Max

by Peter Berczeller

  She didn’t say a word while I was going through my act, but began to look more and more serious. She was going to have to figure this one out by herself. Meanwhile, Pete was turning glum. With the puss of a guy who brings his three-year-old to a could-have-a-prodigy-on-my-hands piano competition, and all the kid can do is make in his pants. I’m still not sure what he expected. Get the mystery solved in a jiffy? Drop everything so I could help her out?

  As they were leaving, I couldn’t help but notice the little pat she planted on his ass. Looked to me like it wasn’t the first time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SPANISH FLIES

  October, 1984

  That night, before going to sleep, I had a waking dream. That happens to me sometimes. A newsreel playing in my mind.

  After the first bottle of wine at dinner, they were already very palsy-walsy. He bet her a dollar she wouldn’t go to the ladies’ room, take off her panties, and bring them back to him so he could sport them in his handkerchief pocket. Which she did, in a doggie bag graciously provided by the management. The fancy Scandinavian restaurant was on the ground floor of the house where he lived, so they didn’t have far to go to take the elevator up to his apartment. Self-service, nobody else around. As soon as the door slid shut, he had her halfway down on the ancient, red plush seat, licking her neck and ears with his Aquavit-soaked tongue. Then dropping down to her nipples, which were starting to draw more and more attention to themselves through her thin blouse. He was just about to push the emergency stop button, when they reached his floor. Private landing.

  Quickly into the living room where – it was a cool evening – a fire was burning. In front of the massive marble chimney, there was a big multicolored rug, with any number of what looked like little antennas coming out of it. Pete didn’t miss a beat, and continued where he’d left off. Again started working his way down to the nipples. By then, the buttons had already popped off her blouse, which was jettisoned in a hurry. No bra to delay the proceedings. Getting rid of her wrap-around skirt was next on the agenda. There are two known ways to remove these. Either the one helping with the undressing walks around and around – like those camels in North Africa – or the wearer goes into a whirling dervish act. Ended up a little of both. Pete walked a couple of circles, and she twirled some. Result: the skirt ended up on the floor like a shroud, with the result that Alison was lying naked on the carpet.

  Not just any ordinary carpet. This rug was 100% made up of Spanish flies. Which are very hard to come by, since they mostly go up in a puff of smoke right after they release their liquid. That’s the Spanish Fly you kept on hearing about as a kid. The potion that’s supposed to throw you into sexual overdrive as soon as you drink it. An inferior product, nothing like the flies themselves.

  There she was, spread out on the rug. Those little stand-up things that looked like antennas (actually, the flies’ legs) tickled her every which way. They played a little overture for her, while the conductor was getting ready to take his opening bows.

  They can deny it all they want, but it’s a fact. People check each other out the first time they go to bed. They may act like they’re blinded by passion, but still, they don’t miss a trick. Didn’t expect her to have gray pubic hair; are his testicles undescended, or what? Buyer’s remorse. But what Alison saw when Pete took off his pants made her speechless. Can’t blame her. He had the kind of equipment that could easily qualify for a National Endowment Award. Not only that, but it took just a few seconds for it to stretch to a full 180 degrees. Made me wonder if he wasn’t drinking the solution he made out of the post cingulate cortexes of his mice. Giving him this world-class hard-on.

  When he got on the carpet with her, the legs began agitating in every which direction, while making a whirring sound. They were playing games with her now. Threading their way into tiny – and not so tiny – spaces. Beating away – sometimes alone, sometimes together – at spots on her rear end. Mini-spankings.

  I’d been naïve, when I first saw them together, to wonder what was up between them. Now, it hit me right between the eyes. His centipede-without-legs sauntering and slithering its way right through her vestibule onto the living quarters. Its trajectory helped along by jets discharging all around, like an automatic car wash. Spraying out the salty tears of joy wept by the sisters Bartholin, who were watching the proceedings like the twin lions at the entrance to the New York Public Library.

