Just finished Playback, his last novel, and it's truly a bookend exit to his oeuvre.
Chapter Twelve
At half past six the Fleetwood purred to the front door and I had it open when she came up the steps. She was hatless. She wore a flesh-colored coat with the collar turned up against her platinum hair. She stood in the middle of the living room and looked around casually. Then she slipped the coat off with a lithe movement and threw it on the davenport and sat down.
"I didn't really think you'd come," I said.
"No. You're the shy type. You knew darned well I'd come. Scotch and soda, if you
have it."
"I have it."
I brought the drinks and sat down beside her, but not too close enough for it to mean anything. We touched glasses and drank.
"Would you care to go to Romanoff's for dinner?"
"And then what?"
"Where do you live?"
"West Los Angeles. A house on a quiet old street. I happens to belong to me. I asked you, and then what, remember?"
"That would be up to you, naturally."
"I thought you were a tough guy. You mean I don't have to pay for my dinner?"
"I ought to slap your face for that crack."
She laughed suddenly and stared at me over the edge of her glass.
"Consider it slapped. We had each other a bit wrong. Romanoff's could wait a while, couldn't it?"
"We could try West Los Angeles first."
"Why not here?"
"I guess this will make you walk out on me. I had a dream here once, a year and a half ago. There's still a shred of it let. I'd like it to stay in charge."
She stood up quickly and grabbed her coat. I managed to help her on with it.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I should have told you before."
She swung around with her face close to mine, but I didn't touch her.
"Sorry that you had a dream and kept it alive? I've had dreams too, but mine died. I didn't have the courage to keep them alive."
"It's not quite like that. There was a woman. She was rich. She thought she wanted to marry me. It wouldn't have worked. I'll probably never see her again. But I remember."
"Let's go," she said quietly. "And let's leave the memory in charge. I only wish I had one worth remembering."
On the way down to the Cadillac I didn't touch her either. she drove beautifully. When a woman is a really good driver she is just about perfect.
* * *
She put her head on my shoulder and we were very close now.
"I don't love you," she said.
"Why would you? But let's not be cynical about it. There are sublime moments--even if they are only moments."
I felt her tight and warm against me. her body surged with vitality. Her beautiful arms held me tight.- - -And again in the darkness that muted cry, and then again the slow quiet peace.
"I hate you," she said with her mouth against mine. "Not for this, but because perfection never comes twice and with us it came too soon. And I'll never see you again and I don't want to. It would have to be forever or not at all."
Alcohol was no cure for this. Nothing was any cure but the hard inner heart that asked for nothing from anyone.
