“Are you just smart or did my black wool gabardines give me away?” He asked while watching her disembowel the bagel halves. Which reminded Oshansky of the Brooklyn Butcher whose skill in dissecting his multiple victims had made an impression on him at the time.
“A dead give-away.” Francine reached over and took a large scoop of cream cheese from his plate and began filling the hollowed-out bagel halves.
“Do newcomers always get such welcoming stares?”
“Don’t sweat it,” she shrugged. “Comes with the territory. Condo living. You’ll get used to it. Where are you from, Oshansky?”
“New York.”
“Figures. I’ll let you in on a secret, Mr. O. We don’t walk around in long black wool gabardines in Palm Springs in the summer. Or the winter, for that matter. Unless you’re an undertaker,” she smiled, displaying a set of perfect white teeth. “And you don’t look likeone. Toozoftig. Undertakers have that lean, hungry look.
“So clue me in, Oshansky, what do you do?” She paused to take a bite out of her bagel. “Or rather what did you do in your previous life? Business tycoon? Accountant? Chiropodist? Let me guess. Salesman for office equipment. Actually I could care less.” Francine pushed her plate aside, leaving the rest of the bagel, minus the one bite, uneaten.
He nodded toward her plate. “I guess that’s how you stay thin.”
“Only one of the ways. I also engage in extracurricular activities that burn off calories. And I’m late for one of them now.” She rummaged through her oversized white leather bag trimmed with gold metal. Expensive, Oshansky noted. And heavy.
She extracted a card from a small red leather case, scribbled something on it and handed it to him.
“Just out of curiosity, Francine, how long have you lived here?”
“Five years. By way of LA.” She pushed her chair back and stood up. “By the way, Oshansky, I hope you play tennis or golf. Or at least, bridge.”
“Actually negative to all three.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll meet people. By that, I mean women. Single men here are like honey to bees, especially if you’re straight. And I assume you’re straight,” she said, “or you’d take better care of how you look.
“Anyway I’ve got to run or I’ll be late for my tennis lesson. Oh, and by the way, Oshansky, check out Eisenberg’s on Palm Canyon Drive for appropriate Palm Springs clothes. He’ll steer you right. Ta ta.”
Oshansky watched as Francine and her bag deftly maneuvered their way around the tables. At the door she turned, looked back at him, and blew him a kiss.
Oshansky checked her card.
Francine Seymour
760-555-2232
He turned it over.Call me
.
Chapter 5
It was after four in the afternoon when Rushmore returned to his condo with an Eisenberg’s Fine Men’s Wear shopping bag in each hand. Dropping them both on the floor, he collapsed onto the bed. No doubt he had done Marsha a disservice by not showing her more sympathy when she’d arrive home exhausted from her endless shopping trips.
An hour later Oshansky woke up from his nap and went into the kitchen. He opened up the cupboard and grabbed a can of tuna and one of the several cans of fava beans left by the previous owner. Grabbing a Heineken from the refrigerator he settled into Harry Hermann’s luxurious chaise lounge on the patio and as he ate the food that Harry unfortunately hadn’t lived long enough to enjoy, he recalled the realtor’s description of the Santa Rosas, “Heavenly. Just heavenly.” Though possibly too effusive for his taste, it nonetheless hit the nail on the head.
No doubt about it, Oshansky thought. This is living. Finishing off his beer, he closed his eyes. A neon sign blinked on and off in his head:Call me.
Why not?
Taking Francine’s card from his back pocket, he dialed her number.
“Francine? It’s me, the guy in the black wool gabardines”
“Good movie title,” she replied huskily.
“Yeah, and think of me as your leading man.”
Living in Palm Springs was already having an effect, he figured. Who knew–he might even write that detective screenplay that’d been rolling around in his head for years. After all, this was Hollywood (or close enough) where anything was possible.
“So, Francine, how about coming over?” he asked. “We could watch a movie together.”
“Or make our own,” she countered. “The question is, who’ll play the starring role?”
“We could share it. Double billing.” More evidence the California air encouraged bad lines.
