The Monroe Room offered an impressive selection of art objects, many of them priceless, guarded by two private detectives and a dour man who looked like an old family retainer. Nick said, "It warms the heart, doesn't it?"
"How?" Jeanyee asked curiously.
"All these wonderful things given to the missionaries, I suppose, by your grateful countrymen."
Jeanyee and Ruth exchanged glances. Pat seemed to want to chuckle but thought better of it. They went out another door and found their way to the Madison dining room.
The dinner was magnificent, ranging through fruit and fish and meat. Nick identified guy choy ngow tong, Lobster Cantonese, soot dow chow gee yok, and Bok choy ngow before he gave up as a simmering slice of Chateaubriand was placed before him. "Where can we put it?" he murmured to Ruth.
"Try, it's delicious," she answered. "Frederick Cushing IV selects the menu personally."
"Which is he?"
"Fifth from the right at the head table. He's seventy-eight. On a bland diet, himself."
"I'll be with him after this."
There were four wine glasses at each setting, and they were not allowed to remain empty. Nick sipped a half-inch from each and responded to several toasts, but a fair majority of the diners were flushed and flying high by the time the gay don go— steamed sponge cake with pineapple and whipped cream — arrived.
Then things happened smoothly and rapidly and to Nick's complete satisfaction. The guests drifted back to the conservatory and tent where the bars now dispensed coffee and liqueurs in addition to great quantities of alcohol in almost every form devised by man. Jeanyee told him she had not come to the dinner with Pat… Ruth suddenly had a headache, "All that rich food"… and he found himself dancing with Jeanyee while Ruth disappeared. Pat paired with the redhead.
Shortly before midnight Jerry Deming was paged and handed a note: My dear, I'm ill. Nothing serious, just too much food. I've gone home with the Reynolds. You might offer Jeanyee a ride to town. Please call me tomorrow. Ruth.
He gravely handed the missive to Jeanyee. The black eyes sparkled and the magnificent body came into his arms. "I'm sorry for Ruth," Jeanyee murmured, "but delighted by my luck."
The music was smooth and the floor less crowded as the wine-heavy guests drifted away. As they circled slowly in a corner Nick asked, "How do you feel?"
"Splendid. I have an iron digestion." She sighed. "It's a sumptuous affair, isn't it?"
"Sumptuous. All it needs is Basil Zaharoff's ghost popping out of the swimming pool at midnight."
"Was he fun?"
"The most."
Nick inhaled her perfume again. It invaded his nostrils from her glossy hair and gleaming skin and he savored it like an aphrodisiac. She pressed against him with a soft persistence that suggesteed affection, passion, or a blend of both. He felt a warmth at the back of his neck and far down his spine. You could raise quite a temperature with Jeanyee and about Jeanyee. He hoped she wasn't a black widow spider taught to flutter gorgeous butterfly wings as bait. Even if she was, it would be interesting, perhaps delightful, and he looked forward to meeting the talented man who tutored such skills.
An hour later he was in the Bird, humming toward Washington at an easy speed, with the fragrant and warm Jeanyee nestled in the curve of his arm. He reflected that the switch from Ruth to Jeanyee might have been contrived. Not that he minded. For his AXE assignment or personal enjoyment he would take either or both. Jeanyee seemed very cooperative — or perhaps it was the booze. He squeezed her. Then thought — but first…
"Darling," he said, "I hope Ruth is all right. She reminds me of Suzi Quong. Do you know her?"
The pause was too long. She had to decide whether to lie, he guessed, then she concluded truth was most logical and safest. "Yes. But how? I don't think they're very much alike."
"They have the same kind of Oriental charm. I mean you know what they are saying but often you can't guess what they are thinking, but you know it would be damned interesting if you could."
She thought that one over. "I see what you mean, Jerry. Yes — they're sweet girls." She slurred the tones and rolled her head gently on his shoulder.
"And Anne We Ling," he went on. "There's a girl always makes me think of lotus blossoms and fragrant tea in a Chinese garden."
Jeanyee just sighed.
"Do you know Anne?" Nick insisted.
Again the pause. "Yes. Naturally girls of the same background who bump into each other a lot tend to get together and exchange notes. I guess I know a hundred nice Chinese girls in Washington." They drove silently for several miles. He wondered if he had gone too far, relying on the alcohol in her. He was afraid he had when she asked, "Why are you so interested in Chinese girls?"
"I was in the East for a while. Chinese culture intrigues me. I like the atmosphere, the food, the traditions, the girls…" He cupped a generous breast and caressed it ever so gently with his sensitive fingers. She snuggled.
"That's nice," she murmured. "You know the Chinese are good business people. Almost anywhere we land we do well in trade."
"I've noticed. I've dealt with Chinese firms. Reliable. Good credit."
"Do you make a lot of money, Jerry?"
"Enough to get by on. If you want to see how I live — let's stop at my place for a nightcap before I take you home."
"O.K.," she drawled languidly. "But by money I mean making some for yourself, not just earning a wage. So that it comes in in nice thousand-chunks and maybe you don't have to pay too much tax on it. That's the way to make money."
"Indeed it is," he agreed.
"My cousin is in the oil business," she went on. "He was talking about getting another partner. No investment. The new man would be guaranteed a handsome salary if he had real experience in oil. But if they do well he'd share in the profits."
"I'd like to meet your cousin."
"I'll mention it when I see him."
"I'll give you my card so he can call me."
"Please do. I'd love to help you." A slim, strong hand squeezed his knee.
Two hours and four drinks later the lovely hand was squeezing the same knee with a much firmer touch — and touching a lot more of him. Nick had been pleased at the ease with which she had agreed to stop at his apartment before he drove her home to what she described as "the place the family bought in Chevy Chase."
Drink? She was hollow, but hardly another word could he pry from her about her cousin or the family business. "I help in the office," was all she added, as if she had an automatic silencer.
Play? She made not the slightest protest when he suggested that they remove their shoes for comfort — then her dress and his striped pants…"so that we can relax and not get them all wrinkled."
Stretched on the couch in front of the picture window overlooking the Anacostia River, with the lights low, the music soft and the ice and soda and whisky tucked beside the couch so that he wouldn't have to move too far, Nick thought contentedly, What a way to make a living.
Jeanyee partially stripped was Jeanyee more gorgeous than ever. She wore a silk half-slip and strapless bra, and her skin was the tasty hue of a golden-yellow peach at the instant of firm ripeness before the red softness takes over. Her hair was, he thought, the color of new oil gushing into storage tanks on a dark night — black gold.
He kissed her thoroughly but not with the continuity that would bore her. He caressed and stroked her and let her dream. He was patient, until out of the silence she said suddenly, "I can feel you, Jerry. You want to make love to me, don't you?"