Gumshoe, page 18
Six or eight kids, strangers, hormone-driven purveyors of pure mayhem—teenagers—here in my castle, running amok, doing God knows what. And I’d never known, Great Gumshoe to be. Jesus H. Christ.
“Mort?”
“Huh?”
“You okay?”
“Terrific, thanks.”
“She was a kid. They do things like that, you know. It’s part of growing up.”
“Yeah, sure.” I felt like the fat kid in gym class, the freckled donut-muncher whose glasses won’t stay on, last one around the track, shoelaces flapping, everyone pointing, laughing. The kid who ends up getting locked in his own locker. That kid.
“I let myself in,” Kayla said. “Showered, went to bed. I’ve never been so utterly over-the-top exhausted in my life.”
“Why? What’d you do?”
“Drove out from Ithaca—straight through, the whole damn way.”
“Christ, that’s over two thousand miles.”
“Twenty-seven hundred. I didn’t have money for a motel, and… well…by the time I got to Reno not even megadoses of caffeine were having any effect, I mean four No-Doze washed down with black coffee in Lovelock. I was seeing double. Or maybe triple. I lost count. I don’t know how I made it that last hundred miles, brain buzzing and dead, all at the same time. After I got in the house and had a shower, I got some valerian from your medicine cabinet.”
“I noticed.”
“It helped bring me down. Then…I went comatose. Guess I’d make a lousy long-distance trucker.” She paused. “I owe you a lot, I know. I’ll pay back every cent, I promise.” She yawned expansively. “I would tell you about it now, the Ithaca thing, I mean, why I left, but I’m exhausted. I’m still feeling the effects of the drive. And I didn’t get much sleep last night at that awful little motel.”
“Me either. I didn’t fall asleep until three last night.”
“You look it.”
“Thanks a bunch. You don’t.”
“Ah, chivalry. I love it.” She grinned at me.
“I’m serious. Tell me one more thing: Why’d you call yourself K in that note? Why not let me know who you were?”
“I didn’t know what you’d do. I mean, with Jonnie gone, in the news everywhere. I couldn’t risk having you tell anyone I was here, not before I had a chance to explain, face to face.” She smiled. “And I didn’t think you’d recognize me. Or turn me in as a stray, either.”
“Meaning—men don’t call the cops when they find strange, beautiful women in their beds with their clothes piled on the floor.”
“Well, they don’t, as a rule.”
“There’s a rule?”
“I’m sure there must be.”
“Anyway, I’m glad you found me so predictable.”
“You haven’t been predictable at all. I haven’t done windows in I don’t know how long. Could we sleep now?”
“One last question. You said your name is Williams now. Who’s that?”
“Why? You worried?”
“Damn right I am. That’s trouble I don’t need.”
“My ex. Clay. He’s nothing. A mistake I haven’t seen in ten years. I kept the name, that’s all. It’s an okay generic name, a lot easier to pronounce than Sjorgen.”
I looked into her eyes. “I want you to know this’s really weird, Kayla, you crawling into my bed like this, especially with me in it.”
She smiled. “I know. I tried the couch first. Did you know that thing smells like a dog?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“I mean it really stinks, Mort. It’s gross. You oughta get rid of it. Or have it fumigated.”
“It’s an heirloom.”
“The smell, too?”
“Okay, I could maybe have it cleaned.”
“And, it’s too short.”
“Another complaint I’ve heard before.”
She looked around the room. “So, um…maybe you’ve got a spare T-shirt around here I could borrow?”
She’d been sitting behind the pillow the whole time, otherwise naked from the waist up, relatively naked from the waist down too, showing no signs of embarrassment.
“Yeah, sure.” I got one from my dresser, one that she’d washed. I turned my back, waiting while she pulled it on over her head.
“There,” she said. “Can we sleep now?”
I turned and looked at her. “Uh-huh. Sleep tight.” I got to my feet. Holding the blanket, I went into the hallway. “If you’re not warm enough with the sheet, there’s a spare blanket in the hall closet. This one’s mine.”
“Hey.”
I went into the living room, flopped down on the couch which emitted a distinct doggy odor, and began to arrange the bed-clothes around me.
She came in, padding on bare feet and stood in front of me, ghostly and small in my shirt. The thing was huge on her, reaching four inches above her knees. I couldn’t see her face.
“You can wear a suit of armor, if you like,” she said. “You can recite the Boy Scout oath—brave, thrifty, chaste, whatever—but no one is going to sleep on that damn couch tonight. Or I can go back to that howling roach palace on East Fourth.”
She stood there, waiting, hands on her hips. I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Finally she said, “I promise I won’t touch you, Mort.”
“Yeah? What if that’s what I’m afraid of?”
I saw her teeth in the gloom, meaning she was smiling or about to bite. She yanked the blanket off me, which left me wearing nothing but the dark of night. “Come on, dope,” she said. “You can’t sleep there.” She left, taking the blanket with her.
I got up and followed her into the bedroom. She was seven years younger than me. Seven years isn’t much. She was thirty-four, fully grown. I didn’t know where Greg had gone astray, but other than that thing he had going with Dale he’d had this PI thing all wrong.
