TelePrompTer in a monotone, and says, 'A meteor is headed toward the earth and will destroy the planet on Wednesday,' and then he turns to the sportscaster and says, 'Hey, Bill, how about those Mets today?'
Perhaps I exaggerate, but here was a story of some importance, about which I had firsthand knowledge, and even I couldn't follow the kaleidoscope of images and sound bites.
But each of the networks promised a special report at eleven-thirty, and these in-depth reports were usually better. The regular news was more like coming attractions.
The bottom line, though, was that the cat was out of the bag, and Asad Khalil's mug was on the airwaves. This should have been done sooner, but better late than never.
Kate shut off the TV with the zapper and turned the CD on with the same zapper. Amazing.
I said, 'I want to see tonight's X-Files rerun-this is the one where Mulder and Scully discover that his underwear is an alien life form.'
She didn't reply.
The Moment had arrived.
She poured herself another Scotch, and I saw that her hand was actually shaking. She slid across the couch, and I put my arm around her. We sipped Scotch out of the same glass while we listened to sexy Billie Holiday singing 'Solitude.'
I cleared my throat and said, 'Can we just be friends?'
'No. I don't even like you.'
'Oh…'
Well, we kissed, and little Johnny became Big Bad John in about two seconds.
Before I knew it, all our clothes were scattered on the floor and across the coffee table, and we were lying naked on the couch, face-to-face on our sides.
If the FBI gave out medals for good bodies, Kate Mayfield would get a gold star encrusted with diamonds. I mean, I was too close to see her body, but like most men in these up-close, in-the-dark situations, I had developed the sense of touch of a blind person.
My hands ran over her thighs and buttocks, between her legs, and across her belly to her breasts. Her skin was smooth and cool, which I like, and her muscles had obviously all been gym-toned.
My own body, if anyone is interested, can be described as sinewy, but pliable. I once had a washboard tummy, but since I'd caught a slug in my groin area, I'd developed a little flab-sort of like a wet, rolled hand towel on the washboard.
Anyway, Kate's fingers passed over my right butt and stopped at the hard scar on my lower cheek. 'What's that?'
'Exit wound.'
'Where'd it enter?'
'Lower abdomen.'
Her hand went to my groin area, and she searched around until she found the spot about three inches north and east of Mount Willie.
'Oooh… that was close.'
'Any closer and we'd just be friends.'
She laughed and embraced me in a hug so tight it squeezed the air out of my bad lung. Jeez-this woman was strong.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was pretty certain that Beth Penrose wouldn't approve of this. I do have a conscience, but Wee Willie Winkie has no conscience whatsoever, so to resolve the conflict, I shut off my main brain and let Willie take over.
We groped, kissed, hugged, and squeezed for about ten minutes. There's something exquisite about exploring a new naked body-the texture of the skin, the curves, the hills and valleys, the taste and the scent of a woman. I enjoy the foreplay, but Willie gets impatient, so I suggested we find the bedroom.
She replied, 'No, do it to me here.'
No problem. Well… a bit of a problem on the couch, but where there's a Willie, there's a way.
She climbed on top of me and within a heartbeat, we changed the nature of our professional relationship.
I lay back on the couch while Kate went to the bathroom. I didn't know what kind of contraceptive she used, but I didn't see any cribs or playpens around the apartment, so I figured she had it under control.
She came back into the living room and turned on the lamp near the couch. She stood looking down at me, and I sat up. I could see her whole body now, and it was indeed exquisite, more full than I'd imagined it on the very few occasions that I'd undressed her in my mind. I also noticed that she was legally blonde, top and bottom, but I figured that.
She knelt down in front of me and parted my legs. I noticed she had a wet washcloth in her hand, and she polished the rocket a little, which almost caused another launch. She commented, 'Not bad for an old guy. You take Viagra?'
'No, I take saltpeter to keep it down.'
She laughed, then bent over and put her face in my lap. I stroked her hair.
She picked her head up, and we held hands. She saw the scar on my chest and touched it, then moved her hand around to my back, and her fingers found the exit wound. 'This bullet broke the front and back rib.'
I guess FBI ladies know these things. Very clinical. But better than, 'Oh, you poor dear, it must have been so painful.'
She continued, 'Now I can tell Jack where you were wounded.' She laughed, then asked me, 'Are you hungry?'
Yes.
'Good. I'll scramble some eggs.'
She went into the small kitchen, and I stood, tidying up the strewn clothes.
She called out, 'Don't get dressed.'
'I just wanted to put your bra and panties on for a minute.'
She laughed again.
I watched her in the open kitchen, moving around in the nude, looking like a goddess performing sacred rituals in the temple.
I looked through the stack of CDs and found Willie Nelson, my favorite post-coital music.
Willie sang 'Don't Get Around Much Anymore.'
She said, 'I like that one.'
I looked up at the books on the shelves. You can usually tell something about a person by what they read. Most of Kate's books were training manuals, the sort of stuff you really have to read to stay on top of things in this business. There were also a lot of true-crime books, books about the FBI, terrorism, abnormal psychology, and that sort of thing. There were no novels, no classics, no poetry, no books of art or photography. This reinforced my original take on Ms. Mayfield as a dedicated professional, a team player, a lady who never colored outside the lines.
But obviously there was another side to this clean-cut cheerleader, and it wasn't very complicated; she liked men and she liked sex. But why did she like me? Maybe she wanted to tweak a few noses among her FBI colleagues by going out with a cop. Maybe she was tired of playing by the unwritten rules and the written directives. Maybe she was into horny. Who knows? A guy could go crazy trying to analyze why he'd been picked as a sexual partner.
The phone rang. Agents are supposed to have a separate line for official calls, but she didn't even look at the wall phone in the kitchen to see what line was lit up. It rang until her answering machine picked up.
I said to her, 'Can I do anything?'
'Yes. Go comb your hair and wash the lipstick off your face.'
'Right.' I entered the bedroom and noticed that the bed was made. Why do women make the bed?
Anyway, the bedroom was as sparse as the living room, and I could have been in a motel room. Clearly Kate Mayfield had not made herself at home in Manhattan.
I went into the bathroom. As neat as the other rooms were, the bathroom looked like someone had been in there with a search warrant. I borrowed a comb from the cluttered vanity and combed my hair, then washed my
