American Sextet

by Warren Adler

  He was an agent now assigned to FBI Headquarters. Working with him on a case had led to a couple of dates, a consequence of her inexperience. She had, she recalled, deliberately aborted his interest, much to his confusion. It was his attitude she remembered most, because he didn't take kindly to her rejection, especially after they'd once slept together. For him, apparently such an act became a bond of fealty. It had set off in her a total revulsion against dating anyone in law enforcement. They needed too much praise, especially about their lovemaking. No, she had decided after Gribben. No more cops as lovers.

  "Let's split," she said suddenly, effecting a yawn to cover her agitation. It was nearly midnight.

  "Do you really think we're on to something?" Cates asked. It was obvious that he, too, wanted to get his hopes up about what might show up in the prints.

  "Yes," she answered firmly. "It may not be police business, but we are on to something."

  Back in her apartment she took a cold shower, perhaps a subconscious punishment to that other illogical female victim trapped inside of her. You can't be me, she rebuked that other self.

  Now listen, her logical, police self reasoned as she sat on her couch in an oversized terry cloth robe that she shared with Clint. She wore it as a security blanket, recalling his presence. She was, of course, directing her conversation to the phantom Dorothy, not the broken horror lying in the creek that day, but the sweet, soft, vulnerable female sister who apparently could not extricate herself from that mysterious illness, the male malady.

  Was the pain of it so unbearable, she wondered, that the only solution was to fling one's self to death like tossing away a used candy wrapper? Or was it necessary for her to be deliberately eliminated in order to protect some male fantasy of ambition, some public lie? Was the sexual game of dress-up so disgusting to confront that the man had to eliminate the witness to the supposed aberration? And was it really an aberration?

  She thought of herself and Clint, watching their sexual performance with that other observer's eye. It was a rather silly exercise really, grunting contorted bodies, a mad frenetic animal's dance. Was the human compulsion to pursue orgasmic ecstasy so powerful that the veneer of civilized behavior fell away like that other wafer-thin membrane? Recalling her times with Clint, she was certain it was. No part of them had gone unexplored, as if it were some immutable law that their flesh be joined together, melted as wax into a single conformation. And love? That, she knew, was the mind's way of initiating the process, completing the total oneness.

  She craved him now, a hunger powerful enough to trigger the entire spectrum of loss: longing, loneliness and despair. Nothing, she knew, was worse than being alone like this. Death could offer a tantalizing escape. Had it offered that to Dorothy?

  Then suddenly she was crawling out of a deep pit, conscious only of incomprehensible pleasure as she stirred in a bath of warm jelly, letting whatever was happening happen. In the soft dream, she felt the ecstasy begin, a release so pure, so powerful and delicious that it lifted her beyond happiness.

  "My God," she cried when her mind reluctantly accepted consciousness again. She was locked in his embrace, speared, in a literal sense, to the couch, his body still throbbing in the paroxysms of his own pleasure.

  "I couldn't resist," he said, when he had quieted. "Lying there so lovely and inviting. It was a sight to tempt the dead."

  "That was the most wonderful dream I ever had," she said. "You just can't imagine..."

  "I have eyes," he whispered. "And other antennae."

  "Thank goodness for that." She lovingly caressed him and he seemed to harden instantly.

  "Must be the forced absences," he said. The idea always filled her with panic. Was that at the core of it? Would their relationship disintegrate with permanence?

  "How quickly you erase the pain," she said later.

  "Pain?"

  She hadn't meant to say it. It was essentially the wrong time to trigger his guilt. Instantly she wondered if she had been deliberate. He closed his eyes and lay silently next to her. She watched as a tiny tear trickled down the side of his face.

  "I don't think I can hack it, Fi," he whispered.

  She turned away, watching the bright lines of the sunlight filter through the drawn blinds. Not now, she wanted to say, but her will had frozen. Why had he chosen just that moment?

  "Hurting you. Hurting the kids. Hurting her. We've been at it nearly twenty years. I need you. And I need them."

