“It’s all right, baby,” she said, patting his back. “It’s okay, sweetie. Mommy’s here.”

Daniel pushed himself away from her. His face was trembling, as if he were about to break into tearful howling, but that’s not what he did.

What he did was smile. And the caps on his teeth glistened in the bright fluorescent light.

Dr. Bob was still at the reception counter after Julia and Daniel left the office. He had given Julia printed instructions on caring for the caps, arranged a follow-up appointment, and sent them on their way. Now he was annotating the file.

“Daniel’s teeth look great,” I said to him.

“I got to him in the nick of time. A little more damage and there would have been nothing I could have done to save some of them.”

“He seemed pretty happy. He actually smiled. Thank you.”

“It’s good to do good, isn’t it, Victor?”

“I suppose,” I said, and then I turned to face the door where Julia and Daniel had just left. “Although sometimes it feels like hell.”

“The best things in life are never easy,” he said as he gave the file to the receptionist. “You’re going out with Carol again tonight, aren’t you?”

“Yes, actually,” I said.

Bob winked. “Have fun,” he said.

42

I am in the middle of sex with Carol Kingsly. Umm, yes, right smack in the middle. I didn’t realize that business was such an aphrodisiac, but when Carol saw me seal the deal with Takahashi, she decided it was time to seal the deal herself. And is it good? you ask. Well, tell me, is it ever really bad? Let’s just say it ain’t no root canal, baby. But this is something I’ve never before experienced. This, this is an out-of-body experience.

So I am out of my body, sitting in a chair in the corner of Carol Kingsly’s Laura Ashley bedroom, watching myself and Carol Kingsly do our thing on her Laura Ashley sheets. It looks a little silly from over here, a lot like two awkward swimmers working on their butterfly strokes in a sea of tiny pastel flowers. And the sounds we’re making. Really now, kids, get a grip.

But I’ll say this for her, my God, she is good-looking. Her pretty face, her silken hair, her body, which, I must tell you, is miraculous, as lean and lithe as the latest diet craze can make it, honed and toned by hours in the gym, as flexible as a soft pretzel through her yoga, yet still abundant where raw abundance is most appreciated. And it’s the real thing, let me tell you, yes, yes it is, or at least I think it is. And truthfully, between you and me – nudge, nudge – who the hell cares?

I am the dog, aren’t I? What hot-blooded heterosexual man or homosexual woman would not want to trade places with me right now? Not a one, that’s who. And look at that move I just put on. The referee is awarding me two points for a reversal. I’m the man, I’m the king, step aside, Elvis. Quite the dog. So tell me, what the hell am I doing watching from the chair as the main event plays out on the bed?

“Put your hand there,” she says in a soft purr. “Move your leg there. Yes, a little more. Ummm, good. Now move your elbow.”

Are we having sex here, or are we playing Twister?

Look at me up there, perched atop her, working hard to follow her instructions. Her expression is suffused with the sensual pleasures of the flesh, mine is diffused with the burdens of a piano mover. And frankly, I have to admit that from this vantage I look a bit ridiculous. My skin is pale, my muscles flaccid. And is that my butt or two skinny white Chihuahuas wrestling over a bone? But the pièce de résistance of my ridiculousness, the thing that truly embarrasses me about the whole mise-en-scène, is that I’m wearing the tie.

Yes, the damn tie.

It was her idea. We were rolling around, trying to rev up the moteur de passion, but there was something missing. Maybe my French wasn’t good enough, or maybe it was that I was trying to speak French in the first place, but somehow it wasn’t quite working. And then she made the suggestion. Who was I to say non? And she reacted with such gratifying enthusiasm to the very act of my tying it; she curled to every twist, moaned to every swish, stretched to her full naked length as I tightened the knot. Finally, when I crawled again atop her, she grabbed the yellow silk and pulled me close, and as we kissed, she tightened the tie until my throat constricted and I loudly gagged.

And away we went.

And was I into it? Hell yes. Well, just look at her. Who wouldn’t be? I kissed her jaw, her shoulder, her breast. One hand was rubbing her hip, the other gripping her thigh. You know, I’ve done this before. My fingers were tapping out mystical rhythms on her skin, I was riffing like a jazz master, I was into it. But when I tried to loosen my tie just a bit so I could, like, breathe, she stopped me. And when I caressed her shoulder, she pushed my hand to her breast. And when I bent down to kiss the ridge of her hip, she pushed my head to her belly.

“Try this,” she said. “Yes, harder. No, not too hard. Just like that. Faster. Slower. Shift over. Watch your knee.”

I was into it, yes I was, really into it, and then my arm started to get tired from this one repetitive movement that she seemed to like, and when I stopped, she said, “Don’t stop,” and when I slowed down, she said, “Keep going,” and my arm started cramping, and next thing I knew, I was in the chair, watching. And let me tell you, all you Internet-porn jockeys riding your mice like the joystick of an F-16, watching is nowhere near as good.

But there is one advantage to being in the chair; you have time to think. In the middle of the Sturm und Drang, your mind switches onto autopilot, but in the chair you can ponder the great questions of the day. Like, if French is the language of having sex and German is the language of watching sex, does that explain that last thousand years of European history? Or, if that’s not deep enough, then why is someone who looks like Carol Kingsly at this very moment having sex with someone who looks like me? And what was that wink Dr. Bob threw at me all about? Did he know I was going to get lucky before I did?

Things are just going too fast, things seem just too peculiar. Dr. Bob had pulled my tooth, he was building me a bridge, and now he is getting me laid. On the whole, pretty damn good service, but still. And does any of this have any relation to the murder trial of François Dubé? I have a new suspect, a new theory, I am ready to try the sucker without a single reference to dentistry, yet still Dr. Bob is working mightily to curry my favor. All his little stories, his repeatedly saying that he just wanted to help, his gratis treatment of Daniel Rose, and now his setting me up in a relationship with Carol Kingsly that was almost fulfilling and had certainly turned sexual, all of it seems part of some message. And that message seems somehow connected to François. But how? Why? What is he trying to tell me?

Uh-oh, something is happening on the bed. Ah, yes, it’s unmistakable. Look at the way her legs are stretching out, her toes are curling. Look at the way her jaw has tightened up. And my own face, I’m working so hard it’s a wonder my heart doesn’t give out right there. Things are coming to the proverbial head. But wait. She’s grabbing at my tie. The thin piece with one hand. The knot with the other. I’m working so hard there’s nothing I can do about it. And she has this twisted little smile. And suddenly she jerks the knot tight.

Aaaaack.

I’m back.

“That was so nice,” she said after, stroking the yellow silk, now wrapped loosely about my neck.

“It was, wasn’t it.”

“This is going so well.”

“It is, isn’t it.”

“Dr. Pfeffer will be thrilled.”

“Can’t we keep him out of it?”