Play It as It Lays

57

"WHO'S YOUR FRIEND," Ivan Costello said.

"Who loves you.”

It was five o'clock in Los Angeles and eight in New York and he was drunk. She should have known better than to call him. She did not even like him. She could not bring herself to give the answer he expected, could not pick up the old litany, could not say you do.

"I don't know," she said.

“What's the matter with you."

"I just wanted to talk to you."

"You just wanted. ." He paused, and she knew that he was turning on her. "To talk to me."

She said nothing. The bar in the New Havana was empty and smelled of disinfectant and the bartender was watching her distrustfully.

"You mean you want to talk to me direct, you don't want me to make an appointment? Go through your agent?"

"All right. I get it."

"You're feel ing good enough to talk to me? You aren't sick?

You aren't asleep? You aren't out of town?

You aren't just fucking una vail able?"

"Ivan—"

" ‘lvan’ shit."

"All right," she said. "O.K."

"You want to know what I think of your life?"

"No," she said, but he was already spitting into the telephone.

In the morning he left four messages on the service and Maria returned none of them. She did call Larry Kulik.