The Foster Estate ("the new club") contained land enough to lay out twenty-seven holes (as opposed to eighteen at the old club), as well as gently rolling pastures right beside the polo field that could accommodate far more ponies than the old club could handle. And old Mr. Foster, Jr. had thrown in all of the furnishings, except for those in his private apartment, which had moved to the hotel penthouse with him.
The woman was lanky and fair-haired. She wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, a pale blue dress, and white gloves. From where she was standing, by the foot of the wide staircase leading to the second floor of the clubhouse, she could see the reserve supply of champagne. It was practically, if somewhat inelegantly, stored by the door to the passageway to the kitchen in ice-filled, galvanized-iron watering troughs for horses.
She took a delicate bite of her hors d'oeuvre, a very nice pate on a crisp cracker, sipped at her champagne, and seriously considered just picking up one of the bottles and carrying it upstairs. He would probably find that amusing.
But it would be difficult to explain if she met someone coming down the stairs. Without the champagne, it would be presumed that she was going up to use the John. There were inadequate rest room facilities for ladies on the main floor of the San Mateo Club. The men had no similar problem. What had been a private study off the library had been equipped with the proper plumbing and that was it.
Which meant that when nature called, the men could conveniently take a leak not fifty feet from the bar. But the women, when faced with a similar requirement, more often than not would find their small downstairs facilities occupied and would have to seek release in an upstairs John. The silver lining in that cloud was that no one looked curiously at a woman making her way up the wide, curving staircase.
She put her empty champagne glass on the tray of a passing waiter, smilingly shook her head when he offered her a fresh glass, and started up the stairs.
No one was in the upstairs corridors, which she thought was fortuitous. But she hurried nevertheless, and quickly entered, without knocking, a door halfway down the right corridor. There was a brass number on the door, 14. The numbered rooms were an innovation of the House Committee; before they had been put up, people spending the night or the weekend in the "new clubhouse" had been unable to find their own rooms.
She closed the door and fastened the lock. She could hear the sound of the shower and of his voice, an entirely satisfactory tenor. She smiled at that, then walked to the bed, saw that he had tossed his clothing on it, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. She delicately picked up the sweat-soaked blue polo shirt (a cloth letter "2" still safety-pinned to it) and an equally sweat-soaked pair of Jockey shorts and dropped them onto the floor beside a very dirty pair of breeches, a scarred and battered pair of riding boots, and a pair of heavy woolen socks.
Then she pulled the cover off the bed and turned it down. She looked toward the bathroom, wondering how long he had been in there, how soon he could come out to find her.
Surprise! Surprise!
Then she had an even better idea. She walked to a credenza and pulled her hat and gloves off and dropped them there. Then she took off her wedding and engagement rings. And, very quickly, the rest of her clothing. It would be amusing only if she was finished undressing.
But when she had finished that, he still hadn't come out. The last time she'd seen him, she remembered, he had really needed a bath. He had been reeking with sweat; and perspiration was literally dripping off his chin. But enough was enough.
She examined herself in a mirror and smiled wickedly at herself, walked to the bathroom door, opened it, and went inside. There was no shower stall. One corner had been tiled. The tiled area was so large that water from three shower heads aimed at the corner did not splash beyond it.
His head and face were covered with lather. Still singing cheerfully, he was rubbing the tips of his fingers vigorously on his scalp. She saw a shower cap on a hook and quickly stuffed her hair under it. Then she stepped into the tiled area, hunching her shoulders involuntarily as the water, colder than she expected, struck her. Then she dropped to her knees, reached out, and put it in her mouth.
"Jesus Christ!" Pick Pickering said, "Are you crazy?" And then he yelped. "Christ, I got soap in my eyes!"
He stepped away from her abruptly to turn his face to a shower stream. Slipping and almost falling, the woman rose to her feet. She went to him, pressed her body against him, and nipped his nipple.
"Where the hell is your husband?" Pick Pickering asked.
"In the bar, I suppose," the woman said. "I got bored."
She put her hand on it and pumped it just a few times until it filled her hand.
"You want to try doing it standing up?" she asked. "It would be sort of like doing it in the rain."
"Dorothy!" Pick said.
She tried to arrange herself so he could penetrate her, and failed.
"I don't think that's going to work," she said, matter-of-factly.
Pick Pickering picked her up and carried her to the bed. Penetration there proved simple.
Three minutes later, he jumped out of bed.
"Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am?" she said. "That's not very nice."
"You're out of your mind, Dorothy, do you know that?"
"Where are you going?"
"I am due in town right now," he said.
"Who is she? Anyone I know?"
He didn't reply.
"No goddamned underwear!" He cried as he pawed through a canvas overnight bag. "I didn't bring any underwear!"
"How sexy!" Dorothy said.
"What the hell am I going to do?"
"Do without," she said. "I do that all the time."
He looked at her and smiled.
"You would crack wise at the moment your husband shot us both with a shotgun," he said.
"That presumes his being sober enough to hold a shotgun," Dorothy said. "You really do have to go, don't you?"
"The only reason I played at all today is because Tommy Whitlock canceled at the last minute."
He pulled a fresh polo shirt over his head, and then started to pull on a pair of cotton trousers.
"How lucky for the both of us," she said.
He looked at her and smiled again.
"Be careful with the zipper," she said. "I wouldn't want anything to get damaged."
"Neither would I," he said.
"I'm not going to see you again, am I?" she asked.
"I don't see how," Pick said.
"I'll miss you, baby."
"I'll miss you too, Dorothy," he said. He found his wrist-watch on the bedside table and strapped it on. "Christ, I am late!" he said.
He looked down at her, and she pushed herself onto her elbows. He leaned over and kissed her.
"I really am going to miss you," she said.
"Me, too," he said.
"Be careful, baby," she said.
He jumped up and, hopping, pushed his bare feet into a pair of loafers.
Then he left, without looking back at her.
Thirty minutes later he was in San Francisco by the entrance to the parking garage of the Andrew Foster Hotel. A sign had been placed on the sidewalk there: SORRY, BUT JUST
NOW, WE NEED ALL OUR SPACE FOR OUR REGISTERED GUESTS!"
Like everything else connected with the Andrew Foster Hotel, it was not an ordinary sign. It was contained within a polished brass frame and lettered in gold. And the frame was mounted in an ornate cast-iron mounting. The Andrew Foster was one of the world's great hotels (the most prestigious as well as the most expensive hotel in San Francisco), the flagship of the forty-two-hotel Foster Hotel chain. Certain standards would have been expected of it even if Andrew Foster were not resident in the penthouse.
Andrew Foster was fond of quoting the "One Great Rule of Keeping a Decent Inn." It was not the sort of rule that could be written down, for it changed sometimes half a dozen times a day. It could be summarized (and was, behind his back) as immediately correcting whatever offended his eye at the moment.