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I have to—”
    â€œJust go,” Charlie said in a low voice that conveyed in emotion what it lacked in volume.
    Whitman knew from experience that when her voice got low it was time to cover your genitals, and quickly.
    She began to push Bill gently but firmly back over the threshold. “I’ll call you.”
    â€œWhen?” Bill AT&T said. “When will you call me?”
    â€œWhen I’m good and goddamned ready.”
    She never did like anyone closing in on her. Bill was in the hallway now, though not liking any of this. Too bad for him.
    In a carefully manufactured softer tone, she persisted. “Bill, please just go home. I’ll take care of this. I promise.” Then she closed the door, locked it, and turned, pressing her back against it. This did wonders for the halves of her breasts revealed so artfully by the Valentino. She was the most unselfconscious person he had ever come across. She could as easily use her body as a lure or as a weapon, as she saw fit.
    Glaring at him, she said, “Your brass balls have grown.”
    â€œSo have yours.”
    Without another word, she crossed to an Italian sideboard, poured a generous dollop of Pappy Van Winkle whiskey into one of her man-sized cut-crystal glasses. How in the world did her breasts stay inside that dress? Whitman wondered. Those Valentino tailors were goddamned wizards.
    â€œI don’t see any añejo tequila,” he said.
    â€œNo need. You were gone.” She approached him on little cat feet, gave him a nudge with her elbow in the precise spot where she had hit him three years ago. “Just Pappy.”
    She unlatched the sliding door and went out onto the terrace. Whitman followed. There was no use fighting it, or even pausing, to give himself a modicum of satisfaction. He knew it would be fleeting; worse, it would be petty, and petty was one thing he never was with her.
    He stepped out. Beyond the ornamental cement balustrade a light mist was falling, turning the night into a pointillist painting by Seurat. Droplets had silvered her hair, the tip of her nose, where the spray of freckles lay most delectably, and her lips, which were half parted, shiny with liquor. She was like a candy cane. He felt like eating her up.
    â€œSo,” she said. Her drink was already half finished. “Now that you’ve got what you want, why are you here?”
    â€œA guy can’t simply stop in and—”
    â€œCut the cute stuff.” She swung on him. “I’m not in the mood.” She took a smaller sip, and her eyes met his. “Frankly, I haven’t been in the mood for three years.”
    â€œThat can change,” he said. “Everything changes.”
    â€œNot this, it can’t.”
    She finished off her drink and made to pass by him to return inside. He caught her arm, stayed her. She glanced down at where he had hold of her, not hard, but certainly firmly enough to keep her in place. He took his hand away, and she moved on inside, refilled her glass.
    â€œSo how’s life with Bill AT&T?” he said as he strolled back inside.
    â€œCalm.”
    â€œNice.” He did not approach her; her signals were perfectly clear. “Calm is nice. If you’re dead.” She did not rise to the bait, and this made him uneasy. Maybe he had misjudged the situation, misjudged her, misjudged everything, in fact. He could hear Cutler saying, “That’s just like you, Gregory.” And maybe it was, which would be too bad for him. Possibly for Charlie, too. At least, the Charlie of three years ago. But he had yet to figure out how much of that person still existed.
    He knew one thing though: to show any sign of weakness around her was a death warrant. So he didn’t sit, but continued to stand, arms crossed over his chest, watching her drink her beloved Pappy. In their time together he had seen her put four men under the table at once without ever getting visibly high,