"In other words," she said, "you don't want to be bothered."
"Good thinking," I said.
This golf and tennis club I belong to is a great place.
Marleen hates it but I love it. She'll only go out there for the New Year's Eve bash, but I'm there three or four times a week. I run up some humongous tabs but the company hasn't complained yet since I've done a lot of business on the back nine or at the bar.
It's an unusual country club for Florida because it has absolutely no restrictions. Blacks, Jews, Cubanswe take anyone who can afford the fees. No prejudices whatsoever. My God, we even have members who don't drink.
One of the best things about the place is that a lot of women go there, wives, mistresses, girlfriends, or just wanna-bes. They go for golf or tennis, to have lunch, or to enjoy the free buffet during the Happy Hour. Usually there are more women than men in the bar.
By the time I got out there on that Wednesday, the Happy Hour was in full swing, and there were many, many gorgeous heads, not all of them with escorts. I exchanged greetings with several pals, male and female, and was finally able to belly up to the crowded bar and order a double vodka-rocks. By the time I got that down (ten minutes tops) my rough day at the office was a dim memory and I was looking around for company, something tasteful and friendly.
I didn't find her, she found me, asked me to light her long, brown cigarillo, and that was that. Her name was Laura, and she was a funky lady with marvelous lungs and a raspy voice she used to tell jokes usually heard only in the men's locker room. She was divorced, she said, and had just canceled her boyfriend.
Well, to make a long story short-if it isn't too late-we had more drinks, a lobster dinner at the club, and by midnight we were bouncing together on her king-size waterbed in a ground-floor condo in Boca.
"Pull the drapes, for God's sake," I said. "Or turn off the light."
" Nah, " she said. "This place is totally inhabited by retirees. They take their Fiberall and they're asleep by nine.
No one's going to peek in on us."
What a scrimmage that was! I staggered out of there around three A.M wondering if I should head for the nearest Intensive Care Unit.
I was crossing the parking lot to my Lincoln when a guy who looked like a sumo wrestler stepped from the shadow of a bottle palm and fed me a knuckle sandwich that dumped me on my ass.
"You son of a bitch," he growled. "I see you around here again, you're dead meat."
He stalked toward Laura's apartment, and I had no desire to stop him.
Would an injured hummingbird challenge a rabid rhino?
I figured he was the "canceled" boyfriend, and dear, sweet Laura had left the drapes open, the light on, and had used me to raise his jealousy level.
Well, what the hell. I learned a long time ago that if you're going to drink and cruise sooner or later you're going to get hurt.
I dragged my split lip and loosened bicuspid home to Rustling Palms Estates. Marleen and Tania were asleep, of course, so I stumbled into the guest bedroom and got most of my clothes off before I fell into the sack.
I awoke a little after eleven on Thursday morning, and naturally I had the house to myself. I phoned Goldie and told her I'd be late.
"I already know that," she said.
I tossed down an ounce of cognac, took a hot shower, and then put an icebag on my puffed lip. it didn't look too bad, but my loose tooth was throbbing. I used my electric shaver, dressed, and went over to the Barrows. I hoped Mabel would make me a cup of coffee, and while she was doing that, I could take up where I had left off Saturday morning.
But she wasn't home, so I got in my car and headed toward my brother's studio for our weekly lunch. I stopped on the way to pick up a big pepperoni pizza and a cold six-pack of Bud.
Chas took one look at my face and said, "I bet the other guy hasn't got a mark on him."
" You'd win your bet," I said. "I was overmatched."
We ate warm pizza and drank cold beer. I didn't feel much like talking, but Chas did.
"One of these days," he said, "you're going to get into serious trouble.
Did you ever think of that?"
"It'll never happen," I told him. "God looks after fools and drunks, and I qualify on both counts."
"Why do you do it?" he asked me. "Drunk almost every night and whoring around. If you want to destroy yourself, that's your business.
But you're also hurting your wife and daughter."
