Madman's Thirst

by Lawrence de Maria

  “Rebecca’s fine. She’s made a new friend at school, her ‘best ever’ she says. She’s going over to the girl’s apartment right after school and staying the night. It’s her first sleepover and she’s too excited for words. I’m bereft, of course, but it will be nice not to have to pick her up after school. I know the family. The girl’s mother is Fanny Van Stolk, a financial writer at the Times. Had a baby a few months ago and is on maternity leave, though I think she works from home. Becky can’t wait to play with the baby. Better than a doll. ”

  Emma mentioned the sleepover with a studied casualness not lost on Scarne, who forgot all about being churlish.

  “And how’s your father?”

  He always asked after the old bastard, partly out of politeness and partly because he liked to get a rise out of her. Smiling sweetly, Emma didn’t take the bait.

  “Dad’s fine. In fact, just this morning he was asking for you. Wanted to know how you were getting along.”

  “He must have fallen off his horse and hit his head.”

  “I’ll ask you to keep a civil tongue about Dad.” But she laughed when she said it. “Besides, he doesn’t ride, anymore.” She added wickedly, “horses, anyway.”

  Their drinks arrived. Emma quickly finished the dregs of her first Gibson and clinked her new glass with Scarne. Both took serious swallows.

  “What’s with the rum? Feeling piratical?”

  “A lot of people don’t know it, but this stuff is as good as the finest bourbon or brandy. Went to a golf outing with the Teamsters Union out of Newark Airport a few years back and they had cases of the stuff. I presume it fell off the back of a truck, but it made for a hell of an after-dinner drink. Got a taste for it now, before, during and after dinner.”

  “Why do I suspect Mr. Mack may have been involved, although he doesn’t strike me as the golfing type.”

  Scarne laughed.

  “Dudley ran the thing. He’s a hell of a golfer, by the way. Funny thing, it’s the only outing I know where everyone turns in an honest card.”

  “Probably because cheaters know they’d wind up in the Meadowlands.”

  Their waiter reappeared and they ordered.

  “Tell me about the deal you just cut to ‘save the Shields empire,’ as Business Week and Fortune so uncharitably put it.”

  “Fuck them,” Emma said, leaning forward so that only he could hear her. “They’re just jealous. Now we’re really going to clean their clocks. Only Forbes got it right, because they’re a family business as well.”

  Might be the Gibsons, Scarne thought. But perhaps not. He had leaned not to sell her short, in any respect. She sat back and resumed a more conversational tone, and for the next ten minutes explained her coup in clear, concise financial terms. She declined another Gibson, opting for a glass of the house Sauvignon Blanc. Scarne joined her. In this house it would be excellent.

  The waiter arrived with their food. After he left, she cut a substantial portion of her squab, speared a piece of asparagus, and put both in her mouth. Scarne was always amazed by her appetite. With Emma, lunch was no polite tête a tête over a small salad. She was likely to order a steak. And the basket of rolls was not safe either. For all that, she remained pleasantly, if not Darfur-like, slim. Scarne, who had opted for the charred sea bass, was debating how to deconstruct the tower of fish, potatoes and greens on his plate. Alfred Portale, the bistro’s famous chef, was noted not only for the quality of his food, but also for its presentation. If the stacked entrée in front of Scarne was any higher, he’d have to call Emma on her cell phone to continue their conversation.

  “Watch your food, Jake. It’s beginning to tilt.”

  Scarne’s tower of fish was indeed swaying. He tried to right it, but overcompensated. The entire concoction collapsed in a heap across his plate.

  “The hell with it,” he said as he stuck a fork into the nearest edible portion. “Alfred’s food is as good horizontal as it is vertical.” Scarne picked up a strange looking vegetable. “What do you think this is?”

  “No idea. Just eat it. Maybe it was in the chum line.”

  They talked respective shops until they finished eating. Scarne didn’t have to ask about dessert. Emma never looked at the card the waiter handed them.

  “I’ll have the flowerless chocolate cake,” she said. “And perhaps you can add a little extra scoop of vanilla ice cream.”

