"Your decor," she said, leaning against him. "It's so… interesting."
"I collect things— things. As for the furniture, hideous is what most people call it, and they're right. All that carving and such is out of style. But I like furniture that looks like human beings touched it at one time or another during its construction, even human beings of dubious taste."
Jack became acutely aware of the pressure of Kolabati's body against his flank. Her scent was unlike any perfume. He could not even be sure it was perfume. More like scented oil. She looked up at him and he wanted her. And in her eyes he could see she wanted him.
Kolabati stepped away and began to remove her dress.
In the past, Jack had always felt himself in control during lovemaking. It had not been a conscious thing, but he had always set the pace and moved into the positions. Not tonight. With Kolabati it was different. It was all very subtle, but before long they were each cast in their roles. She was by far the hungrier of the two of them, the more insistent. And although younger, she seemed to be the more experienced. She became the director, he became an actor in her play.
And it was quite a play. Passion and laughter. She was skilled, yet there was nothing mechanical about her. She reveled in sensations, giggled, even laughed at times. She was a delight. She knew where to touch him, how to touch him in ways he had never known, lifting him to heights of sensation he had never dreamed possible. And though he knew he had brought her to thrashing peaks of pleasure numerous times, she was insatiable.
He watched her now as the light from the tiny leaded glass lamp in the corner of the bedroom cast a soft chiaroscuro effect over the rich color of her skin. Her breasts were perfect, their nipples the darkest brown he had ever seen. With her eyes still closed, she smiled and stretched, a slow, languorous movement that brought her dark and downy pubic mons against his thigh. Her hand crept across his chest, then trailed down over his abdomen toward his groin. He felt his abdominal muscles tighten.
"That's not fair to do to a dying man."
"Where there's life, there's hope."
"Is this your way of thanking me for finding the necklace?" He hoped not. He had already been paid for the necklace.
She opened her eyes. "Yes… and no. You are a unique man in this world, Repairman Jack. I've traveled a lot, met many people. You stand out from all of them. Once my brother was like you, but he has changed. You are alone."
"Not at the moment."
She shook her head. "All men of honor are alone."
Honor. This was the second time she had spoken of honor this evening. Once at Peacock Alley, and now here in his bed. Strange for a woman to think in terms of honor. That was supposed to be men's territory, although nowadays the word rarely passed the lips of members of either sex. But when it did, it was most apt to be spoken by a man. Sexist, perhaps, but he could think of no exceptions to refute it.
"Can a man who lies, cheats, steals, and sometimes does violence to other people be a man of honor?"
Kolabati looked into his eyes. "He can if he lies to liars, cheats cheaters, steals from thieves, and limits his violence to those who are violent."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
An honorable man. He liked the sound of that. He liked the meaning that went with it. As Repairman Jack he had taken an honorable course without consciously setting out to do so. Autonomy had been his driving motive—to reduce to the barest minimum all external restraints upon his life. But honor… honor was an internal restraint. He hadn't recognized the role it had played all along in guiding him.
Kolabati's hand started moving again and thoughts of honor sank in the waves of pleasure washing over him. It was good to be aroused again.
He had led a monkish life since Gia had left him. Not that he had consciously avoided sex—he had simply stopped thinking about it. A number of weeks had gone by before he even realized what had happened to him. He had read that that was a sign of depression. Maybe. Whatever the cause, tonight made up for any period of abstention, no matter how long.
Her hand was gently working at him now, drawing responses from what he had thought was an empty well. He was rolling toward her when he caught the first whiff of the odor.
What the hell is that?
It smelled like a pigeon had got into the air conditioner and laid a rotten egg. Or died.
Kolabati stiffened beside him. He didn't know whether she had smelled it, too, or whether something had frightened her. He thought he heard her say something that sounded like "Rakosh!" in a tense whisper. She rolled on top of him and clung like a drowning sailor to a floating spar.
An aura of nameless fear enveloped Jack. Something was terribly wrong, but he could not say what. He listened for a foreign sound, but all that came to him were the low hums, each in a different key, of the air conditioners in each of the three rooms. He reached for the .38 S&W Chief Special he always kept under the mattress, but Kolabati hugged him tighter.
"Don't move," she whispered in a voice he could barely hear. "Just lie here under me and don't say a word."
Jack opened his mouth to speak but she covered his lips with her own. The pressure of her bare breasts against his chest, her hips on his, the tingle of her necklace as it dangled from her neck against his throat, the caresses of her hands—all worked toward blotting out the odor.
Yet there was a desperation about her that prevented Jack from completely releasing himself to the sensations. His eyes kept opening and straying to the window, to the door, to the hall that led past the tv room to the darkened front room, then back to the window. There was no good reason for it, but a small part of him expected someone or something—a person, an animal—to come through the door. He knew it was impossible—the front door was locked, the windows were three stories up. Crazy. Yet the feeling persisted.
And persisted.
He did not know how long he lay there, tense and tight under Kolabati, itching for the comfortable feel of a pistol grip in his palm. It felt like half the night.
Nothing happened. Eventually, the odor began to fade. And with it the sensation of the presence of another. Jack felt himself begin to relax and, finally, begin to respond to Kolabati.
But Kolabati suddenly had different ideas. She jumped up from the bed and padded into the front room for her clothes.
Jack followed and watched her slip into her underwear with brisk, almost frantic movements.
"What's wrong?"
"I have to get home."
"Back to D.C.?" His heart sank. Not yet. She intrigued him so.
"No. To my brother's. I'm staying with him."
"I don't understand. Is it something I—"
Kolabati leaned over and kissed him. "Nothing you did. Something he did."
"What's the hurry?"
"I must speak to him immediately."
She let the dress fall over her head and slipped her shoes on. She turned to go but the apartment door stopped her.
"How does this work?"
Jack turned the central knob that retracted the four bars, then pulled it open for her.
"Wait till I get some clothes on and I'll find you a cab."
"I haven't time to wait. And I can wave my arm in the air as well as anyone."
"You'll be back?" The answer was very important to him at the moment. He didn't know why. He hardly knew her.
"Yes, if I can be." Her eyes were troubled. For an instant he thought he detected a hint of fear in them. "I hope so. I really do."
She kissed him again, then was out the door and on her way down the stairs.