had small experience with tennis dresses and wasn’t doing well with this one. She lifted her face from mine. “I’m all sweaty,” she said. “Even if you weren’t,” I said, “you would be soon.”
“No,” she said, “I’ve got to take a bath first.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “I can’t help it,” she said. “I have to.” Her voice was a little hoarse. “Well, for crissake why not a shower. A bath, for God sake. I may commit a public disgrace on your stereo by the time you run a bath.”
“A shower will ruin my hair.”
“Do you know the ruination I face?”
“I’ll be quick,” she said. “I haven’t seen you in a long time either.” She got up from the bed and ran the water in the bathtub off the bedroom. Then she came back in and pulled the shades and undressed. I watched her. The tennis dress had pants underneath. “Ah ha,” I said. “That’s why my progress was slower than I’m used to.”
“Poor thing,” she said, “you’ve seduced a low-class clientele. With a better upbringing you’d have learned years ago how to cope with a tennis dress.” She was wearing a white bra and white bikini underpants. She looked at me with that look she had, nine parts innocence and one part evil, and said, “All the guys at the club know.”
“If they only knew what to do after they’d gotten the dress off,” I said. “How come you wear pants under pants?”
“Only a cheap hussy would play tennis without underwear.” She took off the bra. “Or kiss with her mouth open,” I said. “Oh no,” she said as she wiggled out of the underpants, “everyone at the club does that.” I’d seen her naked now enough times to stop counting. But I never lost interest. She wasn’t fragile. She was strong-looking. Her stomach was flat and her breasts didn’t sag. She was beautiful and she always looked a little uncomfortable naked, as if someone might burst in and say, “Ah hah!”
“Take your bath, Suze,” I said. “Tomorrow I may go beat up the club.” She went into the bathroom and I could hear her splashing around in the water. “If you’re playing with a rubber ducky in there I’m going to drown you.”
“Patience,” she yelled. “I’m soaking in an herbal bubble bath that will drive you wild.”
“I’m wild enough,” I said. I took off my white ducks and my Pumas. She came out of the bathroom with a towel tucked under her chin. It hung to her knees. With her right hand she removed it, the way you open a curtain, and said, “Tada.”
“Not bad,” I said. “I like a person who stays in shape.” She dropped the towel and got on the bed with me. I opened my arms and she got inside. I hugged her. “I’m glad you’re back in one piece,” she said, her mouth very close to mine. “Me too,” I said, “and speaking of one piece…”
“Now,” she said, “I’m not sweaty.” I kissed her. She pressed harder against me and I could hear her breath go in deep once through her nose and come out slowly in a long sigh. She ran her hand over my hip and down along my backside. It stopped when she felt the scar of the bullet wound. With her lips lightly against mine she said, “What’s this?”
“Bullet wound.”
“I gather you weren’t attacking,” she said. “I am now,” I said.
24
“In the ass?” Susan said. “I like to think of it as a hamstring wound,” I said. “I’ll bet you do,” she said. “Was it bad?”
“Undignified but not serious,” I said. We were eating deli and drinking champagne in her kitchen. I had my white ducks back on and my Pumas. She had on a bathrobe. Outside it was dark now. Nonurban night sounds drifted in through the open back door. Night insects pinged against the screen. “Tell me. All of it. From the beginning.” I put two slices of veal loaf on some rye bread, added a small application of Dusseldorf mustard, put another slice of bread on top and bit. I chewed and swallowed. “Two shots in the ass and I was off on the greatest adventure of my career,” I said. I took a bite of half sour pickle. It clashed a little with the champagne, but life is flawed. “Be serious,” Susan said. “I want to hear about it. Have you had a bad time? You look tired.”
“I am tired,” I said. “I’ve just been screwing my brains out.”
“Oh really?”
“Oh really,” I said. “How come you were doing all that sighing and moaning?”
“Boredom,” she said. “Those weren’t sighs and moans. Those were yawns.”
“Nice talk to a wounded man.”
“Well,” she said, “I am glad the bullet didn’t go all the way through.” I poured some champagne in her glass and mine. I put the bottle down, raised the glass and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” She smiled. The smile made me want to say Oh boy, but I’m too worldly to say it out loud. “Begin at the beginning,” she said. “You got on the plane after you left me and… ?”
“And I landed in London about eight hours later. I didn’t like leaving you.”
“I know,” she said. “And a guy named Flanders that works for Hugh Dixon met me at the airport…” and I told her all, the people that tried to kill me, the people I killed, all of it. “No wonder you look tired,” she said when I finished. We were on the last bottle of champagne and most of the food was gone. She was easy to tell things to. She understood quickly, she supplied missing pieces without asking questions, and she was interested. She wanted to hear. “What do you think about Kathie?” I said. “She needs a master. She needs structure. When you destroyed her structure, and her master turned her out, she latched on to you. When she wanted to solidify the relationship by complete submission, which for her must be sexual, you turned her out. I would guess she’ll be Hawk’s as long as he’ll have her. How’s that for instant psychoanalysis. Just add a bottle of champagne and serve off the top of the head.”
“I’d say you were right, though.”
“If you report accurately, and it’s something you’re good at,” Susan said, “certainly she’s a rigid and repressed personality. The way her room was, the colorless clothing and the flashy underwear, the tight-lipped commitment to
