by Judith Gould
But he had incredible staying power.
His frenzy only kept increasing. His assault was that of one possessed, his thrashing that of an animal gone wild. The power of his sex dug deeper, and his hips swung sideways every few strokes, rolling his testicles over her.
She felt as if she were drowning, swirling ever deeper and deeper, ever downward into a delicious maelstrom of madness. Her cries became muffled, and soon she was beyond the point of crying out. She felt she was going out of her mind, had ceased to exist as a person, had been turned inside out, entering her own womb and becoming a creature of pure sensations. And then a ululating wail rose slowly in her throat and issued forth from her lips like the scream of death. Jerome dug ever deeper into her in a final, furious lunge, and exploded into his climax, every part of his body ramming, thrusting, and pitching.
His breath rushed out of him in an explosive scream which merged with hers and he bucked against her spasms as they both burst over the finish line and together went flying off the edge of sanity.
They clung together as long minutes ticked by, waiting for their shudders to subside and their breathing to calm. Finally he slid out of her. Her insides ached mightily but exquisitely.
She looked at him dreamily. 'Wow,' she exclaimed softly. She shook her head as though to clear it. 'That was something else. For a while, I wasn't even here.'
He reached for the champagne, took another swig, and spotted the alarm clock on the bedside cabinet. He swore under his breath and swung his legs out over the edge of the bed. 'Damn! It's almost noon.' His penis was still semihard and a pearl of semen glistened at its tip.
With one catlike movement she tucked her legs under her, closed her hands around his penis, and brought it to her lips. Her eyes glanced up at him as she flicked off the drop of semen with her tongue. 'Are you sure the lunch won't wait?'
'I told you.' He went around the room, retrieving his clothes from the floor. 'I've got to meet with the backers at two.'
She made a face. 'Can't they wait until tomorrow? Then we could spend the whole day in bed.'
'They're just here for the day,' he said casually. 'They're leaving for Riyadh in the morning.'
She blinked, her brows furrowing. Then she gave a throaty laugh. 'I didn't quite catch that. For a moment, I could have sworn you said Riyadh.'
'That's right, I did.'
Her voice dropped. 'You mean you're making a deal with Arabs!'
'They're an Arab investment consortium,' he said stiffly. 'Their money's the same colour as anybody else's. Only they have more of it.'
'You fucking creep!' Without warning, she sprang from the bed like a cat and her arm blurred through the air. Before he knew what was happening, her open palm caught him across the face and cracked like gunfire. He swayed unsteadily for a moment before he regained his balance. His hand flew up to his burning cheek and he touched the white welt and stared at her. 'What in hell did you do that for?' he asked angrily. 'Now I'll probably have a bruise.'
'Good.' She raised her head so high that the cords stood out boldly on her neck. 'I did that because you deserve it. I should do a lot more, but I see now that you're not worth it. I was a fool to ever get involved with you.'
He stared at her coldly. 'Don't say something you might regret later on.'
Spinning around, she grabbed the receiver off the phone. He grabbed it out of her hand and slammed it down. It gave a shrill half-ring. 'Do you mind explaining what has suddenly gotten into you?' he demanded.
She stared at him. 'You mean to tell me you don't know?'
'No, goddammit!' he roared. 'What am I supposed to be? A goddamn clairvoyant?'
'Well, try this on for size.' She squared her shoulders and the tendons on her neck made a deep V. 'If you so much as touch a penny of Arab money, we're through. For good. I mean it. I'll leave you.'
He let out an exasperated sigh. 'Simmer down and try to let me explain.' He reached out to touch her, but she shrank back.
'I only want to know one thing,' she said. 'Do you really intend to use Arab financing?'
'It's there, isn't it? And for your information, it's not all that easy to raise seventeen and a half million dollars.'
'Thank you.' She smiled hideously and her voice trembled. 'Now get your goddamn paws away from the phone. I'm calling the concierge to book me a seat on the next flight out.'
'Don't you think you're carrying this Arab vendetta of yours a little far?'
'Why should you care?' she retorted. 'It's over between us.'
He looked at her in disbelief. 'You mean to tell me you're going to throw eight good years down the drain? Just like that?'
