Somebody said something about La. Friday afternoons they drove back home together in her Buick sedan for the weekend. Not on such a quiet morning. On the way home she had stopped in the telegraph office on Twentythird Street and wired G.
At Fourteenth they heard a drumbeat and a band and waited at the corner to see what regiment it would be but it was only the Salvation Army. I saw her as clearly as I saw my own face in themirror each morning when I shaved. My publisher didn't know, my editor Debra Weinstock didn't know, myagent Harold Oblowski didn't know. But thecustody business was over, right? Not even a judge that was bought andpaid for could award custody to a dead man.
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