  If you didn’t know better, the centipede was acting like it wasn’t sure how far it wanted to go. Kept moving in, then coming halfway out again. Alison started yelling “yes” every time it happened. Pete playing cat and mouse with his centipede, Alison now wailing “more” between each “yes.” Listened hard for the question, but all I heard was what sounded like an answer. Made me think of Onkel Sigi Freud, who addressed himself to one of the fundamental questions of all time: What do women want? Not that he ever came up with a good answer to his own question. In that brief moment, I tried to hook up the answerless question with the questionless answer that kept bouncing up and down in front of me.

  By now, the situation was rapidly going downhill. Meanwhile, Pete not saying anything. As much of a loudmouth as he usually is, he’s quiet and deliberate in the OR. That’s the way he was now. Didn’t seem to bother her any. By this time, she was screaming so loud, she couldn’t have heard him anyway. All along, the Spanish legs going at it nonstop. Making her do a Fandango, or maybe a Tarantella on that carpet. Gotta hand it to her. You try to dance, pinned down like she was.

  Pretty soon, I heard this muffled little explosion. Like when they detonate a bomb under water. She was having a convulsion. I’ve seen a lot of them in my work. Arched her back, threw her head around. Still dancing on her back. Yelling blue murder, words I couldn’t understand.

  Afterwards, dead quiet. Even the Spanish legs calmed down. Alison and Pete gulping and breathing fast, like when you’ve been under water for too long. Then a popping sound, the one that comes from two sweating skins pulling apart, breaking the vacuum.

  So, what do you talk about with a stranger during the time that turns out to be either between or after? With or your wife or girlfriend, an opportunity to discuss important things. Has the gardener been by yet?; or, what are we doing next weekend? Close-to-the-heart stuff like that. But with somebody you’ve just introduced yourself into, it’s not as if you can get up and applaud, or quickly run down and buy a bunch of flowers. Making small talk after something big has happened is tough. What’s left then? A lot of stretching, with a dumb grin on your face. Every few minutes, huddling and cuddling.

  Not only that, but plenty of “wow,” “amazing,” and “you’re the best.” Meanwhile, keeping an eye out for the suspense to end. Either goodbye for now, or happy days are here again.

  The latter was what happened here. Couldn’t tell who started it off this time. Now it was all Alison’s show. My mind doesn’t own a telephoto lens, so I don’t know how much Pete was contributing. Still, quick like a bunny, she went operative. Got on all fours, and right away bent her head down.

  That hit me where I live. How could I have been so slow all along? To miss what was wrong with her neck? That steady nod was there from the very beginning. Should have picked up on it, even then. What one of our neurologists, Al Quicksilver, baptized “cocksuckers’ neck.” Called it something less graphic, “Fellatio-Related Neck Derangement” in the article he wrote about it.

  Mystery solved. From what I could see, her act pretty routine, except the end was a little special. Alison was just about to capture the rapture, when her lungs called for a split-second time out. Which made Pete waste his seed all over a corner of the carpet. Like when your home run is called back because the guy on first base needs to tie his shoelaces. Right away makes the Spanish legs do a wave, like they’re fans at the ballpark. Now, all of a sudden, Alison and Pete have a lot to talk about. “I’m so sorry,” “it’s OK,” “it’s not OK,” “really, it is OK.” Next, she’s offering him a rain c
heck. He couldn’t help but accept, the greedy bastard. But always the gentleman. The Aer Lingus flight started taxiing down the runway, about to take off any minute. Anybody’s guess, how long this Alphonse and Gaston routine was going to take. J.S. Bach was right on the money with his cantata “Ich habe genug.” My feelings exactly. Time to turn off the projector.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  LET’S HEAR IT FROM THE KOLOSVARER REBBE

  October, 1984

  Pete and me, we have a history. Remember how he took away Rosie, the red-headed secretary with the major epilogue and prologue? But fucking around with my fantasy woman, that’s where I draw the line. The Alison in my head was off-limits to everybody. Just because I couldn’t have her, didn’t mean she wasn’t mine. From what I could see, Pete was guilty of breaking and entering. Or did she unlock the door, and Pete didn’t need to break it down? Think of it this way. First he stuffs her with exotic foreign drinks, then he forces her to drop her panties. In public! Also, he hypnotizes her into taking off her dress by walking around her, slower and slower. Ended up throwing her down on the carpet and forcing himself on her. What choice did she have? She had to submit. Who knows what he might have done if she’d resisted?

