by Lanyon, Josh
“You have a great laugh,” Jack said.
“I have?”
He nodded, threading my hair through his fingers. “I kept hearing it tonight, kept thinking how funny you’d find this—or that.” He seemed almost puzzled—nearly as puzzled as I at the idea that Jack had spent his date thinking about what I might find humorous. Especially since I didn’t remember laughing a lot around Jack.
He leaned over and kissed me, his hand sliding down to my hip. I thrust up against him, and he said, “Do you want to fuck for real?”
“Wasn’t last night for real?”
“Last night was great. Can I fuck you?”
I thought it over. Felt an unwilling smile tugging at my mouth. Maybe I really did have a weird sense of humor, because there wasn’t much funny about that. Ironic maybe.
“Sure,” I said, “but go easy. It’s been awhile for me.”
“I won’t hurt you,” he said solemnly, and I smiled. Yes, you will, I thought, but I didn’t say it.
I turned over onto my belly and shivered as Jack ran warm hands down my sides.
“Very nice. Sleek and brown, like a…a…”
“An otter?”
He chuckled. “Not exactly. Maybe a mink. You’ve got a temper like a mink, don’t you?”
“Me? I don’t think so.” I closed my eyes as he ran a light hand over the curve of my ass. Very nice. Just palm against bare skin was lovely.
“Do you have any lube?”
“There’s some old stuff in the drawer next to the bed.”
I heard the squeak of springs, the slide of the drawer, then the tear of foil. A moment later I heard the squirt of the tube of lubricant and shivered. There was another pause before a fingertip insinuated itself at that sensitive pucker of flesh. Lots of warm gel and a gentle press. I expelled a long breath, consciously relaxing my muscles, but Jack’s entry was more caress than push. He slipped past the little ring of muscle, homing, pressing against the prostate.
I shivered.
“Good?” I could hear the smile in his voice. I grunted acknowledgement, easing myself onto his hand, unable to concentrate on more than that delicate pushing and rubbing inside me, wanting more of it…and deeper.
So fucking long. I’d forgotten how good this could feel…
After a time Jack’s second finger slipped in, slick and warm with jelly; I moaned, humping back. His breathing sounded funny, rough and fast. “You’re beautiful like this.” He moved his fingers back and forth in that shattery massage that had me squirming on the bed. I needed the cock brushing the cleft of my ass to be inside me.
“Now,” I urged. The voice didn’t even sound like me. “Fuck me now, Jack.”
He moved his hand some more, refusing to be rushed, petting and palpating, and I didn’t know whether to swear or start sobbing with the need twisting through my guts.
“Jack!” I groaned when I just couldn’t take it any longer.
And there he was, guiding himself in, controlling the thick weight of his penetration—I could feel him shaking with need and hunger, but he held it in check—until he was in, buried to the balls, and we both moaned together in relief that sounded like harmony.
He rocked against me, and I rocked back, and we slid into effortless rhythm, like we’d been working on this routine for years, like we were fuck buddies of long standing—or true lovers.
Slow and sweet, push and pull, the timed thrust and instinctive contractions that changed after a time to something neither of us could control, something powerful and primitive. Our sweat-soaked bodies labored, the sheets twisted and tangled, lungs gasping for air as we pounded against each other…the hardness of bone and muscle, the softness of skin and genitals. One hand fisted in my pillows, the other milked my dick ruthlessly while Jack’s hands dug into my hips, and I knew I’d have bruises there and didn’t care. It felt good being held so hard, pierced so deeply.
At last I began to come and I buried my face in the damp linen of my pillow and howled my relief. Jack kissed the back of my neck, and a few moments later I felt his body go rigid.
Hotness pulsed into me, spilled through me. He was coming in my ass; I was wet with his semen. Jack trembled, transfixed as orgasm rippled through him in blinding waves, and then he collapsed on top of me and started laughing.
And that was something we had in common because I loved that husky, breathless laugh of his.