“Okay, Mr. Big Shot. Name the hour.” Francine’s semi-hoarse voice betrayed a past cigarette habit.
“Make it in an hour. I live at…”
“Don’t bother,” she interrupted. “I already heard. You leased Harry Hermann’s, may he rest in peace, condo.”
“News travels fast in the desert.”
“I told you. Everybody knows everything about everyone in Sun Villas. If they don’t now, they will soon. Down to the color of your shorts and whether they’re Jockeys or boxers.”
Perhaps he should consider replacing the twelve pairs of teddy bear boxers Ashley Morgenheim had given him.
“Are you listening to me, Oshansky? I asked, your Viagra or mine?”
“Who needs Viagra? You’re dealing with the great Oshansky. That’s Oshansky, minus an apostrophe but with a large exclamation mark.”
A few minutes later, mouthing a grateful “thank you, Mr. Odile,” for pointing out the location of the drugstore, Oshansky hopped in his car and took off at high speed. Fifteen minutes later he emerged, Viagra refill in hand. Just in case.
He raced around the apartment. Tossed his dirty clothes in the bedroom closet, saving one pair of the teddy bear boxers to wipe down the bathroom sink. Gathering up the paper plates from the evening’s dinner as well as last night’s and the night before, he tossed them in the overflowing garbage can and shoved it back under the sink.
He straightened the blanket on the bed, plumped up the pillows like he’d seen his ex, Marsha, do.
“And he surveyed it all and it was good,” he mumbled.
Chapter 6
Oshansky lay on the bed, wearing only his teddy bear boxers and watched Francine slowly and seductively remove each piece of her clothing until she stood before him. Naked as Eve. Reaching in her bag she pulled out a thin, ominous looking rope which aroused his curiosity while having the opposite effect on his more sensitive male organ.
“I promise you’ll have a good time,” she said. “You won’t live to regret it.”
“I assume that’s not what you meant.”
“Whatever.”
With surprising speed and an expertise that, in spite of his mounting anxiety, earned his admiration, she bound his wrists together, then wound the rope around the bedpost.
Why he’d let his usual guard down and allowed Francine to truss him up like a turkey ready for the roasting was beyond him. Especially after watching her skillful dissection of the bagel at breakfast. After all, he barely (make that, hardly) knew her.
“Close your eyes, Oshansky,” she ordered.
Oshansky shut his eyes.
Ex-New York dick dies in sex-rated scenario
The New York Post headline was followed by a picture of him in the nude–genitals obscured, of course–along with a lurid description which would later be picked up by the AP as well as the National Enquirer (for which he wouldn’t receive a red cent since unfortunately he’d be dead).
Eventually some Hollywood studio or Lifetime TV producer would get hold of it (for which again he would receive no money). Meanwhile he would be a posthumous laughing stock.
Rushmore Oshansky, poster boy of senior sex gone wild. Worse, senior sex gone bad.
“Now relax, Oshansky. Put yourself in Francine’s hands,” she commanded.
Cautiously, he opened one eye. Then the other. He watched as Francine reached in her bag and pulled out a pink
vibrator (no doubt one of those ‘For the Cure’ products, a penny donated for each one sold).
“What do you intend to do with that?” he asked, his sense of foreboding at level four alert.
“Fear not, big O. Just relax.”
“Relax? You expect me to relax while I’m tied up and you’re waving that thing around?”
“Shush,” she commanded harshly. “Just enjoy.”
“Easy for you to say. My arms are already numb. You wouldn’t consider loosening them, would you?”
Francine ignored his plea. On her knees now, straddling his upper thighs, she turned on the vibrator. He watched as she began undulating slowly, accompanied by soft whimpering and the vibrator’s buzz.
Her moaning grew louder and she began to thrash about wildly. “Give it to me! Give it to me!” she cried out.
“Francine, I don’t mean to interrupt,” Oshansky’s calm manner belied his anxiety, “but my arms. I can’t feel anything. Could you just untie my arms? Then you can carry on.”