  Her? Do you need her? She wouldn't ever ask that question.

  "I suppose I have no courage," he continued. "But the fact is, Fi, I can't do it. I can't break it up. I can't tell her. It's horrendous, selfish. I never thought we'd get in so deep and I also can't bear the idea of your being just a mistress. I love you too much for that."

  Through her anguish, she felt the sense of revolt begin. No, she thought, I won't let him off the hook so easily.

  "Are you kissing me off?" She said it tautly, swallowing a backwash of tears. She wanted to hurt him, lash out, hang tough.

  "You have a right to a life."

  "Without you?"

  "You don't understand," he said. "I can't put you in this position. This town is full of other women. It's debilitating."

  "You meant a closet fuck." Her growing anger was making her stronger. "I've seen what that can do," she said, thinking again of Dorothy.

  "It's just not worth it, Fi." He had also regained his composure. Were they being civilized now?

  "Why not? We can play these games indefinitely. Until you get caught." She said it with a deliberate note of sarcasm. "Then it gets tacky. Now that you're a public figure. One way or another, it will hurt your career. Not to mention that you owe your job to your wife's boss." Did you go through something like this, Dorothy, she cried to herself.

  "Don't make it any more difficult, Fi."

  "Difficult? For whom? It's always been difficult for me."

  "I didn't twist your arm," he said. He was also capable of quick anger.

  "Precipitate an argument. Go ahead. It's an easy way out." Throwing down that gauntlet, she knew, was unfair. But didn't she have to test his resolve?

  Despite the harsh exchange he remained beside her naked, their bodies still touching. Her other self saw the humor in the scene, especially the costuming, or lack thereof. Aware that it might be their last time together, she suddenly started to trace patterns on his body with one finger, drawing curlicues down his chin, along the bony ridges of his neck, over the hump of his Adam's apple, down the forest of fur, circling the tiny hard nipples, downward still along the single strand of haired ridge. Her head had moved onto the hard shelf of his chest where she could hear his heart pumping, a steady, strong beat. She felt his hand caressing her forehead, sweeping the hair back, patting it lightly.

  Mysteriously, like some gorgeous beast rising from the dead, that special part of him twitched with renewal.

  "I'm making it hard for you," she thought, with giddiness, a message conveyed from one self to the other.

  "I wish..." His words trailed off, whatever thought it implied masked by a sigh of futility.

  "A goodbye gesture," she whispered bitterly, watching the smooth twitching organ now in her hand. She moved lower, caressing it with her lips, making tiny forays with her tongue. In her work, she saw it as an object of ridicule; their Johnson, they called it. They were always grabbing at it, clutching it, scratching it as if they needed to know it was still there. It was a terrible thing to be enslaved by something beyond your control, dependent on an involuntary nervous trigger.

  Salivating now, moving her lips along the smooth shaft, fingers touching the soft crenelated sacks and below, the tight hard gut of arousal, she wondered how many times it would take to defeat him, to destroy the arrogant potency. Suddenly, he was reaching out with his hands for mutuality, which she avoided by a surreptitious twist of her body downward, where he couldn't reach.

  Against her ear, she heard the giant pump of it, the surge o
f pulsating blood. For a few brief moments more, she would control him. Perhaps in his mind now, he was thinking that she was offering a tribute to his vaunted masculinity. Let him have his delusion as a parting gift. He tried to move, but she held him there, her mouth and hand pinning him.

  "I want you," he cried out the words as if it were a plea for mercy. "I need you."

  No more, she told herself. That part of her was out of bounds for him from this moment forward.

  "Please," he begged.

  Never!

  The army of herself attacked, determined that his last foray would land impotently in the air. See me now, she cried out to the nuns of her schooldays to whom the object in her hands and mouth was the ultimate symbol of the forbidden. Is this the beast you railed against, she wondered, her eyes open now, alert to what she believed was her final victory. With methodical deftness and clinical observation, she watched the thing twitch and spurt, offering its last gasp.

