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smile."
    "Thank you."
    "De nada. You also drive a nice-looking car." Her eyes had sized up the scene. The well-cut St. Tropez shirt, the Gucci shoes with no socks. She didn't know they were Gucci, but she knew they were expensive. "What is this? An MG?"
    "No. A Morgan." And its my wife's ... the words stuck in his throat. "What do you do?" Tit for tat.
    "Right now I wait table at the Condor, but I wanted to see what the neighborhood looks like in the daylight. That's why I came down here for lunch. It's a whole different crowd. And at this time of day they're a lot more sober than they are when we get them later."
    The Condor was not known for its decorous clientele. It was the home of the "Original Topless," and Ian assumed that the woman waited on tables half nude. She shrugged and then let her face grow soft in a smile. She looked almost pretty again, but there was a sadness somewhere in her eyes. A kind of regret, haunting and distant. She glanced at him oddly once or twice. And again Ian found that she had made him uncomfortable.
    "You live at Market and Tenth?" It was something to say.
    "Yeah. In a hotel. You?" That one was a bitch to answer. What could he say? But she filled the pause for him. "Let me guess. Pacific Heights?" The brightness in her eyes was gone now, and the question sounded brittle and accusing.
    "What makes you say that?" He tried to sound amused and look mock-hurt, but it didn't come off. He looked at her as they stopped in a snarl of Montgomery Street traffic. She could have been someone's secretary, or a girl doing a bit part in a movie. She didn't look cheap. She looked tired. And sad.
    "Sweetheart, you smell of Pacific Heights. It's all over you."
    "Don't let fragrances fool you. As in 'all that glitters' ..." They laughed lightly together and he played with the choke as the traffic jam eased. He turned the car onto Market.
    "Married?"
    He nodded.
    "Too bad. The good ones always are."
    "Is that a deterrent?" It was an insane thing to have said, but he was more curious than serious, and the gin and tonics had taken their toll.
    "Sometimes I go for married guys, sometimes I don't. Depends on the guy. In your case ... who knows? I like you."
    "I'm flattered. You're a nice-looking woman, as you put it. What's your name?"
    "Margaret Maggie."
    "That's a nice name." She smiled at him again. "Is this it, Maggie?" It was the only hotel on the block, and it was no beauty.
    "Yeah, this is it. Home sweet home. Beautiful, ain't it?" She tried to cover her embarrassment with flippancy, and he found himself feeling sorry for her. The hotel looked bleak and depressing.
    "Want to come up for a drink?"
    He knew from the look in her eyes that she'd be hurt if he didn't. And, hell, he was in no shape to go home and work. And he still had nine and a half hours to kill before driving out to the airport. But he also knew what might happen if he accepted Maggie's invitation. And letting that happen seemed like a rotten thing to do to Jessie the day she was coming home. He had held out for three weeks. Why not one more afternoon? ...
    But this girl looked so lonely, so unloved, and the gin and the sun were spinning in his brain. He knew he didn't want to go back to the house. Nothing in it was his, not really his, except five file drawers of his writing and the new Olivetti typewriter Jessie had given him. The gigolo king. Jessie's consort.
    "Sure. I've got time for a drink. As long as you make it coffee. What'll I do with the car?"
    "I think you can park it in front of the door. It's a white zone, they won't tow you away."
    He parked the car in front of the hotel, and Maggie carefully watched the back of the car as he pulled in to the curb. It was an easy plate to remember. It spelled what she thought was his name. Jessie.

Chapter 2

    Jessica heard the landing gear grind out of the plane's belly and smiled. Her seat belt was in place, her overhead light was out, and she felt her heart begin to beat faster as the plane