"Don't try laying a guilt trip on me, Chas," I said. I get enough of,that at home. Hey, remember my telling you about the dumpling who lives next door? I think I'm making progress there.
I got a feeling she's ready.
But he wouldn't let me change the subject.
"Do you really enjoy the way you're living?" he demanded, and I got miffed.
"Damned right I enjoy it," I said. "Look, pal, you're born, you live a little while, and you die. What's the big deal? it's all bullshit, and you know it."
"What is?"
"Life is, that's what. So I grab what pleasure I can."
"Don't you believe in anything?"
"Sure I do," I said. "I believe in gathering ye rosebuds while ye may.
And I'm going to gather as many goddamn rosebuds as I can before I kick off."
He shook his head. "Your lousy rosebuds are booze and broads. Did it ever occur to that tiny, tiny brain of yours that there are other things that might give you more pleasure?"
"Such as?"
"Love, for one."
"Spare me," I said. "As far as I'm concerned love is just another four-letter word."
"You've got a lot of learning to do, sonny," he said.
"I don't want to learn," I said. "I'm selfish and I know it.
But everyone's selfish. Did you ever know anyone who didn't act out of self-interest?"
"Yeah," he said. "Me."
"That's right," I said. "And look what it got you."
"Have you ever heard me complain?" he asked quietly.
"No, I haven't," I admitted. "And I admire you for it. But I don't admire you for volunteering to have your ass shot off.
That was just stupid."
"For you maybe," he said. "Not for me."
I sighed, finished my second beer and stood up. "I've got to get back to the office," I told Chas. "You and I are never going to agree on what it's all about."
He crushed his empty beer can in his heavy paws and looked down at it.
"I worry about you," he said in a low voice.
"Not to worry, big brother, I'm fine." Then I bent suddenly to kiss his cheek. I couldn't remember ever having done that before. "Take care,"
I said huskily.
I drove back toward town thinking of what he had said and what I had said. He had shaken me up, I admit it. I've always known Chas was smarter than I was, and it bothered me when we disagreed, I'd get an antsy feeling that the deep sonofabitch might be right. So I turned north and headed for the club to get hammered.
Maybe Laura would show up.
It was obvious to me from the start that I had two ivital and interrelated problems on the ZAP Project, correct dosage and behavioral results. Since I could find no record of similar research that could be used as a guide, my only option was raw experimentation.
When all the specialized equipment was in place in my private lab, I prepared what I considered a weak solution of the synthetic testosterone I had developed. I made careful notes of the amount o the ormone used and the volume of the inert carrier in which it was suspended.
I then donned heavy rubber gloves, removed a male white mouse from its cage, injected it, and returned it to the cage. I removed my gloves and positioned a TV camera to record results, if any. When I turned back to the cage, the injected mouse was dead, lying on its back with all four paws in the air.
I then weakened the solution progressively with small subtractions of the quantity of testosterone, and the sixth injected mouse lived, scampering about the cage energe
tically and exhibiting no apparent ill effects. I captured this reaction on videotape and updated my notes.
I then obtained a larger wire cage from the supply department. I injected another male mouse with the weakened hormone solution and put a dot on its back with a black Magic Marker. I put it into the large cage, then focused and started the TV camera. I put an untreated mouse into the large cage with the injected mouse and stood back to observe the results, stopwatch in hand.
The untreated mouse was killed in less than thirty seconds.
After the killing, the dotted mouse continued to bite and worry the corpse for several minutes. I repeated this experiment twice more with identical results.
I then put two untreated mice in the cage with the injected and marked mouse. Both were killed almost instantly. I tried three mice, and then four. It was a remarkable and disturbing thing to witness, The untreated mice were totally incapable of defending themselves against the savage attacks of the mouse with a heightened testosterone level.
Because I work slowly and precisely (and keep copious notes) these experiments took the better part of two weeks. Then Marvin Mcwhortle came down to my lab and asked for a progress report.
