Whitney hesitated for a moment. "Naw. I don't like them without the lime."
"Hey, Jesus, don't say no just because of that! I got lime. Comes out of a little squeeze bottle." Lloyd went over to the bar and held up a plastic ReaLime. "Looks just like the Green Giant's left testicle. Funny, huh?"
"Does it taste like lime?"
"Sure," Lloyd said morosely. "What do you think it tastes like? Fuckin Cheerios? So what do you say? Be a man and have a drink with me."
"Well... okay."
"We'll have them by the window and take in the view."
"No," Whitney said, harshly and abruptly. Lloyd paused on his way to the bar, his face suddenly paling. He looked toward Whitney, and for a moment their eyes met.
"Yeah, okay," Lloyd said. "Sorry, man. Poor taste."
"That's okay."
But it wasn't okay, and both of them knew it. The woman Flagg had introduced as his "bride" had taken a high dive the day before. Lloyd remembered Ace High saying that Dayna couldn't jump from the balcony because the windows didn't open. But the penthouse had a sundeck. Guess they must have thought none of the real high rollers - Arabs, most of them - would ever take the dive. A lot they knew.
He fixed Whitney a gin and tonic and they sat and drank in silence for a while. Outside, the sun was going down in a red glare. At last Whitney said in a voice almost too low to be heard: "Do you really think she went on her own?"
Lloyd shrugged. "What does it matter? Sure. I think she dived. Wouldn't you, if you was married to him? You ready?"
Whitney looked at his glass and saw with some surprise that he was indeed ready. He handed it to Lloyd, who took it over to the bar. Lloyd was pouring the gin freehand, and Whitney had a nice buzz on.
Again they drank in silence for a while, watching the sun go down.
"What do you hear about that guy Cullen?" Whitney asked finally.
"Nothing. Doodley-squat. El-zilcho. I don't hear nothing, Barry don't hear nothing. Nothing from Route 40, from Route 30, from Route 2 and 74 and I-15. Nothing from the back roads. They're all covered and they're all nothing. He's out in the desert someplace, and if he keeps moving at night and if he can figure out how to keep moving east, he's going to slip through. And what does it matter, anyhow? What can he tell them?"
"I don't know."
"I don't either. Let him go, that's what I say."
Whitney felt uncomfortable. Lloyd was getting perilously close to criticizing the boss again. His buzz-on was stronger, and he was glad. Maybe soon he would find the nerve to say what he had come here to say.
"I'll tell you something," Lloyd said, leaning forward. "He's losing his stuff. You ever hear that f**king saying? It's the eighth inning and he's losing his stuff and there's no-fucking-body warming up in the bullpen."
"Lloyd, I - "
"You ready?"
"Sure, I guess."
Lloyd made them new drinks. He handed one to Whitney, and a little shiver went through him as he sipped. It was almost raw gin.
"Losing his stuff," Lloyd said, returning to his text. "First Dayna, then this guy Cullen. His own wife - if that's what she was - goes and takes a dive. Do you think her double-fucking-gainer from the penthouse balcony was in his game plan?"
"We shouldn't be talking about it."
"And Trashcan Man. Look what that guy did all by himself. With fiends like that, who needs enemas? That's what I'd like to know."
"Lloyd - "
Lloyd was shaking his head. "I don't understand it at all. Everything was going so good, right up to the night he came and said the old lady was dead over there in the Free Zone. He said the last obstacle was out of our way. But that's when things started to get funny."
"Lloyd, I really don't think we should be - "
"Now I just don't know. We can take em by land assault next spring, I guess. We sure as shit can't go before then. But by next spring, God knows what they might have rigged up over there, you know? We were going to hit them before they could think up any funny surprises, and now we can't. Plus, holy God on His throne, there's Trashy to think about. He's out there in the desert ramming around someplace, and I sure as hell - "
"Lloyd," Whitney said in a low, choked voice. "Listen to me."
Lloyd leaned forward, concerned. "What? What's the trouble, old hoss?"
"I didn't even know if I'd have the guts to ask you," Whitney said. He was squeezing his glass compulsively. "Me and Ace High and Ronnie Sykes and Jenny Engstrom. We're cutting loose. You want to come? Christ, I must be crazy telling you this, with you so close to him."
"Cutting loose? Where are you going?"