I chuckled too, and he stopped laughing and said, “Turn over, I want to kiss you.” I dragged myself onto my back, and Jack hauled me into his arms and covered my mouth. The kiss surprised me, wet and deep and hungry as though he couldn’t get enough. He was kissing me like I wanted to kiss him, but wouldn’t have dared.
“Was that okay?” he asked at last, cuddling me against his side.
“Fucking A,” I returned, and he laughed again, closing his eyes, growing quiet.
I reached over, jerked the sheet over us.
* * * * *
In the morning we were relaxed and easy together, and the give and take of pleasure was quick and gentle.
“Are we swimming this morning?” Jack asked, when I brought him a cup of coffee a little later. I sat down on the foot of the bed. I liked looking at him in my bed. Liked the brownness of him against white sheets, liked the pillow-ruffled softness of his hair, liked the contentment of his sleepy gray eyes as he sipped his coffee.
“I am. Do you have time?”
He glanced at the clock, considered. “I’ve got a few errands to run before work…but sure.” He took another swallow of coffee.
“What’s your sign?” I asked, curious.
His smile was wry. “Yield? I don’t know. What’s yours?”
“Stay alert. Expect new traffic patterns.”
He chuckled.
“Seriously. What month were you born?”
“I can’t be serious about astrology. That’s what you’re talking about, right?”
I nodded. “I’m just curious.”
“That’s how it starts. Next thing you know you’re dialing Madam Cleo, credit card in hand.” He sighed. “April eleventh. Aries.” He glanced at my face. “Is that good or bad?”
I rose from the bed. “Beats me. Maybe I’ll ask Roman Mayfield. He left a message setting up another meeting.”
“This is the guy who left the tarot card on your door?”
“Yes. I didn’t tell you. I finally got to interview Stephen Ball yesterday.”
“Still think he’s your murderer?”
I found my swim trunks, pulled them on. “I don’t know. I don’t like him, but…I don’t know. He thinks—or says he thinks—that it was the husband. And if it wasn’t the husband, he says it was Gloria Rayner.”
“What was her motive supposed to be again? They both wanted the same part?”
“And maybe the same man—Stephen Ball. That reminds me. I need to try to call him again.”
Jack finished his coffee and threw back the sheets. “You make your phone call and I’ll meet you down at the pool.” He picked his jeans off the footboard. Even in the heat of the moment, Jack had managed to avoid throwing his clothes on the floor; I found that sort of endearing.
While Jack went upstairs, I tried calling Stephen Ball again. Morning though it was, he wasn’t at home—or least not at home to me—and I had to leave another message.
By the time I got outside, Jack was already in the pool doing laps.
I dived in, the water chill and refreshing despite the fact that it was already getting hot; air conditioners were starting to hum all over the complex.
Jack and I swam laps, which inevitably turned into a race, but it was friendly and I don’t think he took it too badly when I beat him by an arm’s length—both times. We horsed around for a little longer and then swam for the stairs in the deep end.
Climbing out of the pool, I felt the aura sweep over me…too much light flooding over me, bright and remorseless, bleaching out my vision. My heart sped up, but it was already too la
te. I felt that shift in balance, a dizzy drop though I was still gripping the railing. I put my hand out. “Jack…will you help me?”
I came back to awareness of grass tickling my face, the heat of the sun, the smell of chlorine. Someone was speaking to me, quietly, slowly.
“That’s it. That’s it. Take your time. Everything’s okay.” He was running his hand up and down my bare arm.
I croaked, “Jack?”
“Right here.”
Swallowing hard, I breathed in the smell of the grass and soil and flowers and my own sweat and sickness. I felt sleepy, weak.
“What’s…wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” Jack sounded definite about that. “You had a seizure. You’re okay now.”
I opened my eyes, trying to focus. Jack’s face was hard, despite the gentleness of his touch. I closed my eyes against the truth I could read there, and hot tears threatened to spill from under my lashes.
