Orgasms?
Passion followed by sleep, followed by slowly becoming delightedly aware that what one is fondling in one's sleep is not the goddamn pillow again, but a magnificent real live boob, attached to a real live woman.
One who whispered huskily in the dark "Don't stop!" when, ever the gentleman, I decided that copping a feel was perhaps not the thing to do under the circumstances.
And El Wango, God bless him, had risen to the occasion, giving his all for God, Mother, and Country, as if determined to prove that what good had happened previously was the norm, and that "oh, shit" spasm earlier on a once-in-a-century aberration.
She had said, "I'll be sore for a week," which I understand could be a complaint, but which, I believe, I will accept as a compliment.
The drumming of the shower died, and he could hear the last gurgle as the water went down the drain, and he could hear other faint sounds, including what he thought was the sound of his hairbrush clattering into the washbasin.
And then she came out. In her underwear, but still modestly covering herself with a towel.
"You're not leaving?" Matt said. "The evening is young."
"The question is what about the Opera Ball people?"
She sat on the edge of the bed, keeping the towel in place.
I was right. Thrice, or even twice and a half, is a more than a sufficiency, it is a surfeit.
"I haven't heard the elevator in a while. I guess they're all gone. Would you like me to take you home?"
"I have a car."
"Where?"
"In the garage in the basement."
"Parked right next to the elevator?"
"How did you know that?"
"You're the Cadillac in my parking spot. Spots. The gods-the GrecoRoman ones, who understand this sort of thing- obviously wanted us to get together."
"I don't know about that, but I do know what got us together. It's spelled G I N. As in, I should know better than to drink martinis."
"Are you sorry?"
"Yes, of course, I'm sorry," Helene said. "I expect you hear this from all your married ladies, but in my case it's true. I normally don't do things like this."
"Well, I'm glad you made an exception for me," Matt said. "And just for the record, you're my first married lady. I would like to thank you for being gentle with me, it being my first time."
She laughed, and then grew serious.
"I would like to say the same thing," she said. "But you're the third. And I decided just ninety seconds ago, the last."
"I didn't measure up?"
"That's the trouble. You-left nothing to be desired. Except more of you, and that's obviously out of the question."
"Why is it obviously out of the question?"
She got up suddenly from the bed, dropped the towel, and walked out of the bedroom, snapping, "I'm married," angrily over her shoulder.
She'll be back, Matt thought confidently. She will at least say goodbye.
But she did not come back, so he picked up the towel she had dropped and put it around his waist and went looking for her.
She was gone.
I don't even know what her last name is.
During his military service Staff Inspector Peter F. Wohl had learned that rubber gloves were what smart people wore when applying cordovan shoe polish to foot wear, otherwise you walked around for a couple of days with brown fingernails. When the last pair had worn out, the only rubber gloves he could find in the Acme Supermarket had been the ones he now wore, which were flaming pink in color and decorated in a floral pattern. At the time, their function, not their appearance, had seemed to be the criteria.
Now he was not so sure. Mrs. Samantha Stoddard, the 230-pound, fiftytwo-year-old Afro-American grandmother who cleaned the apartment two times a week had found them under the sink and offered the unsolicited opinion that he better hope nobody but her ever saw them. "I knowyou like girls, Peter. Other people might wonder."
Mrs. Stoddard felt at ease calling Staff Inspector Wohl by his Christian name because she had been doing so since he was four years old. She still spent the balance of the week working for his mother.
When the telephone rang, at ten past seven in the morning, Wohl was standing at his kitchen sink, wearing his pink rubber gloves, his underwear, an unbuttoned shirt, and his socks, examining with satisfaction the shine he had just caused to appear on a pair of loafers. At five past seven, as he prepared to slip his feet into them, he had discovered that they were in desperate need of a shine.
From the sound of the bell, he could tell that it was his official telephone ringing. He headed for the bedroom, hurriedly removing the flaming pink rubber gloves as he did so. The left came off with no difficulty; the right stuck. Before he got it off, he had cordovan shoe polish all over his left hand.
"Shit!" he said aloud, adding aloud. "Why do I think this is going to be one of those days?"
Then he picked up the telephone.
"Inspector Wohl."
"Matt Lowenstein, Peter. Is there some reason you can't meet me at Tommy Callis's office at eight?"
"No, sir."
"Keep it under your hat," Lowenstein said, and hung up.
Wohl replaced the handset in its cradle, but, deep in thought, kept his hand on it for a moment. Thomas J. Callis was the district attorney. He could think of no business he-that is to say Special Operations, including Highway Patrol-had with the district attorney. If something serious had happened, he would have been informed of it.
A wild hair appeared-Tony Harris was on a spectacular bender; he could have run into a school bus or something- and was immediately discarded. He would have heard of that too, as quickly as he had learned that they had held Tony overnight in the 9^th District holding cell.
He shrugged, and dialed the Special Operations number. He told the lieutenant who answered that he would be in late. He did not say how late or where he would be. Lowenstein had told him to keep the meeting at the DA's office under his hat. He looked at his watch, then shook his head. There was no time to go somewhere for breakfast.
He returned to the kitchen, put a pot of water on the stove to boil, and got eggs and bread from the refrigerator. He decided he would not make coffee, because that would mean having to clean the pot, technically a brewer his mother had given him for Christmas. It made marvelous coffee, but unless it was cleaned almost immediately, it turned the coffee grounds in its works to concrete and required a major overhaul.
When the water boiled, he added vinegar, then, with a wooden spoon, swirled the water around until it formed a whirlpool. Then, expertly, he cracked two eggs with one hand and dropped them into the water. By the time they were done, the toaster had popped up. He took the eggs from the water with a slotted spoon, put them onto the toast, and moved to his small kitchen table. Time elapsed, beginning to end: ten minutes.
"If I only had a cup of coffee," he announced aloud, "all would be right in my world."
Then it occurred to him that if he was to meet with the district attorney, a suit would be in order, not the blazer and slacks he had intended to wear. And if he wore a suit, shoes, not loafers, would be in order.
The whole goddamn shoe-shining business, including the polish-stained left hand, had been a waste of time and effort.
He returned to the sink, and washed his hands with a bar of miracle abrasive soap that was guaranteed to remove all kinds of stain. The manufacturers had apparently never dealt with cordovan shoe polish.
Or, he thought cynically, they knew damned well that very few people would wrap up a fifty-cent bar of soap and mail it off to Dubuque, Iowa, or wherever, for a refund. Particularly since they wouldn't have the address in Iowa, having thrown the wrapping away when they took the soap out.
He took his pale blue shirt off, replaced it with a white one, and put on a dark gray, pin-striped suit.
"Oh, you are a handsome devil, Peter Wohl," he said as he checked himself in the mirror. "I wonder why you don't get laid more than you do?"