Kayla sank down on the bed, leaving room for me. Her voice came out of the gloom. “You already got a pretty good look, right? That first night, checking for bullet holes?”
“Pretty good, yeah.”
“So?”
“I didn’t see any blood so I let you sleep.”
“Well, nothing about me has changed since then, Boy Scout, so what’s the problem? I intend to sleep, period, how ‘bout you?”
“Absolutely.”
“So, sleep. Put on underwear. Put on a shirt and tie if that’ll help. Wear nothing if that’s your usual. And here. This is my usual.” She pulled off the T-shirt and tossed it to me, then settled in, closed her eyes.
I opened a drawer and grabbed a pair of boxers. In the morning I would find that I’d got the ones with little red hearts all over it, a lucky grab in the dark.
“Night,” Kayla said, voice already drifting off.
“Night. Place had roaches, huh?”
“Bunches of ’em. Big ones. They wore nametags. Ralph told jokes.”
Then she was gone.
* * *
I slept fine, oddly enough, better than I had in days, since before the week’s festivities began. I didn’t stir until quarter past eight. When I did, I looked over at Kayla. She was still conked, mouth slightly open, a glint of moisture on her teeth, blond hair tangled, one naked shoulder showing. I marveled that I’d managed to sleep at all, next to a creature so beautiful.
I got out of bed quietly, grabbed some clothes and went out, into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. Soap and water first, then breakfast.
I had a nice lather going when she opened the shower door and stepped in, shut it behind her with a decisive metallic click.
“Hey, hey, hey!” I yelped.
“Hey yourself.”
She kissed me. I didn’t have any choice but to return it. It was either that or drown.
“I’m confused,” I said, once I got the chance.
“You’re sweet,” she said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You didn’t try to touch me last night.”
“Yeah? I’m still trying not to.” I wasn’t succeeding very well, however. The stall wasn’t big enough for the two of us.
She nudged me aside and hogged the water for a moment, then said, “Do my back, huh?”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute, hold it right—”
“Now what?”
“You know what.”
She looked into my eyes “Okay, I’m being kinda forward here and this is unexpected and you’re uncomfortable because you don’t know where the limits are or what to make of it, right?”
“Right. You got that exactly right.”
“If we’re going to share a house and a bed, why tiptoe around each other? What’s the point?”
“That isn’t any explanation at all.” I was trying not to look at her breasts, which were magnificent. Finally I gave it up since it didn’t seem to matter, at least not to her.
“That’s because there isn’t any. Do I need to explain it? Nicole said you were a nice guy and I trust her. She’s a sweet kid. And I happen to think she’s right. I’ve learned to trust my instincts. I’m not the type to get all uptight and hysterical about conventions, especially those of other people. I mean, how big a deal is this? I didn’t see a bunch of religious artifacts lying around the house, no crucifix on the wall. But, hey, if you want me out of here so you can shower in peace, I’ll leave you to it.”
She put her hands on her hips and stared at me.
I was aware of her, all of her, the challenge, the playfulness, the risk she was taking, the gift and the taking, her naked body, water and steam, the scent of soap, the waiting look in her eyes.
“Three more seconds,” she said, “…two…one…”
I have more than my share of slow moments, but I’m not a complete dimwit, at least not all the time. I picked up the soap, turned her halfway around and started to scrub her back.
“Good,” she said. “You had me worried there for a moment.”
It was a nice back, slender, full of fine muscles, nicely sculpted shoulder blades, tapered waist, trim rear end. I felt myself heat up at the silken feel of her body under my fingers.
“This still feels strange,” I said. “You and me, here, like this.”
“Uh-huh. Anything else?”
“It feels…good.”
“Uh-huh. Anything else?”
“Better than good, okay?” I ran my hands up her sides, catching the weight of her breasts with my fingertips.
“There’s hope for you yet,” she said, shivering slightly.
“Okay. That’s what I’ll put in my report.”
“You do that.”
She lowered her head and sighed as I massaged her neck and shoulders. Her skin was smooth and slippery beneath the soap.
After a minute she spun suddenly and faced me. “Don’t stop.”
“What do you—?”
“I said don’t stop, Mort.”
I soaped her breasts, arms, belly. I felt her body tremble beneath my fingers. Her eyes were closed, back pressed against the warm tile wall, arms out to either side in a gesture of total surrender.
Exquisite. There was no other word for her. Years of dance had honed her, hardened her, made her sleek and smooth, alluring, erotic.
She arched her back. “There comes a magic moment,” she said in a whisper, eyes still closed. That was all she said, but I thought I knew what she meant. Us, alone like this for however long we had, discovering unknown parts of ourselves in what amounted to the vastness of an improbable universe. I sensed the breathtaking awareness we had of each other, the aggression and yielding of sex, like complementary tides. All that and more.
After a while she opened her eyes and took the soap from me. “My turn.”
“That might not be such a good idea, Kayla.”
“Why not?…oh.” She grinned. “You don’t consider that a problem, do you?”
“It…it’s, uh…”
“You’re feeling a tiny bit obvious,” she said. “Polarized.”
“You might say that.”