She held his gaze, her green eyes burning right through his. 'Damn right I am. Or hasn't anyone told you? Jews and Arabs are like oil and water. They just don't mix.'
'Daliah,' he pleaded, 'please be reasonable. This isn't political, it's moviemaking.' He stepped toward her, but she tore herself away from him and fled to the bathroom. She slammed the door shut and locked it.
She stepped back as he tried the door handle.
'Daliah!' he called out, shaking the door. 'Come out of there.' He started hammering at it with his fists. 'Daliah! You can't just leave, dammit! We have a contract!'
'Then sue me!' she barked. Her eyes stinging with tears, she turned on the bidet and began washing herself furiously. She couldn't stand the thought of having any of him in her any longer.
She wept quietly, oblivious now of Jerome's knocks and pleadings, oblivious of the swift-swirling warm water beneath her, oblivious of the steady glugging noises of the plumbing. All she could think about was the day she had learned to hate Arabs—all Arabs. That terrible day in June when tragedy had laid the foundation of the hatred which would be with her always.
She had been a little over six years old on that bright hot Sunday, and the whole family was spending the day on the Tel Aviv beach. They had just moved from Ein Shmona to the new seaside apartment house on Hayarkon Street a few weeks earlier, and this was a very special day since it was the first time in over a month that her father could spend it with them. They had packed a big picnic lunch, and Dani had stuck a striped umbrella in the sand and sat beside Tamara in the shade on low canvas folding chairs they had lugged over from the new apartment. She could see their fifth-floor balcony whenever she looked up from where she was playing. It was right across Independence Park, which divided the beach from the first street of buildings along this edge of the city. The huge expanse of golden sand, stretching out in both directions, was noisy and crowded. Everyone was out enjoying the sun and sand and surf. Out beyond the breakers, a regatta of little sailboats raced across the water like gulls. Somewhere behind her, Ari and Asa played with a group of agile boys, yelling excitedly as they kicked a soccer ball back and forth along the edge of the water. They sounded like they were having a lot more fun than she was.
Suddenly she was bored with the sand castles she was making. Even when she used moist sand, it dried out quickly in the sun and the castles would start to crumble. Frustrated, she squashed all of them with her little red spade and then flung it down in the sand. She looked up with a pout. Her mother's head was way back, a wide straw hat and big dark glasses hiding her face. Her skin was bronze and gleamed from lotion, and the life-size glossy head of a cover girl looked up from the fashion magazine she had placed tentlike, on her belly.
'Mama,' Daliah said. 'I'm thirsty.'
Her mother raised her head. 'But you just had a glass of juice with your lunch, sweetheart.'
'I know, but that was hours ago.'
Tamara lifted her wrist and glanced pointedly at her watch. 'Not even half an hour ago. I thought you wanted to keep your stomach empty so you could go play in the water.'
'That was before. Now I want a Coca-Cola.'
Her mother smiled. 'But you know we didn't bring any. We just brought juice and bottled citrus drinks.'
Daliah looked at her shrewdly. 'Papa's got money, and that man up there is se
lling Coca-Colas,' she said with the irrefutable logic of a six-year-old. She pointed up the street, where a pushcart vendor was doing a brisk business.
Tamara sighed and looked sideways. 'Dani?'
Daliah focused her eyes on her father now and gave him The Look. That was what he called it when she made her eyes big and round and helpless. Her father laughed. 'All right, angel, but just this once. You know Cokes aren't good for you.'
She watched intently as he dug a bill out of the shirt he'd folded up neatly under his chair. She grabbed for it, but he held it out of her reach. 'I don't want you going up the street. There's too much traffic and it's dangerous. Get one of your brothers to go for you, and have him bring back a Coke for each of us.'
Laughing happily, she took the money, kissed him sloppily, and ran off to break up the soccer game.
Ari was annoyed with her intrusion and tried to ignore her. Turning his back on her, he crouched down, effortlessly deflected the black-and-white ball with a head butt, and snapped, 'Can't you see we're in the middle of a game?'
She stood there clutching the bill in front of her. 'Come on, Ari,' she begged. 'I can't get it myself. Papa won't let me.' She turned to her other brother. 'Asa!'
