35

How are you, Frank? said Lenore Riviere. You know how I feel about telephones; why don’t you come by? We’ll have breakfast.

Already eaten, thanks, said Frank, and absently shoved a forkful of home fries from one side of his room service plate to the other, as if in proof. The window in his room was open, and a warm, flower-fragrant breeze seeped in amid the air-conditioning.

Very well, then, said Lenore. How has your stay been?

So far, so good, said Frank.

What have you been doing? —She made it sound like such a grand question.

Taking care of things, said Frank.

Yes, said Lenore. Westward is an escape for most people, isn’t it? Westward is toward the new.

Not for me, said Frank.

No, not for you. Have you thought about our problem?

I have, said Frank.

In the distance a car horn blew, that lovely summery sound. He imagined Lenore sitting by a window high in the hills, looking down on all the business below with her air of fond amusement. Good, she said.

And I’ve decided, said Frank. I’ll do it. We’ll do it together.

Hooray, said Lenore.

On one condition.

Which is . . . ?

He smiled, he hoped she was smiling too. I won’t play the Prince, he said. I want to play the King.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. He could hear her breathing; an old woman breathes like she’s reaching into her purse. But the King is dead, she said.

I know, said Frank. Long live the King.