  OK, that permanent nod, her head bent forward all the time, that doesn’t make her sound like much of a greenhorn in the sex department? Still, that all happened before I met her. Now she’s mine. Even if no way am I hers.

  I’ve been bending your ears about my fantasy woman. Still, that doesn’t mean that what happened between Alison and Pete was a fantasy too. But since the whole scene played out only in my mind, how do I know for sure they did what I saw them do? Here’s a last-minute tip from the sainted Kolosvarer Rebbe. “How do you know they didn’t do it?” he mused, when he pronounced judgment at the end of some long-forgotten dispute brought to his court.

  Go top that.

  CHAPTER SIX

  REVENGE FANTASIES REDUX

  Early November, 1984

  I already told you about the decision I made when I came back after the St Marton caper: to lay off social engineering for good. No more killing baddies. Making their suicide center dance to my tune. Turning off the electricity this time around. Giving people a chance to live, instead of knocking themselves off because the suicide center was having a bad day.

  But what I’d just witnessed put an end to my good intentions. Seeing Pete in action with Alison put a new itch in my trigger finger. Even if I shot the laser at him, that wouldn’t get Alison scurrying over to my corner. I understood that. But what I was really after was revenge. The same as what I felt about the St Marton murderers, even though Pete’s crime was just a minor misdemeanor compared to theirs. By now, his very existence hurt my feelings. Seeing him, or even just knowing he was somewhere around, would always remind me the difference between us. For me, he was a jerk. Still, there was no escaping the truth that women flocked to him. That exotic accent, the carpet with the tickling flies, and the size of his member – mine wouldn’t have minded being part of that exclusive club – made him irresistible. I had a monopoly on my social workers, but that was small change in comparison. Alison was a big fish, and he’d hooked her in no time.

  The rush I’d felt in St Marton, when I was all ready to do in the local Murder Inc., was coming back to me now. I could see it all in front of me. Offering to take a nice sideways snapshot of the soon-to-be-late Persian Pete. Then waiting a couple of weeks for him to take a jump from his office window, or put a plastic bag over his head. Any way he wanted; I’d leave him the choice. Afterwards, offering Alison a shoulder to cry on, big-brother style. The Chief declaiming some bullshit about how Pete was a fallen soldier on the battlefield of science. Revenge rearing its beautiful head. Getting back at him for Alison. Also for Rosie, the secretary with the unforgettable ass; another putdown for me. Not to speak of making a laughing stock of the very project that was now about to kill him.

  In Hollywood, they do sequels of old-time blockbusters. This was my sequel to the St Marton scenario. The fake camera was doing cartwheels on top of the filing cabinet. Raring to go.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ALISON CONFIDENTIAL

  Mid-November, 1984

  Shooting the laser at people takes planning. If you want to kill somebody, aiming the gun in the general direction of the head or the chest, that’s enough to do the job. But with my weapon, just behind the right ear is the place you have to hit. I’d proven that with the rats and the primates with the Tyrolean hats, so that’s what I had to do with Pete. Which meant I had to figure out the right place and time to administer the shot. With no witnesses around, goes without saying.

  One morning, while I was doping out the logistics, Alison sashays into my office. No Pete this time around. She was in the neighborhood, just wanted to say hello. Yeah, tell it to the Marines. She had on this bland puss that women wear when they’re about to fuck you over. When it’s the same words but without the “over,” facial maneuvers all different. Dreamy look, drooping lids; giving you a preview of the immediate future.

  Her hair was down, no upsweep this time around. Shiny, above-the-knee silk dress clinging to her, discreet flowers in a pattern designed to identify her major landmarks. The whole package putting out a perfume which momentarily improved the atmospheric conditions of my smelly office.

