And then I saw something approach us from the left, just the shape of something, of a man, of a man in black leather. I guiltily jerked my head away from her, certain I had been caught. Caught? Caught at what? Adultery? No. Who was married? Caught by whom? By whom else? By Lonnie Chambers. And for some reason it scared the hell out of me.

But it wasn’t Lonnie, it was some guy with glasses, his black leather jacket butter soft and draped loosely over his narrow shoulders, leading a little white dog on a leash. The spurt of anxiety disappeared. The man smiled at us wanly, the white dog came close, sniffed my legs, my crotch, gave me a worried glance, and then hurried away.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I said, and we did, and what followed was the usual thing, you know how it goes, tender kisses, soft caresses, frantic unbuttoning, unbelting, long, languorous licks of the neck, the collarbone, the soft mounds rising above the black frill of lingerie, the reaching hand, the fumbled clasp, the bra falling away leaving breasts like the motherland itself, glorious and free – all followed by the inevitable howling bout of outright humiliation.

Chapter 38

I WAS LYING in my bed, alone, my head turned toward the photographs pinned to my wall, my mind not quite pinned to anything at all, but instead floating free with thoughts puzzled, prurient, and strangely paranoid, when the doorbell rang.

I wasn’t just then in the mood to receive visitors. I still was half drunk, half dressed, half erect, fully confused, and mortified. Let’s just say it hadn’t gone as well as I had dreamed with Chelsea.

I rolled out of bed, made my way stiffly to the living room, grunted a “What?” into the intercom.

“Is that you, Victor?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you sleeping?”

“No.”

“Do you have, like, a minute?”

“Yeah.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“You’re not going to invite me up?”

“Who is this?”

“Helloo? Jammy, V, who do you think?”

“I should have known,” I said, and I should have, since every sentence ended with a question mark. I looked around at my apartment in disgust, figured it didn’t matter, and then buzzed her in.

I took off my suit pants, slipped on a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt. I closed the bedroom door firmly behind me and started cleaning up the living room, putting the cushions back onto the couch, dropping the half-empty beer bottles into the blue recycling bin, tossing into the hall closet the clothes I had stripped off with hopeful abandon just a few dozen minutes before – my suit jacket, my tie and shirt, my belt.

I gave the living room a quick appraisal and, just as the first knock at my door came, I spotted something. Black and thin, like an accusing finger reaching over the edge of the couch.

I stepped over to it. It was a thin black strap. I lifted it up and with it came the whole of a lovely black bra. She had forgotten it, or couldn’t find it, when she dressed to leave. Taking it off had been the highlight of my day, my year, and yet that very act had sabotaged everything.

I had led Chelsea up the stairs by her hand. She was strangely passive, it was like when we first kissed on the stoop, like she was allowing me this. Normally that would have stopped me, I don’t like to be allowed to do anything, but in my current state, still brazened by alcohol, still sexually charged, still in thrall to the pictures of the younger Chelsea pinned to my wall, I didn’t care that she was merely allowing me. Merely allowing me was enough.

I led her up the stairs, led her into my apartment, kissed her hard and long, led her to the couch. That led, of course, to the aforementioned tender kisses, the aforementioned soft caresses. I moved my hand through her long black hair like I would move it through a basin of water and then I brought the hair to my face and smelled its freshness, its organic herbalness. I closed my eyes and I saw her body, her younger body, naked, taut and lithe, I saw it as clearly as if the photographs were pinned beneath my eyes. And then I couldn’t help myself even if I had wanted to. If you leave a greyhound on a metal run it will head off into a sprint with such abandon it will literally break its neck. The aforementioned frantic unbuttoning, unbelting, the aforementioned long, languorous licks of the neck and collarbone as I undraped the frilly white shirt from her shoulders. I bowed down to kiss the tops of her breasts, the same breasts from the pictures of which I had been staring at relentlessly ever since they came into my possession. I fumbled at the clasp behind her back, as I always fumbled at the clasp behind the back, and then the bra suddenly loosened and she herself raised her hands and pulled it over her shoulders and her breasts, her breasts came free.

And they were beautiful, gorgeous, ripe, perfect. And not the same. No, not the same. The nipples were smaller than those in the pictures, the areolae lighter. And yes, unblemished. Unblemished. Not the same at all. And something went out of me then, and everything sagged, my emotions, my hurry, my obsession, my lust. Everything sagged, yes everything did. And that had been the end of that. No lead in the pencil, no toothpaste in the tube. Time to hire the limo.

There was a second knock at the door. I searched quickly for someplace to hide the bra, jammed it under one of the cushions of the couch, and then let Kimberly Blue inside my apartment.

She sat down on the couch, right upon the cushion beneath which I had stashed the bra. She seemed troubled, did Kimberly, quiet, without her normal brassy confidence. I sat down across from her and tilted my head to get a good look at her.

“Nice place,” she said, as she perused my digs with cautious eyes.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Well, it could be a dec setup if you would, like, decorate or, even better, clean.”

“But that would be so out of character.”

“Two words, V. Merry Maids. They come in, do a quality job, when you come home the place is good to go.”

“How do you know so much about Merry Maids?”

“That was one of the primary employment opportunities I was looking at for after college.”

“At the vice presidential level?”

“More like entry level.”

“And then Eddie Dean came along.”

“Yes,” she said. “I don’t know if you noticed, but we’ve been away.”

“You and Eddie?”

“And Colfax, too. San Fran. The city of lights.”

“I thought that was Paris.”

“I don’t know, San Fran was pretty bright. Mr. Dean had business out there he had to handle.”

“And he took you along?”

“I think he likes having me around.” She looked around nervously, bit into one of her cuticles. “Anything new on Tommy Greeley?”

“Just that he was sleeping with the wife of one of the guys he was selling drugs with.”

“Who?”

“A guy named Lonnie Chambers.”

“Did this Lonnie know Tommy was hooking up with his wife?”

“Yes.”

“You think he was the one who set Tommy Greeley up?”

“I don’t know.”

“Pretty good reason, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. You know I am always glad to see you, Kimberly-”

“Really?”

“Sure. But I’m a little tired right now. Why don’t we meet up tomorrow afternoon at my office and we can go over everything then.”

“I know where your office is, V. I could have gone there if I wanted to. I wanted to talk to you someplace not at the office.”

“Oh?”

“Someplace private.”

“Oh.”

“I overheard something.”

“Oh. I see.” And I did. Kimberly was troubled, and there was something else I noticed now in her eyes that I hadn’t noticed before. She was scared. I stood, went to the fridge, pulled out a Rolling Rock long neck, popped the top with an opener.

“How are you doing, Kimberly?” I said as I handed her the bottle.