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Trumps of doom

The place was vacant, but I took a stall in case anyone wandered in. I located Fiona's Trump in the packet I corned. Moments later, I reached Fiona.

«Listen, Fi,» I said. «Obviously, no one's going to show. But the rest of the evening promises to shape up nicely, and I might as well have a little fun while I'm here. So thanks for your help. I'll just wander on back later.»

«I don't know,» she said. «I don't tike you going with a stranger, under the circumstances. There may still be danger around there for you, somewhere.».

«There isn't,» I replied. «I have a way of knowing, and it doesn't register for her. Besides, I'm sure it was a fellow I'd met here and that he gave up when I trumped out. I'll be all right.»

«I don't like it,» she said.,

«I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself.»,

«I suppose so. Call me immediately if there are any problems.»

«There won't be. You might as well turn in.»

«And call when you're ready to come back. Don't worry about waking me. I want to bring you home personally.»

«Okay, I'll do that. Good night.»

«Stay wary.»

«I always am.»

«Good night, then.»

She broke the contact.

A few minutes later we were on the dance floor, turning and listening and touching. Meg had a strong tendency to lead. But what the hell, I can be led. I even tried being wary occasionally but there was nothing more threatening than loud music and sudden laughter.

At eleven-thirty we checked the bar. There were several couples there, but her date wasn't. And no one even gave me a nod. We returned to the music.

We looked again a little after midnight with similar results. We seated ourselves then and ordered a final drink.

«Well, it was fun,» she said, resting her hand where I could cover it with my own. So I did.

«Yes,» I replied. «I wish we could do it more often. But I'm going to be leaving tomorrow.»

«Where are you headed?»

«Back to the center of the universe.»

«A pity,» she said. «Do you need a ride anywhere?»

I nodded. «Anywhere you're going.»

She smiled and squeezed my hand.

«All right,» she agreed. «Come on over and I'll make you a cup of coffee.»

We finished our drinks and headed out to the parking lot, pausing a few times to embrace along the way. I even tried being wary again, but we seemed to be the only people in the lot. Her car was a neat little red Porsche convertible with the top down.

«Here we are. You care to drive?» she asked.

«No, you do it and I'll watch for headless horsemen.»

«What?»

«It's a lovely night, and I've always wanted a chauffeur who looked exactly like you.»

We got in and she drove. Fast, of course. It just seemed to follow. The roads were deserted and a feeling of exhilaration swept over me. I raised one hand and summoned a lighted cigar from Shadow. I took a few puffs and tossed it away as we roared over a bridge. I regarded the constellations, which had grown familiar to me these past eight years. I drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. I tried to analyze my feelings and realized that I was happy. I hadn't felt that way in a long while.

A mess of light occurred beyond a fringe of trees up ahead. A minute later we rounded a curve and I saw that it came from a small apartment complex off to the right. She slowed and turned there when we reached it.

She parked in a numbered slot, from whence we made our way along a shrub-lined walk to the building's entrance. She let us in and we crossed the lobby to the elevators. The ride up was over too soon, and once we reached her apartment she really did make coffee.

Which was fine with me. It was good coffee, and we sat together and sipped it. Plenty of time…

One thing finally did lead to another. We found ourselves in the bedroom a bit later, our clothes on a nearby chair, and I was congratulating myself that the meeting for which I had returned had not come off. She was smooth and soft and warm, and there was just enough of her in all the right places. A vise in velvet, with honey… the scent of her perfume…

We lay there, much later, in that peaceful state of temporary fatigue on which I will not waste metaphors. I was stroking her hair when she stretched, turned her head slightly, and regarded me through half-lidded eyes.

«Tell me something,» she said. «Sure.»

«What was your mother's name?»

I felt as if something prickly had just been rolled along my spine. But I wanted to see where this was leading. «Dara,» I told her.

«And your father?»

«Corwin.»

She smiled.

«I thought so,» she said, «but I had to be sure.»

«Do I get some questions now? Or can only one play?»

«I'll save you the trouble. You want to know why I asked.»

«You're on the ball.»

«Sorry,» she said, moving her leg.

«I take it their names mean something to you?»