"Aren't you Steve Paul?"
"That's me."
Mike was panting with exertion. "Hold it a minute," he said. "Let me catch my breath." Luckily, Paul waited for him.
Mike used the interlude to think up an approach. "Don't you own a joint on the Strip?"
"Several. To which joint were you referring?" Snyder's henchman liked to project an image of educated erudition, as if he was at least one cut above everyone around him, but Mike knew better.
"The Gay Paree, up near Fairfax. Isn't that one yours?"
"As a matter of fact, it is. You know the place?" His eyes began to show a spark of interest, a spark which Mike did not fail to notice. Now I've got him, thought Mike. Now I've got the egomaniac bastard.
"Know it?" Mike said. "I practically live there. Every time I get a chance, whenever I can trust someone else to run my little place, I'm at the Gay Paree. Quite a joint, that is. Quite a joint."
"Well," Paul said, obviously flattered, "thank you. Thank you very much." He looked at Mike closely, studied his face, frowned. "Funny, though, I can't remember ever having seen you."
Uh-oh, Mike thought. Suspicious. No wonder Snyder likes him so much. "It's no wonder," he said. "I always stay in the back where it's dark. I don't like to be noticed, if you know what I mean."
"I do know what you mean, I do indeed." He smiled at the cop. "What are you doing with the rest of your evening?" he said.
Mike's heart beat a little faster. He'd hooked him! "No plans," he said, keeping his voice calm.
"Well, we're having a little get together at my place, private, you know, in my home." He emphasized the last word so that the honor of the invitation would not be lost on Mike. "Why don't you come along?"
"Great. Love to." Would he ever! If he was lucky, he might run into Jay Snyder himself. "Fine," Paul said. He scribbled something on the back of a matchbook, handed the matchbook to Mike. "Here's the address. It starts in an hour." The gangster turned to go, then stopped and turned back to face Mike. "By the way," he said, "I didn't catch your name."
"Johnson, Gus Johnson."
In exactly one hour a yellow cab pulled up to the curb in front of an exclusive apartment building. Mike stepped out of the cab, craned his neck to look up the side of the building, toward the penthouse suite. From the top of the building lights blazed, and loud music leaked out onto the street below. Mike straightened his tie, walked into the building, took the elevator to the top floor. Well, he thought as he rang the doorbell, here goes nothing.
The door opened a tiny crack, revealed one eye and a nose. "What is it?"
"I'm Gus Johnson. Mr. Paul invited me."
"Just a minute," said the voice. The door closed, then opened wide a few seconds later, framing an elegant butler dressed in full tuxedo. Whew, Mike thought, a fancy dress ball. This guy does know how to give a party. "Come in, won't you?" said the butler.
Mike walked in. The room was brightly lit and crowded with people. Through the smoke he could see Steve Paul standing near the bar, chatting pleasantly with a dazzling blonde. The music was very loud. Someone thrust a drink in his hand.
Suddenly the music stopped. Everyone sat down on the floor, as if in answer to an unseen signal from their host. The bright lights were dimmed, a soft blue light replacing them. The music started again, a slow, bluesy tune. Heads and bodies began to sway.
Somewhere a door opened, and out stepped the most incredible woman Mike bad ever seen. She was tall, almost six feet, slender without being skinny, with bright red wavy hair. Her eyes seemed to smoke. She was wearing a belly dancer's costume, a thin gauzy dress with a burnoose and a long veil that covered her breasts. Even in the dim light, Mike could see she was beautiful.
The girl began to move her body, slowly rocking her hips back and forth in time with the music, her dress making a swishing sound as she swayed. Mike couldn't take his eyes off her. Lisa, his wife, was pretty enough, in fact some people thought her beautiful, but this girl was from another planet. Mike had never seen anything like her. And despite his faithfulness to Lisa, his prick had a mind of its own; even though he tried hard not to be enticed by this lovely woman, he felt his prick begin to twitch against his pants.
The tempo of the music increased; the girl rocked more violently, pacing herself against the music, building slowly. A woman standing next to Mike put her hand down her partner's pants. Mike imagined the dancer's hand crawling down his stomach, reaching for his rising cock. Christ, he thought, if Lisa could only be like that. He wanted that girl in a way he had never wanted Lisa, passionately, in a frenzy of rich, voluptuous sex. He continued to stare at her and fantasize, picturing the red hairs of her pussy wet and shiny with her come that he, Mike, had called forth from within her. No, he thought, no. I can't think this way. Lisa is my wife and I am her husband and we are true to each other – not particularly hot for each other, but true nevertheless.
The redhead's dancing seemed to mock Mike's faithfulness, seemed to say, "Really, now, wouldn't you like a taste of something different? Wouldn't you like a taste of me?"
Now the girl began to strip. She unhooked the veil from the burnoose, used it like a shoe-shine rag across her breasts. Mike could imagine her nipples beginning to harden from the gentle brushing of the material, could imagine those same nipples rising under his own fingers. The man next to him responded to the girl's dancing by massaging the breasts of his woman, who still had her hand down the front of his pants. Mike glanced around the room – everywhere were couples locked in one form or another of sexual embrace. Steve Paul stood at the bar, seemingly aloof from the scene around him, but Mike could see that his eyes were shining. Saving himself, Mike thought, saving himself for later. Then it hit him: was Steve Paul saving himself for this dancer? No, it couldn't be! That girl had to be his, he couldn't stand the idea of her opening her luscious body to that crook.
The dancer let her veil drop to the floor, revealing a set of the most perfect breasts Mike had ever seen. They stood far out from her chest, wiggling and shaking as she danced, without a hint of sag or droop; and the nipples pointed up. The red head ran her hands along the underside of those breasts, squeezing them, playing with them, making them stand out even more. With every bounce of her breasts, every movement of her rolling hips, the thought of Lisa and his faithfulness receded further and further from Mike's mind. He could think of nothing but his desire for this girl, this paragon of sex.
"Don't look too hard," said a voice at Mike's side. It was the butler. "She belongs to Mr. Paul."
Mike's worst fears were realized. That incredible woman, the sexiest woman in the world, reserving her charms for a gangster like Steve Paul! It was too much to take. "Is she for sale?" said Mike in a hoarse whisper.
"Generally," said the butler, "no. But under certain circumstances, on certain unusual occasions, Mr. Paul can be persuaded to part with her for an hour or so. Very unusual circumstances," said the butler, "if you know what I mean."
Money. He would pay anything to have this girl, even if just for an hour. He had a cache of a few hundred dollars, the existence of which he kept secret from everyone, including Lisa; it was for "emergencies". And if this was an emergency – Mike's rigid cock was sending out a call for rescue, and he knew that tonight only this girl could save him. "How much?"
"That depends on Mr. Paul's mood," said the butler. "Wait right here; I'll ask him."
Mike reluctantly took his eyes from the girl, who was now caressing her nipples with her tongue, followed the butler as he walked across the room to the bar where Steve Paul stood watching the dance. Mike saw the butler whisper something in Paul's ear, saw Paul shake his head, no. The butler whispered again, then both men turned and looked at Mike. Mike nodded in return. Paul whispered something to the butler, who immediately turned and came across the room to Mike's side.