He’d bought some time, but they’d be behind him again. And this time, they’d be mean. Doug headed uptown on foot, wondering why the hell you could never find a cab when you needed one.
Traffic was light on the Long Island Expressway as Whitney headed into town. Her flight from Paris had landed at Kennedy an hour behind schedule. The back seat and trunk of her little Mercedes were crammed with luggage. The radio was turned up high so that the gritty strains of Springsteen’s latest hit could ricochet through the car and out the open window. The two-week trip to France had been a gift to herself for finally working up the courage to break off her engagement to Tad Carlyse IV.
No matter how pleased her parents had been, she just couldn’t marry a man who color-coordinated his socks and ties.
Whitney began to sing harmony with Springsteen as she tooled around a slower-moving compact. She was twenty-eight, attractive, moderately successful in her own career while having enough family money to back her up if things got really tough. She was accustomed to affluence and deference. She’d never had to demand either one, only expect them. She enjoyed being able to slip into one of New York’s posher clubs late at night and find it filled with people she knew.
She didn’t mind if the paparazzi snapped her or if the gossip columns speculated on what her latest outrage would be. She’d often explained to her frustrated father that she wasn’t outrageous by design, but by nature.
She liked fast cars, old movies, and Italian boots.
At the moment, she was wondering if she should go home or drop in at Elaine’s and see who’d been up to what in the past two weeks. She didn’t feel jet lag, but a trace of boredom. More than a trace, she admitted. She was nearly smothered with it. The question was what to do about it.
Whitney was the product of new money, big money. She’d grown up with the world at her fingertips, but she hadn’t always found it interesting enough to reach for. Where was the challenge? she wondered. Where was the—she hated to use the word—purpose? Her circle of friends was wide, and from the outside appeared to be diverse. But once you got in, once you really saw beneath the silk dresses or chinos, there was a sameness to these young, urbane, wealthy, pampered people. Where was the thrill? That was better, she thought. Thrill was an easier word to deal with than purpose. It wasn’t a thrill to jet to Aruba if you only had to pick up the phone to arrange it.
Her two weeks in Paris had been quiet and soothing— and uneventful. Uneventful. Maybe that was the crux. She wanted something—something more than she could pay for with a check or credit card. She wanted action. Whitney also understood herself well enough to know she could be dangerous in this kind of mood.
But she wasn’t in the mood to go home, alone, and unpack. Then again, she wasn’t feeling much like a club crowded with familiar faces. She wanted something new, something different. She could try one of the new clubs that were always popping up. If she liked, she could have a couple of drinks and make conversation. Then, if the club interested her enough, she could drop a few words in the right places and make it the newest hot spot in Manhattan. The fact that she had the power to do so didn’t astonish her, or even particularly please her. It simply was.
Whitney squealed to a halt at a red light to give herself time to make up her mind. It seemed like nothing was happening in her life lately. There wasn’t any excitement, any, well, zing.
She was more surprised than alarmed when her passenger door was yanked open. One look at the black zippered jacket and wraparound glasses of the hitchhiker had her shaking her head. “You aren’t keeping up with fashion trends,” she told him.
Doug shot a look over his shoulder. The street was clear, but it wouldn’t be for long. He jumped in and slammed the door. “Drive.”
“Forget it. I don’t drive around with guys who wear last year’s clothes. Take a walk.”
Doug stuck his hand in his pocket, using his forefinger to simulate the barrel of a gun. “Drive,” he repeated.
She looked at his pocket, then back at his face. On the radio the disk jockey announced a full hour of blasts from the past. Vintage Stones began to pour out. “If there’s a gun in there, I want to see it. Otherwise, take off.”
Of all the cars he could’ve picked… Why the hell wasn’t she shaking and pleading like any normal person would’ve done? “Dammit, I don’t want to have to use this, but if you don’t throw this thing in gear and get moving, I’m going to have to put a hole in you.”
Whitney stared at her own reflection in his glasses. Mick Jagger was demanding that someone give him shelter. “Bullshit,” she said, her diction exquisite.