“Don’t,” he said tersely. “I can’t take you crying.”
“No. Sorry.” I wiped the back of my arm across my face, tried to roll over so that I could push up. I felt so fucking feeble, still quivering with the physical and emotional shock; it must have been a bad one. Jack’s arm came around me at once. He was naked and wet—no, he was wearing a pair of swim trunks. And so was I.
I remembered that we had been swimming. And then it got confusing.
Just for moment I let myself rest against him. This is good-bye, I thought. This will be the end of it. I don’t blame him.
Closing my eyes, I was enfolded by comforting sensations: Jack’s sun-warmed scent, the brush of soft body hair, the hard pound of his heart beneath my ear. His heart was fast; I’d scared the hell out of him. I panted into his chest while Jack’s hands smoothed up and down my back, familiar and reassuring.
“Everything’s okay now,” he said. I had a feeling he was talking to himself.
I felt abjectly grateful to him for holding me—for the protection his arms offered. I needed that now, needed that reassurance, that anchor to reality—even if the safety of Jack’s arms was more of a dream than reality. I held tight to him, but I must have drifted off because I was startled to hear someone speaking overhead. The voice was fuzzy, loud. Jack answered quietly, “Chill out, Wallace. We’re fine. We’re going inside in a minute.”
I pried my eyes open. We were sitting on the grass in the courtyard. I was plastered against Jack. Our landlord, Mr. Wallace, stood over us, an expression of extreme distaste on his face. I pulled away, got to my knees, and couldn’t seem to figure out what to do next. Jack rose, taking me by the arms and drawing me the rest of the way to my feet. Mr. Wallace stepped back as though fearing contamination.
“This kind of thing can’t go on,” Mr. Wallace said. “There are other residents to consider.”
What the hell was he talking about? What did he think was going on? I didn’t have the energy to figure it out then. “I have to sleep,” I said woozily, leaning back into the arm Jack offered.
He helped me across the courtyard, opening my apartment door and letting us inside the air-conditioned dimness.
“I have to lie down,” I told Jack.
“I know.” He guided me down the hall to the bedroom, everything just as we’d left it a little more than an hour earlier, bedclothes still tumbled into a ball. I folded onto the side of the mattress, vaguely aware of Jack moving around, shaking out the sheets. His silence seemed ominous.
“It’s the stress,” I muttered. I rubbed my head tiredly. “I’m taking my meds. I’m doing everything right. It just happens sometimes…” I flinched at the snap of linen, avoided looking at him as he moved around the foot of the bed.
Tears started in my eyes. Hell. Not that. I wiped my eyes on the back of my arm. I wanted to say something, apologize, but what was there left to say? Instead I stretched out in the cool sheets, let my weighted lids drop shut. They flew open again as I felt Jack tugging at my clammy swim trunks. I couldn’t see him through the blur of tears.
“Lift up, Tim,” he ordered, and I obediently raised enough for him to peel them off me.
His touch was impersonal, nonerotic. I couldn’t read his face at all, but I didn’t need to. I closed my eyes again. Felt him packing pillows around me. Did he think I was going to roll off the bed? It didn’t matter. The nest of pillows was comfortable, and I turned on my side, putting an arm around one fat spongy pillow, snuggling into it. I felt the top sheet come floating down over me.
* * * * *
When I opened my eyes again it was dark outside. The bedroom light was on and Jack stood over me, frowning.
I blinked up at him, then rose up on my elbows, mumbling, “What time is it? Did I oversleep…?”
“Relax,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay before I left for work.”
“You’ve been here the whole time?” At the horror in my voice, his grim mouth relaxed into a lopsided grin. “Pretty much. I want you to lock up after I go.” He was dressed for work in jeans, blazer, and one of those immaculate white shirts. Did police detectives work at night?
I sat up, started to push back the sheet, and realized I was naked. Somehow I no longer felt comfortable trotting around nude in front of Jack.
