‘You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Walk into a bar, sit down next to a pretty girl...’
‘You are,’ he said.
‘Think all you have to do...’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Man of few words,’ she said. Her heart was pounding.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Mmm,’ she said, still nodding.
The record on the juke changed. Something by the Stones. There was a hush for a moment, one of those sudden silences, all conversation seeming to stop everywhere around them, as though E. F. Hutton were talking. And then a woman laughed someplace down the bar, and Mick Jagger’s voice cut through the renewed din, and Naomi idly twirled her finger in her drink, turning the ice cubes, turning them. She wondered if he liked sexy underwear. Most men liked sexy underwear. She visualized him tearing off her blouse and bra, getting on his knees before her to kiss her where the cotton panel covered her crotch, his big hands twisted in the garters against her thighs. She could feel the garters against her thighs.
‘So ... uh ... where do you live, Steve?’ she asked. ‘Near the precinct?’
‘It doesn’t matter where I live,’ he said. ‘We’re going to your place.’
‘Oh, are we?’ she said, and arched one eyebrow. She was jiggling her foot, she realized. She sipped at the drink, this time looking into the glass and not over the rim of it.
‘Naomi,’ he said, ‘we are...’
‘Bet you can’t even spell it,’ she said. ‘Naomi.’
Her magazines had said it was a good idea to get a man to spell your name out loud. That way, he would remember it. But it was as if he hadn’t even heard her, as if her statement had been too ridiculous to dignify with a reply.
‘We are’ he repeated, giving the word emphasis because she’d interrupted him, ‘going to your apartment, wherever it is, and we are going to spend the weekend there.’
‘That’s what ... what you think,’ she said.
She was suddenly aware of the fact that her panties were damp.
‘How do you know I’m not married?’ she said.
‘Are you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘How do you know I’m not living with someone?’
‘Are you?’
‘No, but...’
‘Finish your drink, Naomi.’
‘Listen, I don’t like men who come on so strong, I mean it.’
‘Don’t you?’ he said. He was smiling.
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You do,’ he said.
‘Do all detectives come on so strong?’ she said.
‘I don’t know what all detectives do,’ he said.
‘‘Cause, you know, you really are coming on very strong, Steve. I don’t usually like that, you know. A man coming on so strong.’
‘I’m giving you sixty seconds to finish that drink,’ he said.
God, I’m soaking wet, she thought, and wondered if she’d suddenly got her period.
‘Are you married?’ she asked.
‘No,’ he said, and pushed back the cuff of his jacket. He was wearing a gold Rolex. She wondered briefly how come a detective could afford a gold Rolex.
‘Sixty seconds,’ he said. ‘Starting now.’
‘What if I don’t finish it in sixty seconds?’
‘You lose,’ he said simply.
She did not pick up her glass.
‘Fifty-five seconds,’ he said.
She looked into his face and then reached for her glass. ‘I’m drinking this because I want to,’ she said. ‘Not because you’re looking at your watch.’
‘Fifty seconds,’ he said.
Deliberately, she sipped at the drink very slowly, and then suddenly wondered if she could really finish the damn thing in whatever time was left. She also wondered if she’d made the bed this morning.
‘Forty seconds,’ he said.
‘You’re really something, you know that?’ she said, and took a longer swallow this time.
‘In exactly thirty-eight seconds ...’ he said.
‘Do you carry a gun?’ she asked.
‘Thirty-five seconds now...’
“Cause I’m a little afraid of guns.’
‘Thirty seconds...’
‘What is this, a countdown?’ she asked, but she took another hasty swallow of the drink.
‘Twenty-six seconds...’
‘You’re making me very nervous, you know that?’ she said.
‘Twenty seconds...’
‘Forcing me to...’
‘Fifteen...’
‘Slow down, will... ?’
‘In exactly twelve seconds...’
‘I’m gonna choke on this,’ she said.
‘Ten seconds...’
‘Jesus!’
‘You and I ... eight seconds ... are going to ... five seconds ... walk out of here ... two seconds...’
‘All right, already!’ she said and plunked the empty glass down on the bartop.
Their eyes met.
‘Good,’ he said, and smiled.
* * * *
She had found the ribbons for him in her sewing box. He had asked her for the ribbons. By then she would have given him the moon. Silk ribbons. A red one on her right wrist. A blue one on her left wrist. Pink ribbons on her ankles. She was spread-eagled on her king-size bed, her wrists and ankles tied to the bars of the brass headboard and footboard. She was still wearing the smoky blue nylons, the high-heeled, ankle-strapped shoes, and the garter belt. He had taken off her panties and her bra. She lay there open and exposed, waiting for whatever he chose to do next, wanting whatever he chose to do next.
He had put his shoulder holster and gun on the seat of the armchair across the room. That was when he was undressing. Jokingly she had said, ‘let me see your badge,’ which is what anybody in this city said when somebody knocked on your door in the middle of the night and claimed to be a cop. He had looked at her without a smile. ‘Here’s my badge, baby,’ he’d said, and unzipped his fly. She knew she was in trouble right that minute. She just didn’t know how much trouble. She had looked down at him and said, ‘Oh, boy, I’m in trouble,’ and had giggled nervously, like a schoolgirl, and suddenly she was in his arms, and his lips were on hers, and she was lost, she knew she was lost.