  Soon he was still, the giant pumping generators at rest as the proud knight slowly nodded. Am I free now, she wondered?

  She left him there, lying prostrate, his eyes hidden in the crook of his arm. He did not reach out to touch her as she slid away and went into the bathroom. In the shower, she rubbed her body raw, hoping to rid herself of the last vestiges of the affliction, urging the final ascendency of her rational self.

  By the time she'd dried herself, stimulating her skin with an aggressive toweling, she was freshened, renewed, stronger than she'd felt in months. The entire episode with Clint, nearly six months of madness, seemed already a thing of the past. As if to test the alertness of her new self, she concentrated on the various objects on the bathroom shelf, rearranging them neatly, her bath salts, her toilet waters, her perfumes. He had given her Arpege, a favorite of his, which she promptly poured down the sink. The gesture increased her new sense of well-being. Before the day was over, she vowed, she would rid herself of everything that reminded her of him.

  It annoyed her to see that he was still in her bed. Apparently he had fallen asleep. She decided to ignore him and dressed carefully, paying uncommon attention to her makeup. She put on a blouse and pleated skirt, demure clothes but still feminine, not the usual pants suits she wore to buttress her sexual neutrality. Surveying herself in the mirror, she decided that, whatever the anguish, it had not ravaged her. She was complete again, confident, the cobwebs blown from her mind.

  Her first act that day would be to rid herself of the compulsion to continue to investigate Dorothy Curtis's suicide. That was total madness. The eggplant had been right. As for Cates, she would offer no explanations. He had been reluctant to pursue it in the first place.

  Usually she made coffee and offered him a cup before leaving, an idea she quickly rejected. She wanted no more post mortems. Clint was right. She was not cut out to be a mistress. Too many traditional mores against it had been programmed into her to keep it from working. It was time to devote herself to her work again, to regain control over her life. Once she'd been determined to follow an unwavering track in order to become the first woman police chief in the history of the MPD. Indeed, the first lady chief in the United States. Admittedly, she'd been side-tracked, although all she'd lost was time in the process. She was still the best goddamned detective in homicide, wasn't she?

  Tiptoeing around the apartment, she selected a pocketbook that matched her outfit and transferred her belongings. Then she buckled on her piece, shifting it round so that it rested on the back of her hip.

  Not looking at his sleeping figure in her bed, she started toward the door, the new and restored Fiona ready to tackle the world. Before she could grasp the knob the telephone rang, breaking the silence. Her first reaction was to avoid it, turn the doorknob, flee. Instead, instinctively, at the second ring she rushed to pick it up. Peripherally she saw him stir, the arm move as he hoisted himself on his elbow, watching her.

  "Fiona?" It was Dr. Benton's voice.

  "Yes, Dr. Benton."

  "I tried to get you last night."

  There was a pause at his end. An ominous urgency flickered inside of her, as if the new Fiona was wavering.

  "I got the toxics back," he said. "On that woman."

  "Dorothy."

  "Nothing," he said. "She was clean."

  She felt a sense of disorientation, remaining silent, turning her back to avoid Clint's stare. What had she expected?

  "Did you think she was poisoned?" he asked.

  Her heart lurched. Was Dorothy betraying her now? A nerve palpitated in her temple.

  "Yes," she admitted. By something, she added to herself.

  "It's only a suicide, Fiona." There was a long pause. "Why did you think otherwise?" Like the others, he was dismissing it, writing it off.

  "Are you all right, Fiona?" he asked gently.

  "I m not sure, Dr. Benton," she sighed.

  "Leave it alone, Fiona. Accept it."

  Accept what, she wondered, disoriented again, the earlier resolve disappearing.

  "She didn't have to die," she said.

  "It's not police business, Fiona." He paused for a moment. "Oh yes," he said, "the vaginal smear."

  She had forgotten.

