"Men have these strange feelings about me. Mostly, they ignore me. The ones who don't ignore me, a lot of them just want sex and then the chance to ignore me afterward. Sometimes they want to adopt me. You see people in Laundromats Saturday night doing their underwear and reading two-week-old People magazines? That's me. From what I've learned during the rinse cycle I could write a biography of Cher or Vanna White or Tom Cruise."
"Let's dance," he said.
Rune frowned and looked out over the dance floor.
Healy said, "It's called the two-step. Best dance in the world."
"Let me get this straight?" she said. "You hold on to each other and you dance at the same time?"
Healy smiled. "It's a whole new idea."
Tommy Savorne pressed the buzzer of Nicole D'Orleans's apartment and thought of how strange it was going to be to see her standing there and not Shelly.
He had tried--often, lately--to remember the first time he saw Shelly. He couldn't. That was another odd thing. He had a good memory and there didn't seem to be any reason why he shouldn't remember Shelly. She'd been a person you could picture clearly. Maybe it was the poses she struck. She was never--what was the word?--random about anything she did. She was never careless in the way she stood or sat or spoke.
Or in what she decided to do.
He had recent images: Shelly on Asilomar Beach in Pacific Grove or at Point Lobos, on the bluffs where the park rangers were always telling you to stay away from the edge. Man, he could picture her clearly there.
He pictured her in bed.
But the first time they met, no, he couldn't see that at all.
He'd tried a lot lately.
Nicole opened the door.
"Hey there," she said.
"Hi, babe." He took off his cowboy hat, kissed her cheek and hugged her and felt that wonderful presence of a voluptuous woman against your body. She looked good: a pale blue silk dress with a high neckline, high heels, hair teased up and back. The makeup--well, she was a little over-the-line there, but he could tone it down with some gels on the lights. He picked up his camera bags and carried them inside.
He noticed her dangling zirconia earrings. They were pretty but he'd get lens flare off of them. They'd have to go.
"You look nice," he said.
"Thanks, come on in. You want a drink?"
"Sure. Juice. Mineral water."
"So you've, like, completely stopped drinking?"
"Yep," he said.
"Good for you. You mind if I ..."
"Oh, God, no. Go right ahead."
Nicole poured two orange juices. Added vodka to hers. The bottle vibrated slightly in her hand as she poured. He smiled. "What, you nervous?"
"A little I guess. Isn't that weird? I do a sex film and no big deal. I'm on camera with my clothes on and I get butterflies in my tummy."
"Ah, it'll be a piece of cake." They clinked glasses. "To your new career."
She sipped the drink, then set the glass down. Her eyes swiveled; she'd been thinking about something, it seemed. She decided to say it. "If this works out, Tommy, you think there'll maybe be others I could do?"
Tommy drank down half the juice. "I don't see why not." Then: "I ought to start getting set up. Can you show me the kitchen?"
She led him into the large, tiled room. It was chrome and white. In the center of the ceiling was a large steel rack hanging from chains. Dozens of heavy copper pans and bowls hung from it.