neon."
"What did we talk about back in
college, all those nights we smoked and drank and talked?"
"Our classes, our love lives, our
futures. I was going to be a street-smart columnist and you were going
to be the New York Times Tokyo correspondent. You're still on track, at least. We also
played Botticelli. Remember?"
"You called it Botticelli. My
family called it ‘Are You a Wily Austrian
Diplomat?' And you picked the most incredibly obscure people.
"Jackie Mason is not obscure, Whitney."
Tess's turn to inhale. It
wasn't very good pot. The mild buzz was giving her a mild
headache right between the eyebrows. Ever the good hostess, she let her
guest have the last toke. Whitney pulled hard on the stub of the joint,
then tossed the remains off the roof, to the graveyard of vices in the
alley below—broken bottles, limp condoms, Twinkie wrappers.
"So you had drinks with Feeney
last night," she said suddenly. "Did he say
anything of note?"
"You know Feeney. Sometimes you
can't get a word out of him all night."
Whitney snorted. "The only thing
you can't get out of Feeney's mouth is his
foot." She started to bring her fingers to her lips, then
realized the joint was gone and refastened the stickpin to her lapel
instead. "He told you about his story, didn't he?
That's why you asked me about it today."
"He told me it was on life support
and not expected to make it through the week."
Spike's face flashed in her mind, and she suddenly felt
guilty for her glib
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