I reported what I had accomplished so far, and I ran videotapes of the murderous activities in the big cage. Mr. Mcwhortle watched intently, fascinated.
"Incredible," he said, shaking his head. "But are you certain the killings were the result of the testosterone injections and not due to some other factor?"
"Naturally I ran control experiments," I replied, somewhat offended that he imagined I might have neglected such an important discipline.
"When untreated males were placed together in the same cage, there was no overt display of aggression. In fact, they spent much of their time playing with each other."
"So you feel the aggression was definitely the result of the added testosterone?
"Preliminary results would seem to indicate it," I said cautiously.
"But there is much work still to be done."
"What comes next?"
"I want to place two, three, and then several injected male mice in the same cage and observe what happens. Then I intend to repeat all my experiments with female mice placed in the same cage with an injected male. I think it important to establish if the male's murderous frenzy occurs in the presence of ovulating females or if his aggression is converted to an increased sex drive."
"That should be interesting," Mr. Mcwhortle said, grinning at me. "Be sure you make tapes. I've got to see that." That evening, on the drive back to Rustling Palms Estates, I asked Marleen Todd, "Do you admire strong men? " She laughed. "What a question! If you mean weight lifters and bodybuilders, the answer is no, emphatically no! I think they're grotesque."
"I phrased the question awkwardly," I said. "I meant vigorous men, aggressive men, men who want to dominate." , "The answer is still no. I've always suspected that men like that are trying to conceal an inner feeling of inferiority. And so they overcompensate."
"Do you think most women feel the way you do?"
She considered that a few moments. "I really can't say," she said finally. "I know there are women who admire forceful men and respond to them. Why do you ask, Greg?"
"just curiosity, " I said. "I told you I'm a klutz when it comes to human relations. I usually know how research animals will react, but I can't predict people. I just don't understand why they do the things they do, what their motives are, what drives them."
"I think most people have a very basic drive," she said.
"Self-preservation. That may be the fundamental instinct, but then it gets complicated. For instance, I'd die for Tania. I'd sacrifice myself if it meant her survival."
"And these women you mentioned who respond to forceful men, are they also motivated by selfpreservation?"
"They may be," she said warily. "Perhaps it's atavistic, the cavewoman wanting a strong, aggressive cavernan because he can kill a saber-toothed tiger and bring home meat."
"Probably," I said, smiling. "So the females who admire aggressive males are really trying to insure their own survival?"
"That's one possibility," Marleen said. "Another is that they're instinctively seeking strong genes for their offspring.
And that leads to the survival of the family, the tribe, the nation, and ultimately the human race."
I groaned. "No wonder I'm confused. We start with women responding to strong men and end with the immortality of the species. Well, I suppose that's what evolution is all about."
"Greg, does this have anything to do with the project you're working on?"
"Only indirectly," I said cautiously. I couldn't reveal more. "And speaking of projects, how is yours coming along?"
"I'm going to be just as secretive as you," she said. "But I will tell you it's a new perfume, and if it works the way I hope, it will revolutionize the fragrance industry."
"That sounds exciting," I said, although I didn't think it did. "What makes it so revolutionary?"
"Well, I don't want to go into details, but you know that scientists still don't understand exactly how the sense of smell works. They do know that certain scents can recall emotions and awaken memories or-and this is iffy-inspire emotions and awaken appetites. That allegedly includes sexual desire. But my new perfume, if it succeeds, takes a totally different approach. It aims at behavior modification. Greg, why are you looking at me so strangely?"
"You mean," I said, "your new perfume might work the way nitrous oxide makes people laugh and acts as an anesthetic? "
"Not precisely like that," Marleen said. "But its effects would cause people to act differently from the way they normally act."
"And this modification or change in their behavior, would it be pleasurable?"
"Oh yes." , "But could your new fragrance result in any ill effects? For instance, antisocial conduct by the women wearing it or by anyone sniffing it?"
