He emerged out of the Jaguar like a tall drink of water, like Cooper in Morocco; all he needed was a palm frond and a straw fan and he’d be complete.

Etienne said, holding out his tended hand, “You are Jacaranda Leven.” Max, the joke on himself, nearly collapsed with laughter as he recounted, tears streaming down his face, the “potatoes au gratin” line and the “Phoenix” touch.

The city was so madly beautiful and nobody could do anything but go along with it—the worst month (except for August) had turned into a springtime romance.

suddenly he smelled like suitcases and dry cleaning, not a birthday party for an eight-year-old at all.

Once she noticed Max, everything else seemed only half true.

There was something special about Max’s parties, those first two years at the Sacramento, that she could never think about afterward without condensing it into one particular night.

People began calling her, saying, “I didn’t know you could write.” That was another sin. She could get published in a sound journal that meant business and didn’t publish fly-by-nights. She was twenty-eight. It was time for her to O.D., not get published.

Not Going to New York It made Jacaranda angry that Shelby encouraged her to go to New York when she knew she would only drink herself into an earlier grave there and probably be pushed out of a ninety-fourth-story window by Max.

She made enough money to get her own West Hollywood apartment, gas, and drugs, and not have to be in a regular office where they expected her to wear shoes.