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Show 99 "How's Christi?" Hall finally asks. "How's your girl?" "Why did you do this?" "I work here now," Hall says. "Have been. For a year and a half." "That's not an answer." Hall knows. He sees a white haired man doing yoga and thinks of his drowned grandfather. No; it's not an answer, Hall thinks. His mind is falling. Hall and Jewel stand and watch a tennis pro giving volley lessons to a very tanned woman about five-nine and in her fifties. "Wrist! Wrist!" the pro is snapping. They go, sit by the pool. "Marguerita?" Hall asks. Hunt, once again, feels thirsty. He wishes he had a screwdriver. Very tall. Or Harvey Wall-banger. Jewel agrees. "You know," Hall tells her, "this one hotel is more self-contained than Toledo." "If you had done this yesterday," Jewel says, " cleared this up yesterday, it might even have been exciting, nice. But ..." "Would you like to see a show?" Hall asks. "It's a bad trip." "Will you have dinner?" "You're a cruel son-of-a-bitch," Jewel observes, sounding, in Hunt's imagination, like a Leah-made-tough. "If Christi, or Eric were here - we could all go to Circus Circus." "It's hot out here," Jewel says. "How do you live where it's so dry?" "It's like Florida," Hall says. Then, when Jewel gives him a quizical look, he admits: "Not really. I was just . . . making something. Up. Conversation." |