After a while the pace slowed and I began to pay attention to my surroundings. The two-man band changed melody frequently, and though my knowledge of Indian music is profound, I thought I recognized an air. I cocked my head in an intellectual fashion and listened.
"Have you got cramp? Heart burn? Your face is all screwed up."
"I am appreciating the music, you ignorant trollop. Listen – what do you hear?"
"Sounds familiar…"
"Of course it is, you bimbo. 'Those Were the Days, My Friend', by Mary Hopkin." The last time I had seen Mary Hopkin was in a Welsh youth club in nineteen umpty um.
The sitar player was a virtuoso. He went on to 'Bridge Over Troubled Waters' by way of 'Que Sera Sera' before returning to the Indian sub-continent and a flute.
Coffee came, and the bill. Jay's eyes gleamed as she returned to her original (and frequent) theme of the evening.
"I want him."
"Greedy. What about Norma?"
"I want…"
She didn't have to finish the sentence. I knew. All comers welcome. lraC returned with my sadly battered credit card. Jay's face was thoughtful for a moment, then she decided her strategy. She dug her sharp fingernails into the scant flesh of the waiter's wrist.
"You're coming with us."
The waiter stared at his imprisoned wrist and tried in vain to pull away. I wondered if he would scream for help. But no. There was even a hint of – something – in his eye. Jay dressed her voice in leather.
"You are coming with us."
The waiter struggled feebly. It looked like he would need some help.
I sighed. "What time do you finish work, lraC?"
"Midnight, sir."
I gave him a card. "This is the address. Be there no later than half past twelve. Don't bring a friend. We've got one for you."
Jay released the boy and smoldered at him. She is a good smolderer. lraC dropped his eyes, nodded, hopped a little from foot to foot, and sidled off. Jay flicked his legs with a napkin. His tush wriggled and he picked up speed.
"He's a foot licker, dear. You'll still have to get your oats from me."
"And Norma," said Jay in a dreamy voice.
"That's it! I've simply got to take these darned boots off!"
We had reached the fourth floor of Harry's apartment building and I leaned against the wall to unzip and remove the offending footwear. Harry gave me his best long-suffering "I really don't mind you lowering the tone of the place if you absolutely must, but do get on with it" look and I swung the slightly steaming boots from one hand as we reached his door. It was a surreal kind of night. There was even a raucous, giggling group of residents gathered in the amenity room downstairs, apparently watching a young man wrestling with a blow-up plastic doll. Hoots and cackles echoed through the stillness of the prairie night.
"I bet that's the most fun you've encountered since you've been here!"
"You're not wrong."
"Eek – it's not long 'til midnight! What shall we do? Hide under the bed?"
Harry sighed and fixed me with a baleful gaze.
"You got us into this, Lawrence, and you can deal with the consequences. No hiding. Unless, of course, it's the other kind of hiding. Which, all things considered, I think you most definitely deserve."
My stomach turned over and I looked up (way up, actually) at my forbidding friend. I recalled our mutual interest and the small package I had sent as a house-warming gift. Warming it was indeed…
"I think I'd like another glass of wine."
"Chicken!"
"Never in a million years, sweetie, but Norma and lraC will be here soon. We wouldn't want to scare them away now, would we?"
"You might have a point there."
Harry replenished our glasses and we killed some time by watching a somewhat cheesy blue movie and giggling like a pair of fourteen year olds where we probably weren't supposed to be giggling. The plot, such as it was, revolved around an Eastern European sex club, and, by way of coincidence, a faint but penetrating beat from the gathering downstairs, generously punctuated with whoops and cat-calls, suggested that some live exotic entertainment had been added to the mix. Harry raised one eyebrow.
"Wonder if Housekeeping knows about this. It's probably against regulations. Maybe I should go and, um, tell 'em to keep it down. Or something."
"Pervy lech. If you're going down for a peek through the keyhole, I'm coming too. Maybe we could gatecrash the bar mitzvah or whatever it is they're doing down there. How's your Yiddish?"
"Oi vey!"
At that moment, there was a cacophony of lustful braying and thunderous applause.
"I think we missed the boat, angel."
"Story of my life."
A few minutes later, just as we had settled into a slothful post-curry/booze/sleaze stupor, there was a hesitant knock on the door. Harry slapped my thigh and thrust an executive finger in the direction of the tapping.
"On you go then, dear! Mind you, knowing our luck, it's probably the Avon lady."
"Then I'll order some wrinkle cream for you, shall I?" I retorted smartly. My heart began to throb double-time as I turned the knob and peered around the door.
"I can't stay long and it'll cost you two hundred. No tax, I'm doing a special for the month of April."
"Oh, Ha-rry! We have com-pany!"
With a sudden lunge I grasped the girl and pulled her inside. She was wearing a shiny PVC raincoat, collar turned up and tightly belted at the waist, and, for some unaccountable reason, six-inch white stilettos.
"Interesting fashion statement. May I take your coat, Norma?"
"Thanks. I'm all sticky but I couldn't go tramping through the halls in this get-up!"
The girl slid out of her coat and I almost slid to my knees. She was almost wearing a naughty nurse's outfit – her amazing breasts threatened to burst out of a tight white overall, unbuttoned to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of lacy scarlet bra. Fine white fishnet stockings completed the costume, scarlet-gartered, tanned and sturdy thighs disappearing beneath the bottom-skimming skirt. Norma adjusted her boobs and tottered towards Harry who appeared to have lost the use of his legs.
"This is Harry, Norma. He may be in need of some medical attention."
Nurse Norma giggled and, with a practiced wriggle, stepped up onto the coffee table, giving Harry an eyeful up her short, tight skirt. The executive finger jerked towards the CD player, shaking slightly with a kind of pulsing, hypertensive beat. I grabbed the remote and pressed "play." The groaning strains of Roy Orbison immediately filled the room and I rummaged through the rack for something a little raunchier. Norma turned her back on Harry, spread her legs, dipped down to grasp her ankles and frowned.
"Got any Eminem?"
"I doubt it, Norma. Hmm, Black Sabbath. Give that a go."
Frenetic seventies guitar riffs replaced the groaning.
"Never heard of them. They don't sound black to me."
"Show us your titties!"
I maintained my usual air of mature nonchalance. If I smoked a pipe I would have filled and tamped it, and concentrated on puffing it into life to the exclusion of all external distractions.
I gave up smoking twenty years ago, so I looked at Norma. Those stilettos – should I tell her what a podiatrist once told me? Perhaps later.
Norma was bent double, gripping her ankles and swaying to the music. Her skirt rode up her derriere displaying tight red panties. Not those thong things disappearing up her crack, but real sensuous material caressing her five pounds overweight. She moved her feet further apart and swayed harder. Her mound pressed against the red material. The material moved slightly over her as the music pounded.