  Scarne, who was now on a bit of a health kick, passed on dessert, and they both ordered coffee. There was a tap on the window behind Emma. She turned to return a wave from two women who had been walking by. They were attractive, in that 40-ish, nip-and-tuck Hamptons way that Scarne always found faintly annoying. Neither could hold a candle to Emerald Shields, who was un-nipped and un-tucked. The women took long languid looks at Scarne and crossed the street to the Strip House.

  “Recognize the blonde? She drove her BMW through the front door of that bar in Sag Harbor last summer. Did her community service in a soup kitchen on the North Fork.”

  “They have soup kitchens in the North Fork?” Scarne made a show of reaching for his cell phone. “I want to call my broker. This recession is more serious than I thought.”

  Emma laughed.

  “Don’t be an ass. She was serving the migrant workers. Probably the only time she’s been near a kitchen in her life. Now she wants to start a non-profit to help the disadvantaged.”

  Scarne snared a piece of chocolate cake from Emma’s plate.

  “Somebody should start a non-profit for the poor bastards who are funding their lunches at the Strip House.”

  “Don’t be such a cynic. I know their husbands. They will never be poor. Now, what have you been up to?”

  Scarne knew it was a loaded question. Like all his friends, Emma had been worried about Scarne’s mental equilibrium after the Ballantrae affair.

  He told her about the Pearsall case, leaving nothing out. It didn’t take long, mainly, he realized, because he was discouragingly short on facts, clues and ideas.

  “Jake, that’s terrible. What are you going to do?”

  They were almost finished with their coffee. There was one piece of cake left. Emerald Shields put it on her fork and lifted it to her mouth. Jake feigned indifference, but was not surprised when the fork stopped short of her delectable mouth and moved across the table and she fed him the cake.

  “It’s obvious that I’m going to have to look into the NASCAR thing. It doesn’t make any sense now, and probably never did. But it’s the only string I have to pull.”

  “Perhaps I can help with that,” Emma said. “Do you know Aristotle Arachne?”

  “The mini-Trump?”

  “Oh, God. You’d better never say that in his presence. He’s very sensitive about The Donald. Anyway, we’ve become quite good friends.”

  “Yes, I know. I read Page Six.”

  Scarne’s reference to the New York Post gossip page was made with a casualness that didn’t quite hide another agenda. Emma Shields did not miss the undercurrent. She smiled.

  “Don’t believe everything you read. Ari is married.”

  “Three times, I believe.”

  “Who’s counting,” she said. “Anyway, he’s a regular on the yacht. He advertises with us and we carry his celebrity reality show on some of our networks.”

  “The one where they eat cockroaches from his hotel rooms?”

  “No, you ass. The one where he hires…oh, why do I bother with you! Stop laughing! Ari might be able to help you with the NASCAR people. He likes to race Formula 1, like Paul Newman did, and has contacts in NASCAR. Remember when all the big drivers brought their cars to Times Square for that photo shoot when the Staten Island project was announced. I think they stayed at one of his hotels. He’s hosting a charity thing at the Met Saturday night. Shields took a table. You can be my date. We’ll probably all go back to Ari’s place afterwards and you can get to know him.” She paused. “He’s a fascinating man. You’ll like him.”

  Emerald S
hields didn’t mention that Aristotle Arachne had made it very clear that he found her just as fascinating. And had confided that his marriage was on the rocks.

  CHAPTER 9 – NEW TRICKS

  They were on the sidewalk outside the Gotham. A group of chattering students hurried past them and entered a small Indian restaurant a few doors down. Despite being full, Scarne savored the smells emanating from the place. That was one of the things he liked about the East Village. With NYU, Cardozo, the Fashion Industry of Technology and other schools nearby, restaurants and businesses catering to student wallets were plentiful. Some of the best food in Manhattan – Indian, Italian, Japanese, Greek, and even French – was readily available for a relative pittance. And the college-age kids lent a happy urgency to street life.

  “Would you like to come back to my place?”

  Scarne was surprised. Not by the offer, but by the location. Both their apartments were nearby, but they always went to his. Then he remembered the sleepover.

  “What if Becky has a tummy ache and wants to come home?”