At the sound of his voice her cries only grew louder, more insistent. The buzzing of the vibrator grew louder along with her. An inseparable duo, she and the vibrator were now beyond reach.
Oshansky had a sudden vision of losing his arms. Who’d take care of him? When he went to the bathroom who would wipe his ass? Did his health insurance cover such contingencies? When people asked how it happened, what would he answer? He’d make something up. He’d lost his arms in the war. Which war? He wasn’t born in the First. The Second? Viet Nam perhaps.
“Ruuushmooore!” Her shriek jolted him from the nightmare scenario. And for the moment he forgot his pain as Francine, emerging from her orgasmic trance, collapsed, exhausted, on top of him.
Pinned down, he struggled to shift his position. How could a woman so thin be such dead weight? He listened to the now discarded but still active vibrator lying next to his ear, calmly buzzing along in perfect accompaniment to her noisy breathing. If he got out of this, arms and other parts intact, he’ll suggest she get her adenoids looked into.
Gradually Francine’s breathing, as well as the vibrator, slowed.
Then…the sound of silence.
“Francine, can you hear me now?” he asked.
Francine gave one loud snort. A last gasp.
She’s dead, he thought with alarm. “Francine, I beg you, wake up.” He sensed a slight movement. A hopeful sign. He bounced his hips upward in a last ditch effort to shift her body off him.
“Oh, Oshansky,” she sighed. With the smile of someone who’d just experienced the mother of all orgasms, she asked, “Was that not fabulous?”
Oshansky couldn’t recall any woman having such a positive post-coital view of him and felt a sense of pride until he remembered he’d played little, if any, role in it.
“Wasn’t that absolutely the best sex you ever had, Big O?”
“Did I have sex? he asked. “In the meantime, just untie my arms. Please.”
Francine’s naked body hovered over him, her breasts teasingly near his mouth while she worked to undo the ropes.
“That was just the appetizer, Oshansky,” she smiled lovingly at him. “My bag is full of tricks for the main course. Let’s just go to sleep now. Then in a couple hours we can start over.”
Start over? Over my dead body. A distinct possibility, he thought, if Francine was allowed to indulge her main course. He rubbed his shoulders, hoping it wasn’t too late to restart circulation. “No,” he said. “No starting over. I think you….that is…we…had enough fun for the night.”
Reluctantly Francine slipped on her dress, stuffed her rope, panties, bra and vibrator back into her bag. “Don’t bother walking me out. I’m a big girl.”
“And I’m too much of a gentleman not to,” Oshansky said, taking her arm and briskly walked her out the door before she could change her mind.
Francine slid into the front seat of her late model BMW. “Next time, Oshansky, I’ll play the starring role.”
“Uh, who played the starring role this time?” he asked.
“Why I did, of course.” Francine slammed the car door shut, turned on the engine, and blew him a kiss.
She backed out of the driveway and with tires squealing, took off down the road.
Oshansky glanced over at the neighboring condos, hoping everyone was sleeping soundly. Otherwise the Hot Coffee Cafe would be buzzing with more than caffeine in the morning.
Chapter 7
Oshansky studied the woman in front of him. Like most of the women at Sun Villas every hair of her blonde bob fell perfectly in place. She was dressed in a sleeveless white tee and short white skirt with small pink flowers that showed off her athletic looking legs. When she finished placing her order, she moved to the side to wait for her food.
Oshansky moved up and ordered his usual eggs, potatoes and three strips of bacon. As they waited for their orders Oshansky figured he’d try out a more condo-friendly persona. “Name’s Rushmore. Rushmore Oshansky.”
“Yes, I know,” she said curtly. “I’ve heard about you.”
Oshansky toyed with the idea of asking what she heard then decided it might be better not to.
“I’m Myra Pfefeneuger,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to call you. About joining our condo board.”
“Me? Oshansky? I think you probably have me confused with someone else.”
A faint smile flickered across her face. “I don’t think so,” she said, handing him her card. “Give me a call and we’ll discuss it further.” She picked up her order and walked away before he could come up with a response.
