Children of Light by Robert Stone Page B

of cat piss and ammonia. Shelley reached up and touched his knee. He shook his head.
    “You O.K.?”
    He tried to smile. “Sure.”
    In the lounge, the musical proprietor was singing “Bad Bad Leroy Brown.” Light-headed and short of breath, Walker stood up.
    “I think I’m feeling cold,” he called to Shelley.
    She paddled to a ladder and climbed out of the pool.
    “You don’t look good, Gordon. You’re not sick, are you?”
    “No,” he said. “It’s just the grass. It’s all in my head.”
    They went upstairs holding hands. Walker took another shower, wrapped a bathrobe around himself and lay down on the bed. Shelley Pearce stood naked before the terrace doors, facing the black mist-enshrouded plane of sky and ocean, smoking. A J. J. Johnson tape was running—“No Moon at All.”
    When the piece ended she started the tape over again, scatting along with it under her breath. She went back and stood at the window like a dancer at rest. The back of one hand was cocked against her flexed hip, the other at a right angle from the wrist, holding her cigarette. Her head was thrown back slightly, her face, which Walker could not see, upturned toward the darkness outside.
    He got off the bed and walked across the room and kissed her thighs, kneeling, fondling her, performing. His desire made him feel safe and whole. After a few minutes she touched his hair, then languidly, sadly, she went to the bed, put her cigarette out and lay down on her side facing him. He thought she wept as they made love. When she came she gave a soft mournful cry. Spent, he was jolly, he laughed, his fear was salved. But the look in her eyes troubled him; they were bright, fixed, expressionless.
    “Hello,” he said.
    “Hello, Gordon.”
    “Some fun, eh, kid?”
    “Just like old times,” Shelley said.
    “Why did you ask me about the beds?”
    “ ’Cause I work for a living,” she told him. “I need a good night’s sleep. If there was only one bed I’d have to drive home.”
    “You treat yourself better than you used to.”
    “Yeah,” she said. “Everybody treats themselves better now. You’re supposed to.” After a moment she said, “Hey, Gordon, how come you’re sniffing after Lee Verger?”
    “Come on,” Walker said. “Don’t.”
    “I’d like to hear you tell me how that’s a good idea.”
    “It’s my script,” Walker said. “I gave it my best. I want to see her do it. In fact, I want you and Al to set it up for me.”
    “Al doesn’t want to do it, bubba.”
    “Do it on your own. Play dumb. Tell him you thought it was O.K.”
    “Why don’t you take a rest?”
    “I don’t rest,” Walker said.
    “I knew you’d pull this,” she said. “Al told me about your lunch. I wasn’t surprised.”
    “Did you call them?”
    “I called Charlie Freitag’s office and I spoke with Madge Clark,” Shelley said in a lifeless voice. “I guess they’ll put you up for a day or two. Charlie likes you. Charlie likes everybody. They have to work it out with the location people, so it’ll take a little time to fix.” She stared at him with a vexed child’s stare. He avoided her eyes.
    “How about giving other people a rest? Like Connie, huh? Or Lee. Why don’t you give her a rest?”
    He only shook his head.
    “She’s a fucking psycho.”
    “That’s your story, Shelley.”
    “Oh yes she is, Gordon. She’s just as crazy as catshit and you better leave her alone.”
    “I want to see her,” Walker said.
    “You belong in a hospital,” Shelley Pearce told him.
    He smiled. “Your boss told me the same thing.”
    “Sure,” Shelley said. “We’re in league against you.” She got up and walked to the foot of the bed and leaned against the bedboard. “You know what crazy people like most, Gordon? They like to make other people crazy.”
    “You have it wrong,” Walker said, “you and Al.”
    “Her husband is with her. Her kids too. You want to walk into that?”
    “I want to work,” Walker said