Boy, that Victoria was a cool one! Chilly. Even with the kids. I made a few points when obese little Jason fell and lacerated his knee. I numbed the knee with lidocaine, debrided the cut, and did a first-class job of suturing the wound. All jokes. No tears. The kids thought Uncle Bob or Doctor Bob was great and loved it when I took them out in the Jag V-12 convertible and drove them on the swervy back roads, cutting swaths through the dark clouds of mosquitoes. Victoria didn’t like the Jaguar. It was too ostentatious, too L.A., for her blue-blood sensibilities but, hey! I worked like hell to buy that car. And second gear in a V-12 Jag has got more juice than anything short of an Apollo 10. Va-rrroom!

What really put a frost on the visit was the night I took the kids out to see The Exorcist III and they came home to vomit hot dogs and ice cream and then Jason woke up the whole house with a screaming nightmare. The “Bonecrusher” had been after him. “There, there, baby, Mommy’s here and everything is going to be just fine.” Fucking little Jason tells Victoria that Uncle Bob punched the V-12 up to 130 m.p.h. and the telephone poles were looking like a picket fence. Fucking little Jason tells Victoria how we fishtailed onto a gravel road, spun around, knocked over a mailbox, and blew out a rear tire.

I swore the little bastard to secrecy!

In the morning Clendon told me he knew Vickie was having an affair and while he hated her for it, it excited him to think of her making love to another man. Clendon told me he was dicking some of his students and that he couldn’t get it up for Victoria. I said, “Leave that nasty bitch. I can’t work up any sympathy for you, she’s runnin’ you, man.”

“I don’t know what to do. You’re right. I’m torn. I feel like Hamlet. Good God, what are you doing?”

“What?”

“Put out that cigarette.”

“Are you shittin’ me? What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“Passive smoke, little brother. The kids. And Jesus! Don’t take them out in that goddamn toy anymore either. A hundred and thirty miles an hour?”

“It’s not a toy, big brother, it’s pure pussy. You’re scared shitless, aren’t you?” I flipped him the keys to my Jaguar. “Go take it for a ride, motherfucker. Live a little. Go on, drive it; it’s good therapy. Primal Scream Therapy.”

Clendon went out into the driveway and turned the engine over. He revved the motor and popped the clutch, spinning rubber out into the street. I spotted his reflection in the rearview mirror frozen in the rictus of fear. Not a good sign, I thought. How Clendon could not find satisfaction from the rich thrrraaaghh! of the dual exhaust system baffled me. It was that sound that made the car worth every bit of the $80-some thousand. I could have thrown the money into a Keogh account but, hey! it was the sound of pure balls.