Oshansky glanced at the card.Myra Pfefeneuger, President, Palm Springs Sun Villas Condo Association.
Myra Pfefeneuger had certainly picked the wrong person to ask to join the condo board. Or to ask to join anything, for that matter. He’d never even been a cub scout. Well, actually he had, but stubbornly refused to go back after the first meeting. And though he’d been a member of the NYPD after law school it was only for a short time until he struck out on his own as a private detective.
“Say, you’re Rushmore Oshansky, aren’t you? Been meaning to call you. Name’s Marv. Marv Aronson.”
Oshansky’s heart sank. He was looking forward to reading the local Desert Sun which someone had discarded and enjoying his breakfast. Alone.
“You know, Oshansky,” Marv said, ogling his scrambled eggs, hash browns and bacon, “that stuff could kill you.”
“Yeah, well, it’s worth it.” Oshansky moved his arm to protect his food from Marv who was leaning in so close he could feel his hot breath on his neck. He turned to face Marv and found himself staring at overly large, overly whitened teeth. Chompers, he thought.
“You know, Oshansky, I’ve been meaning to call you and invite you to join our men’s group. You’ll find we’re a great group of guys, if I do say so myself. You know how important it is to join in the activities at the club.”
“Really? Is that so?” Oshansky said, hoping Marv would take the hint and leave before his food grew any colder. But no such luck.
“Allow me, Oshansky, to offer you a word of friendly advice.”
Here it comes, Oshansky thought. When someone offers you friendly advice it was sure to be the opposite.
“If you’re going to live here, you need to bond with the men. Not just the women.” Marv’s smile was less than friendly.
Dentures, Oshansky decided. Possibly caps.
“Say, we’re meeting this afternoon in the clubhouse. Stop by, Oshansky.” Marv started to walk away, then changing his mind, he turned back. “By the way, I saw you talking to Myra Pfefeneuger over at the counter.” Marv pulled out a chair and sat down. “You two know each other?”
“No.” Oshansky hated to disappoint him. “We just met.”
“Well, let me tell you, she’s one classy lady. You probably didn’t know she was married to a Pfefeneuger.” Marv paused, looking expectantly at Oshansky.
“What’s a Pfefeneuger?”
“Pfefeneuger of the Pittsburgh Pfefeneugers. Pfefeneuger Steel. And damn, if she’s not one classy lady. Plus she’s loaded to the gills withgelt.”
“You don’t say.”
“So, what’d she say to you?”
“Nothing really,” Oshansky replied. “Just something about joining the condo board.”
“Whoa there, Oshansky,” Marv fell back against his chair and stared at him. “That’s some honor. I can’t believe it. What’d you do to deserve that? Well, then definitely make sure you come to the men’s meeting this afternoon.”
Chapter 8
Settling into the comfortable lounge chair in the paneled meeting room, Oshansky wondered if Marv’s teeth might have cast a spell on him. Why else would he have agreed to attend the Sun Villas Men’s Political Discussion Group?
Marv pounded the cocktail table with his miniature gavel. “Listen up, everyone. Let’s all extend a warm welcome to our newest member, Rushmore Oshansky. Stand up, Rushmore.”
Anemic applause was accompanied by murmurings of,“What’d he say the name was?” “O’Shaughnesy?” “What kind of name is that?
“Tell us about yourself, Rushmore,” Marv ordered.
“Not much to say. New York detective. Retired.”
“Did he say tired detective?” “A Jewish detective?” “No way Jewish.”
“Jewish, divorced, and retired.” Oshansky had just summed up his life in three words. He wondered if most people’s lives can be described in less words than the average grocery list.
“Thank you, Rushmore. Now are you ready to share your problems with us?” Marv asked.
“Problems? The condo bulletin said this was a political discussion group.”
“That was last month. The political discussions were becoming overheated. A couple of our guys at the last meeting came to blows over the California senate race. We almost lost Sam over there.” Marv nodded toward a thin man of delicate pallor, who upon hearing his name, sat up to attention.
Sylvia Selfman - Rushmore Oshansky 01 - Murder Never Retires Page 2
