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Show 367 I don't suppose you necessarily want company for dinner or anything." "Lorin, I said I'd think about it. That's all I can tell you right now. I'm late. Call me tonight." "There's one other thing I wanted to ask you," he said, trying to get it in before she hung up. "Does Floyd know about us? Because if he does I certainly understand why you'd want to say no." She hung up without answering, and he knew he would go through the day wondering if she had heard him or not. He didn't actually want to call his parents. He had caused them enough grief already, and they had their hands full with his brother, and he didn't want to put in an appearance, even by telephone, until he had something good to report. He had at least a few shreds of decency left. He would call them if she said no. By mid-afternoon he was feeling light-headed and irritable from lack of food, as well as rumpled and sweaty, and he had been perfunctory and even flip on the last couple of applications he had filled out-one at a drugstore in Westwood Village, the other at the bank across the street. He had never worked in a bank, and it was the only job he had applied for that day for which he could not somehow fudge his past and claim prior experience. He had not thought about trying banks, but he had drifted back toward the university that afternoon, his tank nearly dry, and had begun hitting shops in the Village, and the bank was in the way so he hit the bank too. When he had to account for the last year and a half he wrote "Mission for LDS Church." Under "Reason for Leaving" he wrote "Excommunicated." It gave him a rush of pleasure to do something reckless. He left his car parked in the multi-level structure at Bullock's, counting on his out-of-state license plates to make it impossible for the police department to find him |