Afterward, she slipped out of bed and I propped my head on one arm as I always did, to enjoy the view of her backside. Kathleen lifted her arms high above her head and stretched, arching her back, totally unaware of her sensuality. It was so Kathleen, the way she could turn a simple activity into a defining moment. Still with her back to me, she stepped into her panties and wriggled her lower body just enough to get them over her hips.
She went back to the bathroom and started drying her hair and I tried to decide what the best thing about her was. And gave up. In a word, she was spectacular, and I was confident that everyone who met her at Sal’s party that night would instantly fall in love with her.
As I watched her working her hair, I thought about how completely comfortable I felt in her presence. And that’s when it hit me: in the full hour I’d been home, we hadn’t felt the need to exchange a single word.
By four o’clock we were wheels up in the Lear 45 I’d leased from Sensory Resources, the government agency headed by my facilitator, Darwin. I can usually wrangle free use of the agency jets, even when it’s not agency business, but this flight was taking us to the birthday party of a known criminal, and Darwin wasn’t taking any chances being linked to that.
At around six p.m. we checked into my favorite hotel in Cincinnati, the Cincinnatian. While I hit the mini bar, Kathleen began stripping.
“Again?” I said.
“Relax, Tiger. I’m just taking my real shower.”
“What’s wrong with the shower you took a few hours ago?”
“That was for you. This one’s for the party.”
Chapter 11
“Where are all the G-men?” Kathleen said as our stretch limo passed through the gates and headed up the long entrance to Sal’s mansion.
In the old days, the FBI and local police would have been stationed at the bottom of the hill, writing down license plate numbers and snapping pictures of all the guests.
“These are happier times for organized crime,” I said. “These days the feds are more interested in terrorists. As for local law enforcement, the mayor and police chief are apt to stop by for a celebratory drink.”
Kathleen frowned. “No submachine guns?” she said.
I’d made the mistake of mentioning Sal’s party to Kathleen a week earlier, and she insisted on coming. I had been determined to keep this part of my life a secret from her, but two days of her world-class pouting weakened my resolve. Plus, there was a part of me that wanted to see how she’d react to meeting Sal. Would she be able to handle a gangland social event?
“You might see the occasional weapon brandished,” I said.
Kathleen seemed fascinated by the prospect of meeting an underworld crime boss. Over the past few days she asked a hundred questions about my relationship with Sal. I lied by omission, commission, and every other way a person can lie. In the end I led her to believe that Homeland Security had an unofficial alliance with the mob, and that they helped us identify and locate suspected terrorists. I told her that going to Sal’s birthday party was good business for the government, and asked if she’d be willing to perform with a magician at Sal’s party. After telling her what she’d have to do, Kathleen was delighted to be included. As evidenced by her B-movie mob speak.
“Will there be a lot of guys named Lefty?” she said.
“Don’t know.”
“How come criminals never call anyone Righty?”
“Don’t know.”
We pulled up to the front entrance and came to a stop. The driver climbed out, circled the car, and held the door open for us. Kathleen was wearing a cocktail dress, so I got out first and served as a modesty shield.
As she climbed out behind me she whispered, “Am I allowed to call anyone a dirty rat?”
I tried not to smile, but failed.
“Say it,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I’m funny too.”
“You are not funny.”
