Private Pleasures

by Lawrence Sanders

  I believed there was a crisis of sorts in that kid's, life, and my actions might help solve it or make it worse.

  I'm not such a heavy thinker that I don't recognize my own limitations, after all, I came to the habit of reasoning late in life. So I phoned Dr. Noble, hoping for reassurance that I was acting sensibly.

  She was home, and after some small talk I told her about Tania's call, her request for money, and the Saturday luncheon I planned so I could have a heart-to heart with the kid.

  "What do you think, Cherry?" I asked.

  "She's how old?"

  "Chas, I don't like the sound of it. It could be something completely innocent, but I doubt it. I don't know how eight-year-olds feel about money these days, but when I was that age a hundred dollars seemed to me an unimaginable fortune. I think the child may have a serious problem."

  "That's my reaction."

  "But I'm not sure you should have promised to give her the money. You did promise, didn't you?"

  "Yes, but I figured it was the only way I could get her to come to lunch. If I had said to her, Let's talk about it,' I think she would take that as a rejection and drop me. Listen, Tania is no dummy, she's not going to tell me in advance why she wants the money because she's afraid if she tells me I won't give it to her."

  "You're probably right. I'd like to know what it's all about, Chas. I hope you'll tell me."

  "I will. I'll phone you after I talk to her."

  "Can't I come out and visit you? You can tell me then.

  I hesitated longer than I should have. "All right, Cherry."

  "See you then," she said lightly.

  We hung up, and I went back to thinking. I told you it was addictive.

  But this time I wasn't thinking about Tania's problem, the subject, as usual, was my problem and the solution so kindly offered by Dr. Cherry Noble. I don't mean to put her down with a smartass remark like that.

  Believe me, I had nothing but gratitude and admiration for that brainy lady.

  But she wanted something from me I wasn't ready to give. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I told you that when I was young and had a whole body, I was a pretty fair swimmer.

  But I never had the nerve to go off the high board.

  LAURAGUNTHER obby Gurk was the biggest man I've ever known-and I've known a mob. He said he weighed two-fifty, but I figured he was closer to two-eighty, maybe more. It wasn't all fat, he was just a tall, wide, humongous man. I'm no petite but he made me feel like Mrs. Tom Thumb.

  Big guys like that can be fun, if you know what I mean.

  What wasn't fun was the guy's stinginess. I mean he was in the rackets and probably pulling down zillions. But he drove a ten-year-old clunker, lived in a fleabag motel, and dressed like Bozo the Clown. He took me out to dinner once-just once. It was a cheapie joint, but he almost fainted when the check came. He left a whole dollar for a tip.

  I told him never to eat there again or the waiter would spit in his soup.

  Finally I got sick and tired trying to pry some decent funds out of Gurk. So I started looking around for a new fish who didn't carry his roll with Scotch tape around it. I thought I found one at the club, a heavy drinker named Herman who was in the insurance business and seemed to be well-heeled.

  I gave him a freebie, just as a come-on, you know, to prove my talent.

  But the second time I met him at the club I laid it on him straight, and he got sore.

  "Listen, kiddo," he said, "the day I have to start paying for it is the day I take up shuffleboard."

  What a jerk! I mean he was probably taking women to ritzy restaurants and buying them clothes and expensive gifts, but he didn't consider that payment. A lot of guys are like that.

  They'll buy a digger a mink coat but handing over cash offends them.

  Go figure it.

  So there I was, stuck with Big Bobby Gurk, a worldclass tightwad. I was getting a mingy alimony check every month and with what I was making (and boosting) at Hashbeam's Bo-teek, I was getting by. But my bank account was so flimsy I couldn't even afford to get sick. So I kept cruising and hoping.

  Now take my girlfriend Jessica Fiddler. She has to take care of a rich geezer a couple of times a week, and for that she got her own home, a weekly salary, and lots of perfumes and cosmetics.

  I'd be okay if I could find a mark like that.

  Then something happened that turned my whole life around.

  Bobby Gurk came over one night, but it wasn't for fun and games.

  "I got a job for you, babe," he said.

