"Yes."
"Never mind. It's something I don't want to say."
"Okay," said Remo. They drove in silence until Chris continued.
"You know I never used to wear clothes like this. Gene started liking them about two months ago when he started doing those funny things like breathing exercises and all sorts of nonsense."
"Does he scream when he lets out the air?" asked Remo.
"Yeah. How do you know?"
"I know," said Remo. "I know too well. All too well."
"Well, I don't like wearing these clothes," said Chris, unaware of Remo's remark. She was too much in herself. "I like to keep myself for Gene. But he likes to show off too much. Like I'm another piece of jewellery. I don't like that."
"Then dress the way you want."
"He said I'd dress the way he wants or he'd walk."
"Then you don't need him."
"Oh, I need him. I need him more than any man in my life. Especially now. You don't know the way he makes love. No man makes love like him. It's more than beautiful; it's so great, it's horrible."
They found the restaurant, and Remo had water while Chris went through second helpings of linguini. On the way back, Remo parked beside the road. Before she could say no, he slid a smooth hand across her stomach, then covered her lips with his. Working his hand to her thighs and his mouth to her breast, he brought her to slow, inexorable passion, brought her, undressed, to demanding him, begging for him, screaming for him, groaning for him, until he was inside her, her passionate body throbbing with exquisite, unbearable desire for fulfilment.
"Ohhh. Ohhh." She groaned and her head pressed into the car door, her writhing body making wet marks on the vinyl seat. "Ahh. Ahhh." Her fingernails bit into his back and neck, her eyes closing and opening, her mouth open for groaning and air, and biting. She kicked the steering wheel and banged her fists against his head, and cried and yelled, and slammed her hips upward begging for more and more. And when she reached her heights, Remo with two quick, masterful strokes brought her to sobbing, shrieking conclusion.
"Oh. Oh. Oh. More. Give me more. I'm here."
She softened to limpness and was kissing his ear when Remo ran his tongue down her neck, across her shoulder and down to the hardened nipple. His right hand car- essed her hip and then imperceptibly he began to build tension in her again, and fire it, and build it, until she was banging her own head against the door guard, begging for more and faster. Then Remo moved faster, with speed and friction rare for the untrained, but creating a wild heat within her so that she suddenly became stiff and rigid and could not move, just stayed stretched like a bolted board, until her face suddenly contorted, her mouth opened, and there was no scream. Just a sinking down into the car seat where she cried with delirious happiness. It was a good few moments before she spoke and when she did, she was hoarse.
"Remo. Oh, Remo. Oh, Remo. No one was ever like that. You're beautiful."
He caressed her gently and helped her on with her clothes, and covered her with her coat, and she snuggled into him as they drove back to Chicago. In the inner city, they passed a small, pocket park.
"Want to walk?" said Remo.
"Yes, dear. But we can't here. It's a coloured neighbourhood."
"I think we'll be all right," he said.
"I don't know," said Chris, worry on her face.
"Do you trust me, honey?" said Remo.
"You called me "honey,"" said Chris, beaming.
"Do you trust me?"
"Oh, yes, Remo. Yes."
They walked into the park. It was littered with broken bottles; its trees were scarred; its bushes uprooted, and its jungle gym was bent arid cracked. A dark, drunken hulk was sleeping one off under a scarred bench.
Chris smiled and kissed Remo's shoulder. "This is the most beautiful park I've ever been through. Just smell the air."
Remo smelled only the drifting odour of garbage dumped from a window because someone didn't bother to walk to a garbage can down the hall.
They sat down on a bench, and Remo wrapped her with an arm, bringing her warm, close, and secure.
"Darling," he said sweetly. "Tell me about yourself and Jethro and the union and the men in those rooms and Nuihc."
And she talked. She told of how she first met Gene Jethro, and Remo asked when he started having money. She talked about Gene's change in temperament, and Remo asked if Nuihc had supplied the money. She talked about the building outside of the city that took so much of Gene's time, leaving her alone, and Remo asked if she had a key to the building. He noted that it must be hard on someone as sensitive as herself to share a floor with those horrible men. Oh, those men weren't horrible. They were Gene's friends. They were the presidents of the three other unions which would join with Gene's, but Remo knew that already, didn't he?
Yes, Remo did. He even knew they were going to make the joining tomorrow. Those men, however, were unfaithful to their wives. Chris knew that and she knew the wives also. Remo wouldn't be the unfaithful kind, would he? Of course not. Could Remo have made love like that if he didn't love her deeply? By the way, did she know where to reach the wives? Yes, she did. She was also Gene's personal secretary. She was chosen for this because she could file things mentally instead of on paper.
No really? She couldn't do that, could she? Remo would like to see her reel off some things.
And so it went until Remo had the full web, the interlocking arrangements of one union with another, the monetary cement that bound closer than blood and tighter than concrete. Did Remo really love her? Of course he did. What sort of a person did she think he was?
Suddenly, footsteps in the night, scuffling footsteps kicking the broken glass before them. Remo turned around. There were eight, ranging from a youngster with afro and comb still in it, to one in his mid-thirties. Eight men with nothing to do at 1 a.m. on a hot spring night in the inner city.
"Oh, my God," said Chris.
"Don't worry," said Remo.
Two of the taller men in undershirts and bell bottoms, with multi-coloured high-heeled shoes and floppy pimp hats angled over their afros, came close. The others surrounded the white couple. Remo could see the black muscles glint in the street light.
"We out of our lily-white neighbourhood tonight, ain't we?" said the man on the left.
"The zoo was closed," said Remo, "so we thought we'd drop in here." He could feel Chris pinch his arm in terror.
"Oh you funny, man. Thank you for the white meat. White meat just love black meat."
Remo's voice was cold and remorseless. He did not wish to do anything without giving full warning of the consequences.
"You bring it out," said Remo. "It's coming off."
"Wrong, honky, yours is coming off," said the one on the left. He flashed a shiny razor. The one on the right had a bowie knife. The older man unveiled a chain. The youngster who couldn't have been more than nine or ten, unveiled an ice-pick. Remo felt Chris's body grow limp. She had fainted.
"Look. Last chance, fellas. I got nothing against you."
"You can run, honky. Leave the white pussy for the black brothers who know what to do with it. She just gonna love it." He smiled a white-toothed, glinting smile. The smile lasted only a second, and then it was a mass of blood as Remo moved through it with a left hand. The knife on the right went into the air. The chain went around a neck, and suddenly bodies were scurrying, running, fleeing out of the park. The youngster, swinging his pick wildly, suddenly realized he was alone.