She looked at him now, cocking her head to one side and smiling the smile of the stoned. But her eyes were clear, clear and cold, their light the light of diamonds.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” she asked.

In answer, he left the door open and went back into the room. She followed.

10

After she had come in, Liz stood there in the television-lit darkness leaning back against the closed door. Hook turned on the lamp next to his bed and watched her as she surveyed the small room, which had no more than the rate called for, just the single bed, an orange plastic chair, a dresser that also served as a desk and bedside table, and the color television, which he turned off now.

“I wasn’t sure you were in,” she said. “But I thought I’d knock anyway.”

“What’d you want to see me about?”

“What did I want to see you about?” She smiled mockingly. “Ah yes, I suppose one does need a reason to come calling on Mister David Hook.”

“People generally have one.”

“And could that be because calling on you isn’t all that pleasant? I mean you don’t exactly welcome one with a smile, do you?”

Hook did not answer.

Moving over to the dresser, she picked up his pack of cigarettes, took one and lit it. As she opened her raincoat, he saw that she was wearing a tan knit pantsuit, and he wondered where she had been, what sad party she had abandoned.

“Do you think I’m here as Jack’s emissary?” she asked. “You figure he finally convinced me to—how was it he put it this morning—to buy you off, with my body?”

“I don’t figure anything. You tell me.”

“You’ve been drinking too, I see.” She snapped her finger against the mouth of the bottle of scotch. Then she turned and came back, smiling, looking up at him with sardonic, bloodshot eyes.

“I just wanted to see you, that’s all,” she said. “I was worried. I mean after your swim and all. You Hooks do keep falling off of things.”

He struck her with the flat of his hand, so quickly even he had not known it was coming, and she fell backwards spinning, dropping face down onto the bed. She did not make a sound, just lay there supporting herself on her arms, with her head hanging and her hair draped over the bedspread. Hook wanted to say something to her, apologize or explain, but the words would not come. And finally she sat up, slowly, and was a different woman now, this one small and grave and vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to say that. I’m smashed, you see. And scared. I’m so scared.”

“Of what?”

She did not answer.

“What are you scared of?”

Her eyes darkened in bewilderment. “Did I say I was scared?”

“Just now.”

“Then I guess I am.”

“Of what?” he repeated.

“The truth?” she asked.

“You tell me.”