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Show 170 solve. Not possible. Hey, listen: . . ." He threw a playful finger out at Hunt. "That's a bananas concept with those doormen! Clever fox, you are! Clever fox!" "What: I don't . . .?" "He's gonna tell me he has no idea what I'm talking about," Suskind cupped his hands in a broadcast aside to Cletus Marion. "Of course!" he said, back to Hunt. "Of course! Absolutely! We believe you!" He threw a peanut at Hunt. "Listen: What's Phoenix?" he asked. "Come back East! Come back where you belong! Everybody's crazy to spend time with you!" Hunt took a cab to his opening, winding East and North in light rain, its mute radio throbbing in the front seat, the cabbie, closed off by his window-shield, singing along. What had Suskind meant: The doormen? Hunt thought of Phoenix. He thought of Leah, there, and his boys, the smell of sandstone, sun, how simply an azalia could command sky; he saw the colors of leaves, tamarask and russian olive, the soft jade of cactus. Clever Fox. Clever Fox. Blocks of light moved past, blocks of light and of the absence of light, the night geometry, boogie-woogie Mondrian had called it: this graph, the patches, the white-streaked squares, the violet, the sea-green neon. Hunt's father had found the shape of himself here somewhere - untouched by any family, he had become a mind, had become a person in this queer grid of steel and mortar and light: That was amazing! "You into Country?" The drive slid his clear plastic panel back. "There's a rear speaker -- if you're into Country, I can |