“Thanks,” I said awkwardly. “I’ll do that.”
He hesitated. Then he bent and kissed me, his mouth cool and minty fresh.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. We…should talk.”
I couldn’t wait. Another chat where Jack explained why he didn’t want to get serious and why we should probably lay off for a while.
I nodded.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m great,” I snapped.
“Good,” he returned equally curt, and turned away. I grabbed my bathrobe as I followed him into the hall.
Jack let himself out without another word, without so much as a glance my way, and I locked the door after him.
* * * * *
I opened a can of soup for dinner, and spent a quiet, dispirited evening watching TV and flipping idly through the Life magazine I’d picked up the day before.
I was drifting off to the sounds of canned laughter when the phone rang, shocking me back to awareness. I dug the phone out from under the sofa, answered, and was surprised to find Stephen Ball finally returning my phone call.
And sounding none too pleased—or sober—about it.
“I just had a couple of follow-up questions,” I said after apologizing for disturbing Mr. Hollywood after a hard day of golfing and drinking.
“How much more can there be to say about this?” Ball demanded. “It happened half a century ago. I can’t understand why you’re stirring this up.”
“Two questions and I’ll be out of your hair,” I promised.
“Like what?”
“Do you know how The Lovers card on Eva’s body got there?”
“What the hell are you accusing me of?” he roared. “You know goddamned well how that card got there. Her killer—”
I interrupted, “If her killer was Will Burack, how did he get hold of a card from Roman Mayfield’s tarot deck? No one saw him at the party that night and Mayfield left the cards with his cloak and hat and gloves in the bar at the Garden of Allah. Someone would have seen him in the bar.”
Silence. Ball said, “Maybe it wasn’t one of Mayfield’s cards.”
“It was. Mayfield identified it. The card was missing from his own deck. I think Eva must have had the card with her, but by all accounts Eva didn’t have a reading that night. So either she stole the card out of the pack when it was left in the bar or someone else—”
“All right!” he flared. “I filched the card during my reading. Roman never noticed, pompous prick that he was. I slipped the card with my key to Eva when we danced that night. It was just…nonsense. Just romantic nonsense.” He paused and I could hear him breathing noisily down the line. “She was so beautiful that night. So…desirable. I wanted her and she wanted me.”
<
br /> Another piece of the puzzle snapped into place. The killer had not brought the card with him, but the card had meant something to the killer. Or…at least the image and words “The Lovers” had meant something to the killer.
“One last question,” I said. “Can you recall whether the card was upright or reversed?”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Was the picture on the card upside down or right side up?”
“How the hell would I…” I could hear the connection crackling emptily. He said a little unsteadily, “Upside down, I think. I can’t be sure…but…I seem to remember upside down.”
“Upside down.” I felt a surge of energy. “And it looked like it had been placed on her body deliberately, you said.”
“That’s right. Why would it matter?” Ball asked.
“Maybe it doesn’t. But in a reading, the meaning of the card can be changed depending on whether the card is reversed or upright. It wasn’t clear in the crime scene photos, and it was never mentioned in the report. In fact, according to all the reports, it was pinned to her dress.”
“Maybe they didn’t want to talk about her breasts.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The top of her dress—the bodice—was ripped and you could see her breasts. Maybe they didn’t want to talk about that. The papers weren’t like they are today. They still had some standards, some morals.”
“Uh…right,” I said. Ball went on talking, but I’d stopped listening. It was sinking in on me that I might have accidentally stumbled on the first real break in a fifty-year-old murder case.
Chapter Eleven
“And that’s a picture of me and Eva with Louis B. Mayer.” Gloria stabbed at the black-and-white snapshot with a scarlet talon. “He died the same year—just a month or so after Eva.” She gave me a sly look from beneath her false eyelashes. “You know what they say his last words were?”
“Cut and print?”
She laughed that smoky laugh. “Nah, but that’s not bad, baby. Nope, his last words were ‘Nothing matters.’”