  "Great," I said. "How much does it pay?"

  "Hey," he said, "don't you want to know what it is first? "

  "I didn't figure you'd want me to rob a bank." , "Nah, it's nothing like that. This is something right up your alley."

  "I've got a big alley," I said. "Okay, what is it?"

  "There's this hustler I know who's got an in at a place that invents all kinds of medicines and stuff. An inside guy, on the take, sneaks the hustler new things they come up with. Then my pal peddles the new things to other people who rip them off and make a mint. Get the picture? Right now they're working on a pill that a guy takes and it puts lead in his pencil."

  "You don't need it, Bobby," I told him, and that was the truth.

  "It ain't for me, dummy," he said. "But if I can get hold of this pill I can have it copied, bootleg it, and make a nice couple of bucks."

  I stared at him. "So? " I said. "Buy the pill from your hustler pal."

  "He's going to hold me up," Gurk said. "I know he is."

  "Oh-ho," I said. "Now I get it. You want to cut the hustler out of the deal."

  "That's right. But to do that, I got to know who the inside guy is who's going to sneak him a sample pill. You follow?"

  "Way ahead of you," I said. "You want me to cozy up to this hustler and pump him. You want me to ball him?"

  "I don't care how you do it."

  "Okay," I said. "A grand in advance."

  "A grand?" he cried. "You nuts or something? A hundred now.

  Another five hundred when you get me what I want."

  "A thousand now," I insisted. "Another thousand when I get the stuff.

  Or no deal."

  Well, we went back and forth with a lot of yelling and screaming.

  Finally, he gave me five yards in advance and promised another grand when and if I found out who the hustler's inside man was.

  "It's called the ZAP pill," Gurk said. "And it's being made at a place called Mcwhortle Laboratory."

  "I'll remember," I said. "Now how do I get to meet his pal you're going to shaft?"

  We talked about several ways to arrange a meet so the guy wouldn't suspect a setup. But none of the scams we dreamed up seemed even halfway legit.

  "Look," I said finally to Gurk, "honesty is the best policy.

  What's this guy's name?"

  "Willie Brevoort."

  "Well, you tell Willie you know this roundheel who puts out at a moment's notice just for kicks. If he's interested, bring him around, introduce him, and then you take off."

  "But what if he ain't inarrested?"

  "Then the whole deal is dead, isn't it? If I can't be nice to him, how am I going to squeeze him?"

  "Yeah," Bobby, the great brain, said slowly, "I see what you mean.

  Okay, we'll do it. If it doesn't work, I'll try another way."

  But it worked out just fine. Two nights later Gurk showed up with the hustler in tow. This Willie Brevoort was a slim, elegant guy with a long, pointy face. And dressed? Right out of GQ. I made his suit for a black-label Armani, and his suede loafers had those little tassels on them. What a dude he was!

  The three of us had a drink, traded a few jokes, and, then Bobby said he had to get back to his office and took off. I poured Willie and me another drink-if you can call club soda a drink.

  That's all he was having. I stuck to something with more vitamins, Absolut on the rocks.

  "You got wheels, Willie?" I asked him. "Or did
Bobby drive you here in that bucket of his?"

  "No," he said, "I drove my own car."

  "Smart," I said. "What do you drive?"

  "A silver Infiniti."

  "Love it," I said. "Listen, why don't we both get more comfortable."

  "Suits me."

  "I got a waterbed," I said. "I hope that suits you."

  He didn't answer that, but he asked a question of his own.

  "Are you a lady of leisure, Laura?"

  "Hell, no," I said. "Wish I was. I'm the manager of a boutique." I wasn't, of course, just a salesclerk. But what's the dif?"

  "A boutique?" he said, and he seemed to come alive, smiling and leaning forward. "That must be a fascinating job. I suppose you're getting advance info on the fall fashions."

  "Some," I said. "Skirts are down and prices are up. But with me, prices are down and skirts are up."

  He laughed, and we both started undressing. He was wearing aqua silk briefs. That figured. I stripped down and went to my walk-in closet.

