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didn’t seem to be any restrictions on the white powder in the Wedgwood bowl. So it wasn’t surprising that at 4 A.M. , on some kind of manic spree, Max decided to buy Felix, too. Well, actually, he decided that what Honey really needed was a limousine company, and the first cog in the wheel was Felix (who, it turned out, Max had met for the first time that afternoon at LAX). It was kind of amazing to watch. “How much would you cost for a year, Felix?” Felix was a little cagier than you would think, and he negotiated a percentage, too.
    That weekend, Max and Honey went out and bought the first of the fleet, a chocolate-brown Mercedes-Benz limo (compact, not a stretch) that blended in perfectly on the streets of L.A. It was sedate and elegant and didn’t draw attention to itself except for Felix, who was gaining weight from the good life and couldn’t break the habit of standing at attention by the car.
    Oddly, Shannon seemed to use the car as often as Honey did. They never seemed to rent it out. And the rest of the fleet never materialized.
    Max would come in and out of town, spending as much time in L.A. as he did in Atlanta. Honey was supposed to understand—after all, he had a business to run and the business was in Atlanta. He told her he’d told his wife that he was leaving her, but they needed a little while to get the children accustomed to it. The children?
    Lisa and I were 23 and naïve, and the idea of children certainly hadn’t occurred to us. The children turned out to be 18 and 20, which meant that Max was probably a lot older than we thought, although I sort of understand wanting to go out with somebody who wore ties.
    It was an arrangement not dissimilar, I suppose, to being married to someone who traveled a lot. Max would spend three or four days in L.A. as if he lived here and then go back to Atlanta. It was a little strange that Shannon lived there, too. But it seemed to work for all of them.
    Max liked to live large and travel with a bit of an entourage so we were often invited to go out with them. Their favorite place to go was L’Orangerie, the sort of over-the-top, elegant restaurant on La Cienega that was famous for an egg served in its shell with Russian caviar and tuna tataki before its time. It was one the few places in L.A. where you had to dress up and Honey loved dressing up. They also loved the old-style romance of Chasen’s, even though it was a little downtrodden at the time: the elegant banquettes that were built for eight, the dimly lit room, the huge platters of crab, shrimp, and lobster appetizers, the sense of history. Honey used to order the Hobo Steak because it amused her that there was a Hobo Steak on the menu at Chasen’s. (I think it had amused Dave Chasen, too, which is why he put it on the menu.) But like I said, Honey got the joke, as long as there was a joke to get in the room. Money didn’t seem to be an object. The cases of champagne just kept on flowing. For a number of months anyway.
    The first sense I had that something was amiss was Felix. I pulled up one evening and parked my car. Felix was standing next to the Mercedes, smoking a cigarette and drinking from a silver flask. Even from a distance, he smelled like bourbon. He’d usually open the car door for you and engage in some pleasantry, often as pedantic as, “How are you this evening, miss?” but polite nonetheless and always formal. I waved but he didn’t acknowledge my presence, almost as if he was in another world. I decided not to engage. Shannon and I were just running down the hill for sushi. I had my car so, as far as I was concerned, his services wouldn’t be needed that evening. But it’s always a bad sign when the help starts misbehaving.
    Shannon was ready to go. She didn’t even ask me in. She had on jeans, a t-shirt, a short Western jacket, and pointed boots with heels that made her look taller than she was. She looked like she was in a rush to get out the door. “Should we ask Honey