  As she was sitting across from me, legs straight out, there was another fragrance that called attention to itself. The Underskirt Factor. It’s not a big topic of conversation, but it can be a real deal maker – or breaker – in sex. Because it’s not only what reaches your nose that counts, but what your brain makes of it. So, if a woman really turns you on, just the slightest hint coming from that general direction echoes in your brain. Meanwhile, the other noses in the vicinity don’t notice a thing. Like when they use dogs to pick up on the scent of guys who just busted out of jail.

  I read an article a while ago about a study in which they did some fancy mathematics and came up with a number which could not only tell you if you loved somebody, but also how much. All the way from an Underskirt Factor of 1, which means just about, to a 5, which is in the crazy-about range.

  I’d only seen her twice before. I knew very little about her. Just what she did for a living and her academic credentials. Maybe that was better than getting involved in the nitty-gritty of her everyday life. Let’s say, she’s a virago around the time of her periods, or a gastronomic menace in the kitchen. So far, I’d spent a lot more time fantasizing about her than actually being face-to-face with her. Still, no need to tell you what her Underskirt Factor rating was for me. Too bad more men don’t know how the right whiff can tip you off about who’s the one for you. Also, how it can save you a lot of grief, if you catch on to the vice-versa.

  She got to the point in a hurry. Batting her baby blues, coming to see me accidentally on purpose. Doing her all-business hoochykoochy, with me as an audience of one. Made me realize she’d caught on to how I felt about her from the very beginning. So now I was going to have to pay the price, by giving her information. Exactly what kind, was bound to come out any minute.

  Did I remember, the last time she was here, when we talked about suicide? In relation to the five Austrians who’d done themselves in, to be exact? Yes, I did remember. Mind you, not that she was sorry they were dead. Why they did it; that’s what still puzzled her. In the meantime, she’d gotten more info from her Austrian contacts. Who, she didn’t say. I riffed on that for a few seconds. A Manchurian Candidate in the St Marton police? A plant belonging to the Chalfin Documentation Center, waiting for just this opportunity to justify the long-term investment?

  For a few days in the summer, a foreign type was seen in the center of St Marton. Nondescript looking, thick glasses; very average. Wearing hushpuppies and a baseball cap. Smiled a lot, the way Americans do when they can’t speak the local language. Carrying two big cameras, one on each shoulder. He’d been spotted outside Baumgartner’s sawmill, also in front of the local church. Someone
even remembered him from a tour group led by Herr Strobl up in the fortress, in Forchtenstein. The accurate reportage sounded like the Mossad to me. Israelis, posing as local yokels, the accent down pat. Trolling for info, as if they were fishing in the Red Sea. Sending the whole package special delivery – like lobsters wrapped in ice – to the mastermind Super Shikse in New York.

  One way to wriggle out of this was to play dumb. “Why are you telling me all this?” I asked. “I may have a professional interest in suicide, but no way am I a detective.” “Listen,” she says, “Akbar has been telling me about what you call ‘amateur suicides.’ The ones who do it from one minute to the next. That’s exactly what happened with these Austrians.”

  She was onto something. A guy who could well be me, hanging around a little town. Pretty soon, five local citizens bite the dust by their own hand. You don’t have to be Inspector Maigret to figure that one out. She had me dead to rights, but she still had no clue about how I did it. I was playing for time, so I came up with a question of my own. I was ready to admit to her that I was somehow responsible for those bizarre deaths in St Marton, but it would have to be in exchange for what I urgently needed to know.

  “You’ll find out soon enough what happened over there,” I answered, “but I have a question of my own. Exactly what’s up between you and Akbar?” She looked taken aback. Here she was busting her ass to solve a mystery, and I was being a busybody, digging for inside dope on her love life. Still, she must have understood that this was going to be a quid pro quo. Answer my question, and she’d get some answers of her own.

  “We’re close,” she says in a little girl voice. “I’m crazy about him.”

  What Alison saw in this greaseball, I’ll never know. The only possibility I could think of was what I saw that night in the newsreel in front of me, when he dropped his pants.