  Willie followed and looked over my shoulder.

  "You have a lovely wardrobe, Laura," he said. "Unless I'm mistaken, there's a lot of Donna Karan. You like her designs?"

  "Love them," I said. "They make me look smaller."

  "Yes," he said, "you are a rather large lady. I imagine you and I might wear the same size."

  "Wouldn't doubt it," I said.

  We were both needle-naked. I yanked a plumcolored chiffon robe off a hanger, and Willie grabbed it.

  "What a gorgeous peignoir," he said. He looked at me. "Do you mind if I try it on?"

  I wasn't shocked. Listen, if you've been in the game like I have, nothing men do surprises you. I once had a john who liked to play a ukulele while I was blowing him.

  "Go ahead," I said to Willie Brevoort. "Slip it on." it fitted him perfectly.

  I've been in the manufacture and marketing of phari'maceuticals most of my adult life, and I knew from the git-go that the ZAP Project was a no-brainer. It wasn't that a testosterone pill couldn't be developed gregory Barrow was a dynamite research chemist, and he might just do it-it was the public reaction that would condemn it to become just a chemical curiosity.

  Listen, I served in the Quartermaster Corps in World War II, and the rumor got around that we were putting saltpeter in the GIS' food to reduce their sexual desire. It was all bullshit, of course, but it caused a big flap, and the brass had to assure the mothers and fathers of America that their boys weren't being drugged by Uncle Sam.

  So despite what I had told Colonel Knacker and Greg Barrow, I knew damn well the ZAP Project would never get off the ground.

  Even if the pill did what it was supposed to do, there'd be no way to keep it secret, and there'd be such a public stink that no amount of slick PR would convince John Q. Public that the armed forces weren't force-feeding a dangerous drug to the troops to make them into snarling killers.

  But what the hell, it was a juicy contract, and I wasn't about to say no to the Pentagon. If they wanted a ZAP pill, I'd do my best to provide it. The resulting brannigan with the public and the media was a problem for the Department of Defense, not for Mcwhortle Laboratory.

  I think it was about the middle of June when Greg Barrow phoned me one morning and asked if I could come down to his lab, he had something to show me. I wanted to know how long it would take, and he said no more than an hour. That was okay. I had alerted Jessica Fiddler to expect me at noon, and I wasn't about to postpone it. I needed some of her

  TLC.

  Greg was waiting for me at the opened door of his private lab. After I entered, he closed and locked the door carefully-he does everything carefully-and got me seated in front of a TV set.

  "The first recording," he said, "shows the results of placing two or more male mice injected with the testosterone compound in the same cage."

  The tape was murder-literally. I've never seen such bloody carnage in my life. Whether it was two, three, or four mice, they attacked one another with a brutal ferocity that was hard to believe. in all cases, one victor remained alive, but so badly wounded I knew he'd never recover. Greg confirmed that there were no survivors of these savage contests.

  "The final moments of the tape," he said, "show several untreated male mice together in the same cage. Notice there is no sign of violent behavior." , The tape ended, and he rewound and then switched cassettes.

  "I think," he said tonelessly, "that from what you have just seen we can conclude that the murderous frenzy was the result of the testosterone and no other factor. This next tape shows the behavior of an injected male placed in a cage with a single ovulating female, and then with several females."

  What I saw made it obvious that the injected male had no desire to kill the female mouse-unless he intended to fuck her to death. I've never seen such enthusiastic animal copulation. The same held true when the male was placed in a cage with five females. The little bugger went wild. He just couldn't seem to get enough, but mounted the nearest female first, went on to the others, then started over again. Finally he flopped over on his side and lay still.

  "Is he dead?" I asked, awed by the sexual prowess of the injected male.

  "No," Barrow said, "just exhausted. After he revived, he started in again. Apparently the testosterone increases physical aggression against males and sexual aggression against females.

  It's a very disturbing result that makes me wonder-as I did before, if you'll recall-if a human diet enrichment of testosterone might not have the same results."

  "What are you saying, Greg?"