  “I told Fanny to call me if that happened.” She smiled wickedly. “My girlfriends like their little conspiracies. They’re always trying to fix me up. This might keep them off my back.” She laughed. “That’s funny, on my back to get them off my back.”

  “Are you drunk, Emma?”

  “A little. Come on. Let’s go to my place. Afterwards, I can lounge and eat bonbons and watch crappy TV shows like a normal woman for a change.”

  Emma lived in a brownstone on 10th Street. Most of the rest of the family lived in Connecticut, but with her increasing responsibilities in the company, she found that a Manhattan address gave her more time with her daughter. Between business and her duties as a mother – and she was a devoted mother – Emma had little time for a regular sex life. She told Scarne that she had been celibate during the final year of her husband’s illness and her one or two forays after his death had been furtive and unsatisfying. Then Scarne came along. They had been friends and occasional lovers for about six months, but Scarne had been clear that he wasn’t ready to risk his heart again, just yet.

  “I know you think I got you on the rebound,” Emma told Scarne one night after he apologized for his reticence, “and that I helped get your head straight after what happened, but I had selfish motives, as well. You’ve helped me as much as I may have helped you. You’re the only sex I can fit into my busy schedule.”

  She had said the line flippantly, and he laughed, but he knew it to be at least partially true. He admired her for her candor and practicality. Their roughly twice-a-month trysts, while always satisfying and occasionally spectacular, were enough for her and left him free of encumbrance. Neither knew where their arrangement would eventually go, and that made their lives more interesting in the interim.

  Emma’s house was three blocks away, and they walked casually, until she said, “Why are we walking so slowly?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to seem too anxious. What about you?”

  “The same. Should we break into a trot, or maybe a gallop?”

  “There’s a difference between trying not to look anxious and being ridiculous. Besides, we might get hit by a bus.”

  “Well, we’d really be fucked then, wouldn’t we!”

  “You are tipsy.”

  Laughing, they finally reached her building, a three-story brownstone. After closing the gleaming mahogany front doors behind them, Scarne remarked on the “new home” smell.

  “We just completed a custom renovation. Cost a bloody fortune. My brothers started it, and, well, I had to finish, didn’t I? Next step is redecoration. Place is a bit masculine, don’t you think. Becky’s room is the only one with any color. Couldn’t wait on that. Want a quick tour?”

  “Very quick.”

  She laughed and led him through the downstairs.

  “We kept four original marble mantelpieces, but just about everything else is redone.” Passing a den on their left and a staircase to the upper floors, they went through a parlor with white oak flooring into a large maple kitchen with a center island surrounded by the most modern appliances including a ConServ “Eco-Fridge” refrigerator, a Fisher-Paykel “double-dish drawer” dishwasher and a dual-level Imperial gas range and oven.

  Scarne pushed a few buttons on the latter.

  “Nice,” he said. “What time is lift-off?” He smiled. “I’m a Whirlpool kind of guy myself.”

  “My brothers aren’t,” Emma said. “Toys for boys.”

  A door at the rear of the kitchen opened out to a deck and small garden. A spiral staircase twirled up to the roof.

  “Where’s the maid?’

  “I gave her the day off.”

  Walking back to the foyer, he asked, “Have I been set up? Sounds like you planned our afternoon like D-Day.”

  Emma laughed, and, startlingly for her, ran her hand down the front of Scarne’s trousers.

  “You can always go back to your ship, sailor.”

  He made a grab for her and she twirled away, laughing.

  “I want to take a quick shower,” she said as she headed up the stairs. “My bedroom is on the second floor. Just follow the running water. There’s a nice bottle of Veuve Clicquot in the fridge and an ice bucket on the counter with flutes. Why don’t you bring it up with you?”

  “I take it back, Emma, Eisenhower and Monty had nothing on you.”

  She was still in the shower when Scarne left the champagne by the side of the bed and shucked off his clothes. Her back was facing him when he entered the steamy room but she turned at the blast of cooler air. He stepped into the stall and took the soap from her hands and started washing her back as she leaned into him.

