Mr. Buluski had, by the way, answered the door naked.
He was skinny, bald up top, and looked about forty, with this nutty, kinky, torqued-up enthusiasm stamped onto his face. “I do hope you’re all hungry,” he commented. “I’ve prepared a wonderful dinner!” Next, he’d introduced Mrs. Buluski, who was also naked save for pepper-red high heels. She looked about ten years younger, with poshly curled dark hair, and she was kind of cute and fat, which was fine. They didn’t all have to be high-fashion knockouts. Physical diversity was far more important. An additional point of note: her pubic hair had been quite expertly shaved into the configuration of a heart. “Please, friends, make yourselves more comfortable and join us in the dining room,” she urged.
“When in Gnome, do as the Gnomans do,” Lemi figured.
“That’s Romans, Lemi,” Zyra corrected.
Lemi shrugged. They both quickly stripped and took their seats at a long, maroon-linened table. “Oh, what beautiful young bodies,” Mr. Buluski gushed. “Such sights make my heart just sing!”
“He gets carried away sometimes,” Mrs. Buluski then informed them. “He’s a dreamer, a visionary. And he’s very, shall we say, deft of tongue.” The woman promptly winked at Zyra, who doubted that she was referring to his eloquence.
Mr. Buluski had prepared a glazed roast duckling, baby potatoes with bell peppers, and succulently steamed fresh asparagus stalks. The four of them then, as they dined, exchanged opinions upon such intense topics as the future of the Middle East, the difference in inflation rates during Republican and Democratic administrations, the ozone layer, and the possible psychological explanations for Michael Jackson’s addiction to plastic surgery. All the while, Zyra, who was not especially inhibited, felt distinctly embarrassed. Even psychopathic murderesses were not accustomed to dinnerside chats in the nude. This new insight into herself at least struck her as interesting. Events, however, became a trifle more interesting when Mrs. Buluski, large bare breasts bobbling, promptly stood up, remarked “Let me get out of these hot things,” kicked off her pepper-red high heels, placed her rather large derriere on the dining table, and began to masturbate with one of the larger stalks of asparagus. Mr. Buluski was then appropriate enough to comment: “You should see her when I serve corn on the cob.”
What a world, Zyra thought. There were all kinds, that was for sure. At least these two loose-screws were more diverting than the usual acquisitions; rednecks, prostitutes, runaways. Zyra had seen her share of bizarre things in her time, but she could never recall witnessing a portly woman with heart-shaped pubic hair masturbate with asparagus. No, she’d never seen such a thing in her life. Maybe I should try it someday, she considered.
Lemi wasted no time in sampling this new preparation for vegetables. Meanwhile, Mr. Buluski rose and suggested to Zyra, “My dear, shall we adjourn to my parlor of passion?’’
“Lead the way,” Zyra said.
He took her down the hall to a black-and-white art deco bedroom. Her body felt levitated when she lay back on the slogging waterbed. She looked down at herself from a ceiling mirror; it was fun watching this eccentric, reedy man do things to her. She thought of astral projection, of doppelgangers. Mrs. Buluski wasn’t kidding about her husband’s prowess of tongue—Zyra watched her own eyes thin lewdly in the mirror, vising his cheeks with her thighs. Her orgasms issued as a steady, tender pulse of waves. Mr. Buluski seemed delighted. Through a variety of positions, then, he eloquently muttered lines from some of the century’s greater poets: Stevens, Pound, Eliot, Seymour. Zyra’s next orgasms pulsed deeper and more precisely; she felt something in herself letting go.…
This realm of release wasn’t enough. Each abrupt, quivery climax left her groping for more.
It’s never enough, she thought through a sheen of sweat.
She sensed the approach of his own release, as one often wakes undetermined minutes before the alarm clock. He seemed surprised by her strength, and the vitality of her resolve when she pushed his bony body off of her, lay him back, and let his orgasm spurt warmly down her throat and into her stomach.
Then she said: “I have a surprise for you…”
And quite a surprise it was. Indeed, no, there was never enough, was there? That’s what made Zyra who she was. Mr. Buluski’s poetical quotes quickly changed over to high, wavering screams. He screamed long and hard through the delivery of her surprise. The screams provided a sweet icing for the finale of her desire, and she came yet again as she watched herself strangle Mr. Buluski in the overhead mirror.
Never enough, she pondered.
Mr. Buluski’s face turned dark blue above the ligature of the lamp cord. As more time went by, the face began to swell, much like a balloon. For a moment she feared it might pop.
She dragged him back out by the ankles.
“Have a good time?” Lemi asked.
“Yeah.” And she had, she always did. She dreamily redressed as Lemi finished tying up the chubby—and by now, the quite sated—Mrs. Buluski. “Me too,” Lemi confessed. “She’s a wild one.”
They loaded dead husband and live wife into the white step van, then returned to the quiet house. Zyra turned on all the gas burners on the stove and blew out the pilots. Lemi set the timer.
“I like you better as a brunette,” he said.
As they drove away, off into crystal darkness, the thought replayed in Zyra’s mind.
What a beautiful night.
— | — | —
CHAPTER TEN
“A touch of class,” Lee remarked. He lit the candles on the bay table by the west window, which offered a long view of the forest. Vera had decided to combine their evening staff meeting with dinner. “Don’t know what the hell we’re going to eat, though,” Lee went on. “Today me and Dan B. ran a stock check.”
“How’s it look?” Vera asked.
“Like we’re gonna be starving till The Inn opens. Nothing but dry goods and condiments.”
Vera hadn’t considered this. They couldn’t live on bread crumbs and salt. “We’ll be getting some shipments in soon. Until then we’ll have to rough it.”
Donna poured iced tea that she’d prepared from the service bar. “There’s no liquor inventory, either,” she said. “We might have a hard time finding a decent distributor this far out in the sticks.”
“Shit, you mean there’s no beer in this joint?” Lee asked, glancing worriedly at his beer belly.
“I’m working on it,” Vera said. “I think I got a deal with the company that services Waynesville. Their list looks pretty good.” Start-ups were always a hassle. Many distributors were slow, and many unreliable. Trial and error was the only way you found out who was good.
“Dan B. to the rescue,” the big chef announced. He lumbered out from the kitchen, bearing a large tray.
Lee smirked. “What are we having? Pine nuts and tomato paste?”
“Try eighteen-ounce Australian lobster tails,” Dan B. answered, and set the tray before them. A delectable aroma rose.
Donna nearly squealed in delight. “I don’t think we’ll have any problem roughing it on these.”
“I found ten cases of them in one of the walk-in freezers. A lot of langoustines and king crab back there too. There’s also a hundred pounds of frozen Greenwich shrimp we can use for stock base and toppings.”
Dan B. had thawed the tails, split them, and broiled them atop their shells with a pinch of spice. “Dig in, gang,” Vera said. The tails were delicious, moist and tender despite their size. When they were finished, Vera got on with business. “What I need first is a gauge of everyone’s impressions so far. Donna?”