“At least you’re nicely proportioned.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Relax. This’ll be good for you, Mort. Call it a mental health moment.”
She pushed me against the wall and soaped me thoroughly from neck to toe, then concentrated her efforts, stopping two seconds short of tipping me over that final precipice.
She gave me an inquiring look. “More? Up to you.”
“No,” I answered breathlessly. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? You don’t sound like it. I’d be happy to work these suds around a while longer, get everything all spick-and-span here.”
“I’m sure.”
She arrowed her deep-blue eyes into my brown ones, drilling me. “Control is one of those double-edged swords, Mort. Women like it, don’t like it. It might be a sign of respect, caring, something like that, but it also makes us wonder if we’re not simply resistible.”
“Resistible? You’re absolutely intoxicating, woman.”
“Nice to know.” Her look told me she wasn’t convinced.
“This…it’s something we might share later, Kayla. If you want, I mean.”
“I want.”
“I wish I knew why.”
“You’re analyzing. That’ll get you nowhere. You can’t analyze white magic, pure awareness.”
“White magic?”
“Sex. Ether waves. Cosmic ties. Vibrations.”
I would’ve been a fool to try to analyze any of that. I kissed her. Her tongue darted across my teeth. “How about a rinse?” I asked.
She laughed. “Okay, Boy Scout. After I shampoo my hair, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll help.”
“Please do.”
The moment passed into a pleasant soapy interlude, a wet rambunctious sharing, visually pleasing, without the peakiness. At one point a nipple found its way into my mouth for fifteen or twenty seconds, but that was an accident. The undertow was still strong, however, still threatening. I could feel it pulling at me, wanting her. I could feel it pulling at her too, see it in her eyes. I found it utterly remarkable.
“What kind of dance do you teach?” I asked.
“Modern dance and jazz, dance composition.”
“It’s done wonders for you.” I passed my hands along her sides, over the resilient sheath of muscle at her waist, then over the rounded swell of her hips.
“Thank you. If you keep that up I’ll have to wrestle you to the floor. We might drown.”
I quit, thinking I knew how to take a hint.
“You’re so darned literal,” she said, poking me in the belly. “Shower wrestling is a blast.”
“It might lead to other things, though.”
“Yeah? So?”
Back in the bedroom she crawled into bed and watched as I put on faded jeans and a short-sleeve shirt.
“Where to?” she asked, lying on her side, head propped up on an elbow.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
I told her about Jeri, not all of it—meaning her gym and the way she bounced me around like a basketball—but enough. Kayla’s eyes twinkled in amusement. “One private investigator hires another, then the whole thing gets yanked inside out. How fun.”
“Dallas suggested it. Things got a little out of hand yesterday.”
“How old is this Jeri person, Mort?”
“Closing in on thirty.”
“She pretty?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How pretty? I’m not being possessive, really.”
“No?”
She made a face at me. “Nope. This morning was fun and I’m willing to do a lot more of it, but it certainly wasn’t meant to tie you down. If you’ve got anything else, well…going.”
“You’re just naturally inquisitive, nothing more.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She’s very pretty, strong as a freaking ox, and she made it clear she doesn’t get involved with her clients.”
“How about with her employees?”
“I got the impression her decree encompasses everyone on the planet right now.”
“Mmm. Sounds like a little problem there.”
“Could be. Not for me, though.”
She sank back down, still looking at me. The sheet covered her to her waist. I tried not to stare, but finally gave up.
“So,” she said, “where’re the two of you off to this morning?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. It’s Jeri’s call. I could walk in and find myself unemployed.”
“Her name just rolls off your tongue, Mort.”
“Ms. DiFrazzia, then.”
She gave me a drowsy smile. “Just kidding. You can call her Jeri. I’m not the jealous type.”
* * *
Not the jealous type. Maybe. Some people are, some aren’t, but few of those who are will admit it. And what did I know about Kayla? The shower was one thing, jealousy was another. And… what did it matter? Walking downhill toward Jeri’s, I found myself as confused as ever about last night and this morning. I didn’t know what Kayla wanted, down deep. I didn’t know where we were headed, or if we were headed anywhere. I was in a wait-and-see mode, but I wasn’t about to close any doors.
I’d given myself plenty of time to get to Jeri’s. Too much. I arrived early, at 9:35. The front door was locked. One of those clock signs was in a window by the door, hands pointing to 10:00. I rang the bell but didn’t hear anything. I waited, then went around the side. Through a half-open casement window I could see into Jeri’s gym. She was there. Her back was to me. She was doing chin-ups, men’s chin-ups, the hard way, palms forward, moving up and down like a tireless, infinitely clever mechanism. Every third rep she pulled the bar behind her neck, It was an uncanny sight, seeing a woman do that, back and arm muscles rippling beneath a light glaze of sweat. Pound for pound, she was a bobcat and I was an out-of-shape moose.
I counted twelve chin-ups before she finally slowed and dropped to the mat, landing as if on springs. I had no idea how many chin-ups she’d done before I started watching, but twelve of those killers was six or eight more than I could’ve done.
She turned, saw me, came to the window with a towel looped around her neck, smiling. “Good, you’re early.”