  "Evidence of recent intercourse," he said. "And that's no crime either, Fiona."

  "Depends," she said, her resolve cracking. So she was with a man before she died.

  "It's not a crime, Fiona," he repeated before he hung up.

  The image of the ravaged young body returned to her thoughts. I won't desert you, Dorothy. On the table near the phone were the prints that Flannagan had given her, tossed aside now.

  "Damn," she muttered, retrieving the plastic envelope and slipping it into her purse.

  She heard Clint's voice.

  "Fiona?" It was tentative, slightly hoarse.

  "Close the door on your way out," she said, without looking back. "There's no need to make the bed." It was a gratuitous remark, merely for effect, filling the void.

  He had never made the bed anyway.

  X

  When Jason saw the account of the council meeting in the paper the next morning, comparing it to what he had heard on the radio, he knew he had it wrong.

  "You screwed me," he shouted into the phone at the man who had subbed for him, a stringer for one of the weeklies. The Fairfax County Council had voted to rescind a sewer moratorium for one of the sewer districts. Later, apparently after the man had left the meeting, they had tacked on an addendum, putting a 60-day limit on the moratorium. A minor point, perhaps, but not for the Washington newspaper and for a reporter under in-house surveillance.

  "So they'll print a retraction," the stringer said. Jason had given him twenty-five bucks. "It's not that important."

  "You don't understand."

  "Want your money back?"

  He had hung up in a rage. He was too close to have something go wrong now. The result was predictable. The editor of the Virginia section called him into the suburban office, a tiny clutch of desks in a storefront with word processing computer connections to the main building.

  "You fuck up, it's my ass," the editor told him. He was a thin young man with an Adam's apple that bobbed up and down as if he'd swallowed a ping-pong ball. Taking it from such a lowly flunky taxed his self-control even more. Barely listening, he tried to think other thoughts, of Dorothy and how far they had come in engineering his plan. Don't blow, he warned himself, not now.

  "It's not that important," he said, repeating the stringer's line.

  "It is to me," the editor replied, inspecting him contemptuously. "I'm too young to be a has-been."

  No you're not, Jason thought, a broad smile forming inwardly behind a taut mask. You're going to be a never-was. Little did the poor bastard know that standing contritely before him was a man who was sitting on the juiciest story of the century, a man about to make history.

  What he dreaded most was losing his accessibility to Webster, who, despite other misgivings, would know a good story when he saw
one. Hang in there, baby, he told himself.

  "I'm sorry," he said to his young superior. "It won't happen again."

  It mollified the man, but indicated to Jason that time could be running out. They had to move faster.

  Time!

  It had come down now to the management of time. Dorothy's time was being programmed like a computer. She was having affairs with five men at once, a feat of planning that sometimes approached farcical proportions. To keep them separated they had to resort to all kinds of creative subterfuge. At first, when there was a conflict, he had instructed her to say she was having her period. But they soon found out that keeping track of her cycle in five different stages was almost impossible.

  Finally, they managed to force the assignations to some regularity. The men were all married. Most of them operated in a goldfish bowl with assistants who scheduled their time. Also, the men were perpetually going out of town on short trips, although keeping track of those schedules sometimes proved formidable.

  After a month of rotating the five, the scheduling process boiled down to weekday evenings, one lunch hour and one weekend evening, usually Sundays. The general seemed to prefer Sunday evenings, when he was allegedly playing tennis at the club. The Czech had reserved Tuesday and Friday evenings, the senator Wednesday, the congressman Thursday and good old Arthur Fellows kept his lunch hour free every Monday

  "We should make a time and motion study," he told her one day after a repetitious debriefing. She didn't understand and he didn't bother to explain it. The sexual parts had become, like a bad pornographic movie, somewhat of a bore. But he continued to probe for any information slippage that might be potentially embarrassing. In her wonderfully naive way, Dorothy had filled up enough tapes with their indiscretions to fill volumes. Still, he was not ready to end it. There seemed always to be more to find out.