She was naked under the muumuu and smelled of patchouli. But in situations like this-and he had experienced many-he resolutely closed his mind to physical stimuli, or the absence thereof, and concentrated only on the profits this suppliant woman represented. Then he was able to perform competently, his mind detached and calculating.
He left her lolling on the rumpled sheets. He dressed swiftly, kissed her cheek, and murmured, 'Divine!' Then he drove home, windows open, gulping the salty sea air. Back in the town house, he gargled, brushed his teeth, and showered. He hoped he merely imagined that the scent of patchouli still clung to him.
He mixed a decent vodka gimlet, a double in a tall tumbler with plenty of ice and fresh lime. He carried it upstairs to the terrace. It was a warm day but cloudy, with rumblings of thunder westward. He hoped for a driving rain that might wash everything clean and leave the world shining.
He was still on the terrace, a few fat drops beginning to splatter, when Rita returned.
'You're going to get soaked,' she warned. 'It was pouring at the Pompano Mall.'
'I won't melt,' he said. 'Did you ever walk through puddles when you were a kid?'
'No, and I never toasted marshmallows. I had a deprived childhood. I'm going to take a shower.'
'I'll mix us drinks and bring them to your bedroom.'
'That's a good boy,' she said.
When he brought the drinks up from the kitchen she was still in her bathroom, the shower running. He sat on the edge of her bed, sipped his gimlet. He knew that in a few moments he would be the supplicant, a reversal of the roles he and Mrs. Winslow had played, and he wondered idly if love might be a lose-lose game.
Rita came out of the bathroom dripping, wiping her shoulders and arms. She handed him the towel and turned. Obediently he dried her back, with long, slow strokes.
'Guess what,' she said. 'I was wandering through the Mall, just looking around, and I bumped into an old girlfriend I haven't seen in years. Claire McDonald. We used to party together in Tallahassee. We had lunch together and talked over old times.'
She took the damp towel from his hand and tossed it onto the floor. Then she sat down next to him on the bed, picked up her drink, took a sip.
'Claire looked like she had won the lottery: dressed to kill, her fingers covered with rocks. The real stuff, too. She told me this older guy was sponsoring her. 'Sponsoring.' I never heard it called that, did you?'
'Never did,' Rathbone said, smiling.
'Anyway, her guy owns two restaurants in the Orlando area, so I guess he's got mucho dinero. They drove down to scout a location in Lauderdale for a new restaurant. She says he put her on the payroll of his company as a secretary; the corporation pays her salary. So the money he gives her doesn't come out of his pocket, it just reduces his corporate income tax. David, could you do that? Make me a secretary in your company? That way you wouldn't have to give me your own money. It would just be a business expense.'
'Well, that's one way of looking at it,' Rathbone said. 'But by paying her a salary, he's also reducing
his corporation's after-tax income. So one way or another, she's costing him.'
'So you don't want to hire me as your private secretary?'
'Afraid not,' he said, laughing. 'But I'm willing to sponsor you.'
They put their drinks aside. He took off his robe and they slid into bed. The thunder was closer, then overhead, then dwindling away. But it was raining heavily, streaming down the windows. The room was filled with a faint ocher light, dim and secret.
She let him do all the things that she knew pleasured him. She lay almost indolent, staring at the fogged windows, until her body roused. Then she closed her eyes, listened to the rain and the sounds he was making. Finally she heard nothing but the thump of her own heart, and cried out. But he would not stop, or could not, and she suffered him gladly.
At last he emerged panting from under the sheet, his hair tousled, a wild, frightened look in his eyes.
'Are you all right?' he asked anxiously.
She smiled, took his face in her hands, kissed his smeared lips.
'Let's do it again, lover,' she said.
He managed a small smile, then got out of bed and stalked naked about the darkened room, hands on his hips.
'I thought I might die,' he said.
'Die? From what?'
^It was too much. I couldn't stop.'
'No one dies from too much love.'
'I was afraid I was hurting you.'
'You didn't. I'm a tough girl.'
'I know. Do you need anything?' 'Like what?'
'Kleenex? A washcloth?'
'Nope. I like the way I feel. Now, stop pacing and come over here.'
He stood alongside the bed. She leaned to him.
'Now it's my turn,' she said.
Within minutes he was shuddering and sobbing. She was tender-cruel and would not let him move away until he surrendered, his mouth open in a silent scream. Then he collapsed facedown across the bed.
'I died and I was born again,' he said. 'And then I died and was born again.'
'That's the way to do it,' she said. 'Don't ever stop halfway.'
He reached under the sheet, grasped her left foot, pulled it to his lips, kissed the instep. Then he looked up at her. 'Don't ever leave me, Rita.'
'Why should I do that? It's hard to find a sponsor like you.' She saw the focus in his eyes change. 'Why are you looking at me like that? A penny for your thoughts.'
'They're worth more than that. I just had a great idea. I don't want to put you on my payroll, but I know how you can make a steady salary.'
'Pushing your queer checks?'
'No, that seam's on hold. But the Palace gang and I are starting a new business, and we'll need a secretary.'
'Yeah? What kind of business?'
'It's an investment company. Ellen St. Martin is looking for office space for us. We'll need someone to answer the phone and type a few letters. You can type, can't you?'
'Oh sure. Hunt and peck.' 'Good enough. How about it? Would you like an office job?'
'Does it mean I'll have to sit behind a desk eight hours a day?'
'Nah. We'll get you an answering machine, so you can come and go as you please.'
'Sounds good,' she said.
'To me, too. Because your salary won't be coming out of my pocket; just one-fifth of it.'
'You think the other guys will go for it? Hiring me, I mean.'
'Sure they will. We'll have an office and a secretary; everything on the up-and-up.'
'What's this new business called?'
'The Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. Like it?'
'Love it,' she said.
24
Simon Clark still resented what he considered a demotion to Florida. In the Chicago office of the U.S. Attorney he had been an executive, a man of substance. He rarely had been personally involved in outside inquiries. He sat at a desk, collected and assimilated reports from detectives, analyzed evidence, prepared briefs, obtained arrest warrants, and finally represented the DA's office in court.
Now he was being called upon to assume the role of what he had scathingly called a 'gumshoe.' But to his surprise, he found he was enjoying it. The investigation of Mortimer Sparco's discount brokerage required the