'Oh, all right.' Asa ran over to her, scooped the bill out of her hand, and dashed off up the embankment. 'Be right back,' he called over his shoulder to Ari. 'Time out.'
Happily, Daliah watched him jogging up to the vendor's pushcart. Several children and adults were crowded around it and Asa had to wait his turn. While she watched, a swarthy man with sunglasses and a hat pulled way down over his face sauntered casually by and dumped something into the wire rubbish bin next to the pushcart and strode quickly off to a waiting car. Before he could jump all the way in and slam the door, the car took off with a squeal of tyres.
She waited impatiently, twisting her body from left to right, while Asa waited his turn. She licked her lips in anticipation. She loved Coca-Cola. It was sweet and cold and bubbly.
Finally it was Asa's turn. She watched him hand over the money, and the vendor give him an armful of bottles.
That was when the bomb in the rubbish bin went off.
And blew Asa, the vendor, and four others to bits.
Chapter 3
Time and again, Cleo had proved herself. Whenever Daliah had a crisis, she was there to hold her hand and help her through it. And she was there now at Kennedy Airport for that very reason, waiting for the Air France passengers to start straggling through customs.
Daliah was one of the first ones through. Having flown first class with no more than a Vuitton handbag and giant matching bag which had been constructed expressly to fit under a first-class seat, she sailed through customs in record time. To avoid recognition, her telltale hair was completely hidden by an Hermès scarf, her travel-durable outfit was simple and nondescript, and she wore huge butterfly-shaped sunglasses which rendered her so featureless that she could have been any one of three hundred instantly recognizable famous faces travelling incognito, from Jackie Onassis to Charlotte Ford. Even Cleo, long used to her various disguises, had to look closely to recognize her.
Cleo held out her long cinnamon arms invitingly and embraced Daliah warmly. 'White Woman, baby,' she said softly. 'I know you're hurtin!'
Daliah's lips were pinched. 'I don't know which I feel more strongly,' she sniffled. 'Hurt or anger.'
'Come on, the car's waitin' outside. We can talk about it later.' Cleo, ever practical, slipped the bag off Daliah's shoulder, coiled a reassuring arm around her waist, and steered her expertly through the crowded terminal toward the glass exit doors. Her face was set in a worried look. 'Are you all right?'
Daliah started to nod, but then shook her head. 'No, I'm not all right,' she said, her low, hoarse voice heavy with pain.
Cleo looked sharply sideways, and she could see that behind the huge black glasses Daliah's eyes were swollen and red from crying, and that there were dark hollows beneath them.
Daliah turned to her. 'Why,' she asked in a quivering voice, 'did I ever have to get involved with that miserable schmuck in the first place? Why, of all the billions of men out there, did it have to be that prick Jerome?'
'White Woman,' Cleo sighed, 'if I knew the answer to that one, I wouldn't only be rich, I'd be happily married and surrounded by fifteen screamin' kids too. But I know one thing for sure, and that's not to try an' analyse what we feel and why we feel it. Once we start doin' that, the curtain comes down and all the fun's gone outta life.'
'Life's never fun,' Daliah said glumly. 'How can fun go out of something it's never been in?'
Prudently Cleo clamped her lips together and shut up. She knew better than to argue. Daliah was barely holding herself together. Despite the independent air Daliah projected to the world, deep down inside she was one of the most sensitive people Cleo had ever known. It had taken her a long time to find that out.
They went out into a day that had turned angry and grey. A warm wind had started to blow, rubbish and papers taking flight and dust and grit swirling in little eddies. It looked like it would start pouring at any minute.
Cleo peered up and down the pavement. 'Damn! The cops musta chased the car away. He's probably had to circle.'
They waited, and a minute later a white Eldorado convertible, overloaded with sparkling chrome and flying coon tails like proud pennants from the antenna, nosed toward the kerb. The white paintwork gleamed, the dice dangling from the rearview mirror were fuzzy, and James Brown was throbbing with ear-splitting volume over the stereo speakers.
'Here he is,' Cleo shouted above the din. She grabbed Daliah's arm. 'Come on.'
Daliah's lips parted and she hung back. 'This . . . this is our ride?' She eyed the driver suspiciously. He was ebony-skinned, with hooded eyes, a scraggly goatee, and wore a lime-green, brilliantly plumed hat which matched his elaborately tailored suit.