  "That it may prove impossible to encourage the kind of behavior we desire without also encouraging the kind we wish to avoid. We're hoping to make soldiers more aggressive in combat.

  We certainly don't want to create an army of rapists."

  "Yes," I said, nodding, "I can see why you might be concerned, and I am, too. Have you considered a weaker dosage?"

  "I've tried it," Barrow said. "The results are the same." I thought a moment, then I told Greg about the saltpeter fuss during World War II.

  "Look," I said to him, "I'm no chemist, I don't even know what saltpeter is. But there must be some chemical you could add to the injection that has a proven taming effect. You follow? It would increase male aggressiveness toward other males but would dull their sexual appetite, or at least keep it at normal levels."

  I could see Barrow was intrigued. "That's an interesting concept, Mr.

  Mcwhortle," he said. "It's just possible that such a compound could be formulated. I'll do some research on it. What we're looking for is a sexual tranquilizer that might be combined with testosterone. "

  "Exactly," I said, standing up. "See if you can find something like that. It could be the answer to our problem." I must have broken every speed limit on the books while driving to jessica's house, including running a red light. I just couldn't get there fast enough.

  I felt so high you'd have thought I just had one of Greg Barrow's injections. I mean I was in overdrive.

  My excitement continued after I arrived. I must confess I tore jessica's panties in my frantic haste to get her undressed, and I acted exactly like that mouse I had just witnessed performing amazing sexual feats. And then, like him, I collapsed, exhausted.

  "Oh, daddy," Jess said, "what's with you today? , Why, you're as randy as a teenager. What a lover!"

  "Get me a beer," I gasped, "and I'll tell you about it."

  I sat up in bed, taking nourishment, and related what I had just seen on Greg's tapes.

  She laughed delightedly. "You mean this stuff really works?"

  "It sure as hell worked on mice. The chemist is going to try to dampen the aphrodisiac effect. We're trying to produce killers, not rapists.

  And, of course, we still don't know if it ill have the same effect on humans."

  "It sure had an effect on you," she said. "You better take it easy.

  Remember your ticker."

  "Screw my ticker," I said. "If I hadn't known you
were waiting for me, I'd have popped a gasket. Sorry I ripped your panties, less. I'll buy you more."

  "You can strip me bare ass whenever you like. I love it. So you think this ZAP thing is going to be a success? "

  "It looks like it. At the rate Greg Barrow is going, we may be able to test it on human volunteers within a few months."

  "Volunteers? Who'll volunteer?"

  "Barrow will be the first, " I told her. "He insists on trying his new products on himself first. I admire him for it, but I think he's a fool. Enough about business, baby. Let's you and I have-"

  "Oh," she interrupted me, "I forgot to tell you. I'm having more trouble with my car. it's really silly to keep paying out good money for repairs. I guess I need new wheels."

  "Anything," I said. "Anything at all for my baby.

  Buy a new car. Pick out something nice, and I'll pay the tab. it will be a little bonus."

  "Oh, daddy," she said, sighing, "why are you so good to me."

  "Because you're good to me," I said, reaching for her. "You always do whatever I want."

  "I want what you want," she said. "Like this?"

  "Yes," I said. "Oh my, yes!"

  TANIA TODD ell, I did what Uncle Chas said I should and told my mother he had phoned and invited me to have lunch with him on Saturday. It was going to be a private lunch, just him and me. She could drive me out there but she couldn't stay. Then she would pick me up later.

  She laughed and said that was okay because she had some shopping to do on Saturday. She also said she would make some chocolate brownies that I could take to Uncle Chas because you should never go to visit someone without bringing them a gift.

  I didn't say anything to Chet Barrow about this because I still wasn't sure my uncle was going to lend me the hundred dollars I asked for.

  Anyway, Mother drove me out there, this was a little past noon, and came in with me to kiss and say hello to Uncle Chas, and then she left like she had promised.

  I gave him the brownies, and he said that was great because he had bought some almond ice cream which we could put on top of the brownies for dessert. But first he had pizzas, two different kinds, and cream soda to drink, so I knew it was going to be a nice lunch, more like a party.