Her ministrations were a part of the rhythm the three had established. Each beat of the cadence called for a simultaneous prod of Irving’s finger, an upthrust of his joystick, a squeeze of Inez’s wide nipples, a rise-squeeze-and-fall of Inez’s lower parts, a thrust of her tongue to the core of Regina, a tensing and then a relaxation of Regina’s thigh muscles, and an oral caress by Regina which encompassed as much as possible of their gyrating genitals. A part of her tempo was to shift the upside down weight on her arms and hands forwards and backwards in a sort of rowing motion.
“Row faster!” Irving commanded, breathing hard. “GURGLE-FIZZLE-SLOSH; FIZZLE-GURGLE-SLOSH!” With their increased rhythm, the champagne surf pounded against the sides of the mattress. “Faster!” Irving gasped. “BUBBLE-VA-ROOM; GURGLE-VOOM-OOM!” “I’m coming!” Irving announced. ‘Me too!” Inez bounced. Regina moved harder and Faster, not wanting to be left behind. “SLURP-VOOM; SLOSH-VOOM; VA-VA-VA-VOOM!”
Irving came. Inez climaxed. Regina attained orgasm. . . “SLOSH-SLURP-VA-VOOM-VOOM-VOOM!” . . . And the water bed burst!
Their final exertions had been too much for it. The champagne had reacted to the final shakeup like soda pop agitated until it expands beyond the capacity of :he bottle to contain it. Still in the throes of triple or-gasm, the trio found themselves riding the waves of a flood of champagne. It was as if a dam had broken and they were helpless in the whirling current. A sea of champagne-—more than five hundred gallons — scattered their lust and tossed them about like the debris of a shipwreck caught in a howling ocean.
The door to the bedroom was open. Regina was propelled through it on the crest of a bubbling wave of wine and washed up on the grand piano in the living-room. Inez, who couldn’t swim, was going under for he third time when Irving managed to get a grip on her and tow her to the safety of a bedroom bureau. Before he could pull himself up alongside her however, a bubbling undertow pulled his feet out from under him and he was carried, flailing, back to the wreck of the bed.
Here, the electrical apparatus which heated the bed had been short-circuited by the violent flood in half a dozen places. Sparks were flying over the champagne froth; live wires were crackling amidst the bubbles. Irving slammed into the frame of the bed and his foot caught, holding him there for a moment. One of the live wires imbedded itself firmly in his groin. It was-—as they say—quite a shock! By the time he was able to pull loose and swim to safety, his gonads were glowing like a neon sign.
The flood brought the Superintendent of the Nicholas’ apartment building on the run. Concerned neighbors crowded in behind him. One of these had the presence of mind to reverse his field, go back to his own apartment and call the Fire Department. Most of them stayed to gawk at the three nude victims while murmuring guesses as to the orgy which must have taken place. The firemen, when they arrived, were equally curious.
That was the last time Regina was at the Nicholas’. But Irving Nicholas had called her once after that fateful evening. He told her that they had, of course, been forced to move. But neither he nor Inez were particularly unhappy about that since they had found other compensations. Whether due to the sessions with Regina, or due to the electric shock he’d received, or due to the relaxation of their inhibitions, or perhaps because of a combination of all three, their sex life had improved immeasurably. They would, therefore, have no further need of Regina’s services. But Irving wanted her to know how much they appreciated what she had done for them. “And,” he added, “if there’s ever anything I can do for you, just call me.” There was no doubting the sincerity behind those words. . . .
And so it was Irving Nicholas whom Regina called when Lieutenant Rodriguez booked her for practising as a private detective without a license. Why Irving? Simple. He was one of several official Commissioners of Licenses of the State of New York.
Irving Nicholas’ gratitude had not abated. He had meant what he said to Regina when he said it, and he stuck by it now. When he understood the problem, he told Regina not to worry, hung up on her and immediately dialed the Police Commissioner. A few months back he had paved the way for the Police Commissioner's brother-in-law, a restaurant owner, to get a liquor license. When Irving explained that Regina’s license to practise as a private investigator had been held up because of an unfortunate clerical error, the Police Commissioner was quick to return the favor. He agreed with Irving that the whole affair was a teapot-tempest and assured him he’d have the charge dropped within the hour. Then Irving called a sub-commissioner he knew and arranged to have a license properly issued to Regina first thing in the morning. After which Irving returned to bed—a standard, water-less, champagne-less bed—and Inez.
The result was that Regina had been in custody only a little more than an hour when she was summoned to Lieutenant Rodriguez’ office. “I thought you said you didn’t have a license!” He greeted her angrily.
“I don’t.”
“Well, the Police Commissioner says you do!”
“Then I guess I do.”
“I guess you do!” He glared at her.
He was still glaring when the telephone rang. He answered it and listened for a couple of minutes. Then he said “I’ll be right there,” and hung up. “You come along with me,” he instructed Regina, taking her by the arm and leading her from the office.
“Why should I?” Regina protested.
“Because if you’re licensed, I’d a damn sight rather have you where I can keep track of you than have you popping up when I least expect it, or find myself tripping over you where I least want to. So come on, Lady Sherlock! This is right up your alley.”
“Where are we going?” He was pulling her down the hall and out of the building so fast that Regina was breathless.
“Dwight Venable’s house.”
“But why there?”
“Because somebody has bashed our fey friend’s skull in with what we in the trade like to call a blunt instrument’
Regina’s head was spinning. First Faith Venablee, and now her brother Dwight Venable. Murdered!
Murdered!
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
An Arresting Situation
“Where’s the corpse?”
The cop stationed in the foyer of Dwight Venable’s sumptuous Greenwich Village pad reluctantly turned his attention from Regina’s legs and focused on Lieutenant Rodriguez. “What corpse, Lieutenant?”
“The murder victim, you ninny!”
The PBA ain’t gonna like you talking to me like that, Lieutenant.”
“I m sorry. I’m sorry.” Rodriguez simmered down.
“Anyway, there ain’t no corpse. The victim’s still alive, in a coma. They took him to Roosevelt Hospital.”
“Then why did you call it a murder?” Rodriguez gritted his teeth. Can’t you guys get anything straight?”
“Don’t holler at me, Lieutenant. I may be just a patrolman, but I got my dignity. And,” the cop added threateningly, I know my rights!”
“I hate cops!" Rodriguez confided to Regina, muttering so that only she could hear, as he led the way inside.
“But you’re a cop yourself.”
Rodriguez merely grunted.
“Self-hatred is bad news,” Regina told him.
“If I want to be analyzed, I’ll go to a shrink.”
“A little analysis wouldn’t hurt you. Exercising some, I mean. For instance, has it occurred to you that your case against Dwight Venable for his sister’s murder has blown sky-high?”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well, he certainly didn’t bash in his own skull,” Regina pointed out.
“Amateurs!” Rodriguez shook his head disgustedly. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that the two crimes might have no connection. Dwight Venable could be the victim this time without necessarily being ruled out as his sister’s murderer.”