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Show 165 over to Las Vegas for the night. They saw a show where bare-breasted dancers did primative steps on giant tom-toms while an on-stage volcano erupted spilling what looked like orange marmelade. "Maybe Suskind could get you a job painting scenery for these shows," Leah teased. Hunt drank mai-tais. "I keep thinking I see people I know," he told her; "But they never are." On the eighteenth of September, Leah asked Hunt directly: "Are you edgy about the opening? Should you fly back?" "You want to spend three days in New York?" Hunt asked. "Me? No. But go -- if you feel you want to - go. Please. I've got projects. I'm happy in my garden. I love the sun. I'll be fine." Hunt thanked and hugged Leah. "You know me," he said. It always surprised him when she did. Still, it seemed natural. "You've been a lost soul for a week," Leah confided. He left the next morning on American Airlines, non-stop. Leah and the boys saw him off. "Are you coming back, Dad?" Todd queried. "Did you put him up to that question?" Hunt asked Leah. Leah smiled. "Have a nice opening," she waved. An unstreaked Southwestern sky gave way, moving East, to cloud cover. Hunt sat alone - the flight, sparse; he read a mystery novel. When he finished, he thought the writer clearly'd made a mistake: it should have been the sister who killed the real-estate brokerage firm members off, one by one, and she should have done it, not garrotting each with a wire, but by somehow poisoning |