'That's him,' Cleo affirmed lightly. Cheerfully she waved him to remain seated, pulled the passenger door open, and despite his protestations, leaned inside and switched the stereo off. From the expressions on the faces of the people nearby, the sudden silence was a Godsend.
Cleo flipped the front seat toward the dashboard and made a sweeping gesture for Daliah to climb into the back.
For a moment Daliah could only stare. 'Cleo . . .' she began haltingly, 'what if we cabbed it?' Cleo made a gesture which silenced her. 'No, I haven't started hookin', if'n that's what you were gonna ask,' she said in a low voice. 'Coyote here's all right, long as you don't have to work for 'im. 'Member that William Friedkin movie I did the costumes for?'
Daliah nodded.
'Well, I arranged for Coyote and some of his girls to have bit parts in one o' the scenes. It made him the big struttin' man on the block and he owes me a few favours for that, so I call 'em in whenever I need wheels at my beck and call. Like he's a private limousine service, you know, 'cept that this here's a free ride and that's a lot cheaper than any taxi or limo anytime. Get in. It'll be fun.'
Seeing it was futile to argue, Daliah climbed obediently into the back and settled onto the chinchilla-covered seat. Cleo got in beside her. Then Coyote flipped the seat back and reached over to the passenger door and swung it shut.
'An' put up the roof,' Cleo ordered like a queen from the back of the car.
'Say what!' Coyote turned around and stared at her, his hooded eyes widening to surprised white orbs.
'You heard me. Put the top up.'
'Hey, baby.' Coyote's voice rose to a falsetto. 'Wha's the use o' havin' a convertible if'n the top's up? It ain't rainin' yet.'
'That's right,' Cleo agreed. 'But Daliah, she need a little peace and privacy. Everyone stares at this here pimpmobile anyway, and if there's one thing she don't need right now, it's bein' recognized and stared at.' Her voice sharpened, leaving no room for argument. 'Put it up, nigger.'
Coyote just about choked, and Daliah was ready to die, but the convertible canopy whirred and unfolded itself overhead. And not a mom
ent too soon. The first angry splats of rain suddenly drummed heavily on the black cloth top.
They rode most of the way in silence, Daliah staring blankly out the rain-streaked windows at the traffic. Going into Manhattan wasn't too bad, but by the time they drove past Queens Plaza, traffic in the oncoming lanes was practically at a standstill, with both lanes already backed up all the way to the Midtown Tunnel. The clock was just inching toward four, but rush hour was already well under way. 'I don't know what your plans are,' Cleo told Daliah. 'I can have Coyote drop you off at your place or you can come home and stay with me. It's your choice.'
Daliah turned away from the window and looked at her. 'I'd really prefer not to go home,' she said quickly. 'If I'm not imposing, that is.'
'Imposin'? Shit, you ain't never imposin', White Woman,' Cleo assured her cheerfully. 'My place it is.' She leaned forward and raised her voice. 'Coyote, make it Hamilton Terrace.'
The pimp's sloe eyes glanced back at her in the rearview mirror. 'Yes, ma'am.'
Cleo giggled. 'Did I hear right?' she asked Daliah. "That nigger call me "ma'am"?'
'C'mon, Cleo,' Coyote begged. 'You're gonna' ruin my reputation. If word gets round that I'm soft on you, how you 'spect my girls to do like they s'posed to?'
'Don't worry, Coyote,' Cleo said with a laugh. 'I'll try to show more respect when your girls are around.'
'One fuckin' bit-part walk-on,' he moaned, 'and she think she owns me. How much longer am I gonna have to pay for it?'
'Well, if you want another walk-on in a new Kurt Russell movie,' Cleo said slowly for maximum effect, 'I'd say you'll be enslaved a good while longer.'
'Another part?' Coyote's eyes flickered back at Cleo from the rearview mirror with such interest she knew she had him hooked. 'Which movie's this?'
'I'll tell you all 'bout it when I have more information to give you. Meanwhile, Daliah's feelin' a little down, and I'm not at my greatest either. Up the windows all the way and pass the goods on back here.'