  “Ouch,” she said, reaching down. “That doesn’t go there.” They both laughed. She sat down on a bather’s ledge in the corner and alternately raised her legs and braced them against his upper thigh so that he could do a better job. Then she stood and took the soap began lathering him. They let the water run a few minutes to get the soap off and then she said, “I can’t wait” and pulled Scarne’s right hand between her legs. He began stroking and she tightened her arms around his neck. Her breath game in short bursts and then her body tensed. She whispered urgently, “I’m coming, Jake, hold me.”

  Scarne used his left hand to lift her gently by her buttocks as she climaxed. He could feel her toes clenching the top of his feet. After a few minutes her paroxysm and cries subsided and she sat back down. Her head was at his groin level. She was still breathing heavily.

  “Now, it’s your turn.”

  She put her hands on his hips and pulled him towards her and enveloped him with her mouth, tentatively at first, and then with an enthusiasm that he both appreciated and found surprising. It was something she had never done with him before. It wasn’t long before he had to grip her shoulders for support.

  ***

  Later, snuggling in bed, Scarne said, “This room isn’t what I would have expected. Who furnished it, Abigail Adams? Is that a Chippendale dresser?”

  Emma laughed. “Actually, it’s a Hepplewhite. This house was basically a bachelor pad. My brothers are quite the little Colonials. I think they made girls walk the plank if they didn’t come across. They moved to Connecticut when they got married. Thank God one of them took the Maine Sea Captain Bed, circa 1801, that used to be in this room. It was huge. I felt as if I should harpoon something before going to sleep. This bed used to be in the guest room. It’s called a “Ball & Ring Bed” and dates from the revolution.”

  “Well, I get the ‘ball’ part,” Scarne said, leaning over and kissing a nipple, which almost immediately began to harden. “But I’m not sure I want to know about the ‘ring’ thing.” He began working on the other nipple as his hand slipped between her legs.

  “Mmm. That’s nice. But the ball and ring refer to the bedposts, topped by small wooden cannonballs. “And the rings, oh, the hell with it. Don’t stop. You can bite harder. I’ll finish t
he history lesson later.”

  ***

  Much later, after another bout of lovemaking in which Emma had displayed even more ingenuity, Scarne reflected on the experience while she napped. Woman never failed to surprise him, he admitted, but a few of the things she had done reminded him of someone else. He had believed that experience to be unique. What the hell, it was probably all available in Cosmopolitan or one of the other women’s magazines that alternated “summer dining recipes” with graphic primers on oral and every other kind sex.

  ***

  They were in the kitchen sharing a pot of coffee and some decadent day-old Italian pastries. The ice bucket and its empty bottle stood on the counter. Emma was dressed in a robe and wearing fluffy rabbit-head slippers. Her hair was disheveled and there were small red blotches on her upper chest where the robe draped open. Her face was relaxed, almost somnolent. Scarne was wearing all his clothes but his sport jacket, which was draped on a stool.

  She poured him another cup of coffee and said, “It’s black tie, of course. Can you pick me up at 6:30? I want to make part of the cocktail hour at least. And that will give us some time to talk to Ari. He’ll be pretty busy during the function itself.”

  “Sure, but I want your assurance that both your daughter and the maid will be here. And the First Marine Division, if you can arrange it. I’m not sure I can survive another bout with you alone.”

  Emerald Shields blushed to her hairline and threw a mini sfogatelle at him, which he caught, laughing. He put the crunchy sea shell shaped pastry in his mouth and took a sip of his coffee. “My favorite,” he said, and came around the counter and kissed her. “See you Saturday.”

  After cleaning up the kitchen, Emma went back to her bedroom, smiling at the disaster her bed was. Jesus, what an afternoon. I acted like a slut, but I don’t feel slutty. She straightened out the sheets but decided not to make it. She fully planned to spend the rest of the day (God, it was almost time for the news!) relaxing under the covers. But first she went to the bookshelf recessed above the bed’s headboard. She had almost died when she spotted the DVD sitting atop one of the books. She turned crimson again thinking how she saw it. Thank God for the “woman above” position. And thank God Jake was oblivious when their positions were reversed.