"Good heavens, no!" Marleen said decisively. "If I thought that might happen, I'd drop the whole project immediately."
I was about to say, "I wish I could say the same," but I remained silent. Still, her forthright statement stirred up all my original doubts about the moral and ethical proprieties of what I was doing. I had no desire to create a new crop of killers and rapists. It seemed to me there were enough of that breed without encouragement from the Mcwhortle Laboratory.
"A penny for your thoughts," Marleen said. "Haven't you heard of inflation?" I asked. "Now they're worth at least a nickel."
And we both laughed. cwhortle called me from his office one morning, a Friday it was, and said he was feeling horny and would be over at noon.
That was a pain because I had an appointment to get my nails done.
Naturally I told him to come ahead, and then I phoned the beauty shop to cancel. I had a good thing going with the old man, and I wasn't about to make waves.
He showed up hot to trot and started undressing right away.
He always wore boxer shorts that almost came to his knees-real droopy drawers. One pair even had little bunnies printed on them.
I never laughed of course. I just said, "oh daddy, you look so cute!"
He told me from the beginning that his ticker was on the fritz-it speeded up sometimes-so when we had sex, I did most of the work. I always told him what a great lover he was, and he liked that. Note to wives everywhere, if your man doesn't get that bullshit at home, he'll get it somewhere else.
Afterward I brought him a cold bottle of the dark beer he liked, and got a diet cola for myself because, I had put on a few pounds recently and my tush was getting pillowy.
He had brought me a big jar of a new moisturizing creme his laboratory had developed. It had a bronzer in it so you could get a tan without going out in the sun.
"Thank you, daddy," I said. "It will be great for rainy days. How are you coming along on that crazy pill you told me about-the one that's supposed to make every soldier into Superman?"
"Coming along fine. Greg
is making progress."
"Who's Greg?"
"Gregory Barrow, our top research chemist. He's handling the project.
The man is a genius."
"I've never met a genius. What's he like?"
"A mousy kind of guy but all brain. I know he's married and has a kid, but his job is his whole life. I mean he doesn't play golf or anything like that. A real workaholic. I wish I had twenty more like him."
"You think the ZAP stuff is going to be a success?"
"Well, Greg has it in liquid form now, and when he injects it into mice, it turns them into pit bulls. I don't see any reason why it shouldn't work with humans if we can get it into pill or powder form."
"Maybe the government will give you a medal."
He laughed. "If they pay their bills on time, I'll be satisfied.
Listen, Jess, I've got to get back to the office. A client's coming in who wants to talk about a new product, a suntan lotion combined with an insect repellent."
"Hey," I said, "that's a great idea. The last time I went to the beach I almost got eaten up alive by sand fleas."
"Lucky fleas," Mcwhortle said, grinning at me.
He gave me my salary check before he left. What a sweet hustle I had going.
I showered and dressed, then phoned William K. Brevoort. He wasn't in, so I left a message on his answering machine. I watched a soap opera on TV for a while, but then Willie got back to me. I told him I had something for him, and he said he could come over that evening,around nine o'clock, and I said okay.
I phoned Laura Gunther at Hashbeam's Bo-teek and asked her if she'd like to have an early dinner at a rib joint we both liked.
She said sure, and we made arrangements to meet there at six-thirty.
Laura was the only close woman friend I had made in town since I moved up from Miami. She worked at Hashbeam's, and I stopped by one day to look around and we got to talking. It turned out she had been in the game herself but had gone straight and married a real-estate broker.
That lasted all of two years and now he was divorced. She wasn't exactly hurting for bucks but had taken the job at the Bo-teek to keep from hitting the convention circuit again.
She was a wild one, a big, heavy broad who smoked long, skinny cigars and had the voice and vocabulary of a trucker. Her current boyfriend was a guy named Bobby Gurk. I think he was in the rackets in Lauderdale, but I never asked questions.
Private Pleasures Page 7
