Free Strangers by Dean Koontz Page B

and was easily intoxicated, while Parker’s thirst was legendary and his capacity prodigious. Although Dom was solitary by nature and slow to make friends, Parker had the gift of seeming like an old acquaintance just an hour after you first met him. At fifty, Parker Faine was fifteen years older than Dom. He had been rich and famous for almost a quarter of a century, and he was comfortable with both his wealth and fame, utterly unable to understand Dom’s uneasiness over the money and notoriety that was beginning to come his way because of Twilight in Babylon. Dom had come to lunch at Las Brisas in Bally loafers, dark brown slacks, and a lighter brown-checkered shirt with a button-down collar, but Parker had arrived in blue tennis shoes, heavily crinkled white cotton pants, and a white-and-blue flowered shirt worn over his belt, which made it seem as if they had dressed for entirely different engagements, had met outside the restaurant sheerly by chance, and had decided to have lunch together on a whim.
    In spite of all the ways they differed from each other, they had become fast friends, because in several important ways they were alike. Both were artists, not by choice or inclination but by compulsion. Dom painted with words; Parker painted with paint; and they approached their different arts with identical high standards, commitment, craftsmanship. Furthermore, though Parker made friends more easily than Dom did, each placed enormous value on friendship and nurtured it.
    They had met six years ago, when Parker had moved to Oregon for eighteen months, in search of new subject matter for a series of landscapes done in his unique style, which successfully married suprarealism with a surreal imagination. While there, he had signed to give one lecture a month at the. University of Portland, where Dom held a position in the Department of English.
    Now, while Parker hunched over the table, munching on nachos that were dripping with cheese and guacamole and sour cream, Dom sipped slowly at a bottle of Negra Modelo and recounted his unconscious nocturnal adventures. He spoke softly, though discretion was probably unnecessary; the other diners on the terrace were noisily involved in their own conversations. He did not touch the nachos. This morning, for the fourth time, he had awakened behind the furnace in the garage, in a state of undiluted terror, and his continued inability to get control of himself had left him dispirited and without an appetite. By the time he finished his tale, he had drunk only half the beer, for even that rich, dark Mexican brew tasted flat and stale today.
    Parker, on the other hand, had poured down three double-shot margaritas and already ordered a fourth. However, the painter’s attention was not dulled by the alcohol he consumed. “Jesus, buddy, why didn’t you tell me about this sooner, weeks ago?”
    “I felt sort of ... foolish.”
    “Nonsense. Bullshit,” the painter insisted, gesturing expansively with one huge hand, but keeping his voice low.
    The Mexican waiter, a diminutive Wayne Newton look-alike, arrived with Parker’s margarita and inquired if they wished to order lunch.
    “No, no. Sunday lunch is an excuse to have too many margaritas, and I’m a long way from having too many. What a sad waste to order lunch after only four margaritas! That’d leave most of the afternoon unfilled, and we’d find ourselves on the street with nothing to occupy us, and then without doubt we’d get into trouble, attract the attention of the police. God knows what might happen. No, no. To avoid jail and protect our reputations, we must not order lunch sooner than three o’clock. In fact, bring me another margarita. And another order of these magnificent nachos, please. More salsa—hotter if you’ve got it. A dish of chopped onions, too, please. And another beer for my dismayingly restrained friend.”
    “No,” Dom said. “I’m only half-finished with this one.”
    “That’s what I meant by