Sylvia Selfman - Rushmore Oshansky 01 - Murder Never Retires

by Sylvia Selfman

  Oshansky attacked the prime rib and baked potato with the vigor of a man who just had his stomach by-pass reversed. By the time he was finished only the three string beans remained untouched on his plate. No need for a doggy bag.

  “Tsk, tsk. You’re not eating your veggies.” The waiter reappeared at his side as Oshansky wiped the last vestige of au jus from his lips. “Naughty boy. Veggies make you strong. And big. Is there anything else I can give you?” He handed him the oversized dessert menu, leaving Oshansky with the distinct impression that he held on to it longer than necessary.

  “I think dessert’s already planned for me,” Oshansky replied.

  “Ooooh, lucky you. Sounds like somebody’s going to have a fun time tonight.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Oh, then too bad. By the by, name’s, Roberto. You can always ask for me. Day. Or night.”

  Chapter 11

  Before his finger pressed the buzzer, Brenda flung open the door. “You came. I knew you would. Come in, come in.” She planted a kiss on his cheek. “Make yourself at home. I’ll just slip into something a bit more comfortable.”

  It occurred to Oshansky that Brenda’s definition of dessert might include something not found in the usual recipe book. “That’s okay, Brenda, you look comfortable just as you are. I figured we’d just sit around and talk. You know, get acquainted and all that. Did I hear you right? You were a principal? Imagine that…a school principal.”

  Brenda eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you, Oshansky?”

  “No, of course not. Why would I? Ever since I was nine years old and got sent to the principal’s office, I’ve wanted to befriend one.”

  “That’s sweet. Now go fix yourself a drink. I’ll be back in a minute. And relax, Oshansky. I can see you’re all wound up.”

  Oshansky reached for the bottle of scotch on the cocktail table. Relax? Seems all the women he’d met since moving to Palm Springs were telling him to relax.

  He poured himself a scotch and contemplated the women he’d met. Aggressive? Yes. Self-assured? Ditto. Self-assuredly aggressive, ditto, ditto. And always telling him to relax.

  He glanced around the room. In dealing with perps and clients (often one and the same) Oshansky would make quick and usually pretty accurate assessments, a habit that wasn’t easy to shake.

  Nothing in Brenda’s decorating scheme stood out or revealed anything that wasn’t typical condo style. Overstuffed white down sofa, large glass coffee table, etagere with assorted tchotchkes, the usual pictures of grandchildren. The conservative taste of the middle aged woman. Safe, reliable. Nothing over the top. None of the kitsch he’d associated with Palm Springs.

  A few modern black and gray abstracts hung on the wall. He was no art expert but even he could tell it wasn’t good art – though she’d probably paid some decorator an arm and a leg for them.

  “Ta da,” Brenda announced, reappearing in the doorway. She had changed into a short, black lace item (he wasn’t sure what to call it) that revealed pleasingly plump thighs and an ample bosom.

  “You like?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” he said taking a large gulp of scotch. “Really good stuff.”

  “You’re a funny man, Oshansky.”

  Brenda walked over and sat down next to him on the sofa, her bare thigh seductively grazing his leg. “Have you ever given thought to going into show biz? I have a cousin in the business. Maurice. Maurice Bernstein. Perhaps you heard of him. Used to be very successful. Makes a so-so living now signing up has-been comedians for gigs at old age homes and retirement communities. He could probably help you get work.”

  His attention focused on her bare thigh, he mumbled something to the effect of , “Yeah, great.” Then realizing what she’d said, he corrected himself, “Actually no. I’m retired now. Besides I never considered myself funny.”

  “You’re right. You’re retired. Retirement in general and condo living specifically is about playing. Having fun. You’ve earned it. By the way, it’s come to my attention that you already met Francine.”

  Perhaps if the NYPD had been as adept at obtaining information as the Sun Villas crowd, New York might be in better shape. “How did you know?

  “You really are naive, Rushmore. There are no secrets here. Everything is public knowledge. From the size of your shoes all the way up to the size of your hat. Including the size of your, you know what.”

  A jolt of electricity shot through Oshansky’s shoulder. He’d never dreamed that being single at his age would be like this. Not for Rushmore Oshansky.

  But why not? The women in Sun Villas found him desirable, in spite of his being slightly overweight and not the most handsome of men, to put it mildly. But hell, he was in good health, still had good eyesight, including night vision, had his own teeth except for one that he’d broken in college. Had enough hair for women to run their hands through. And he could still drive a car.

  He was, in other words, what women of a certain age might consider, ‘a catch.’

  Rushmore Oshansky, a catch…it had a nice ring to it, if he had to say so himself.

  “I imagine you see yourself as quite the catch, don’t you Oshansky?”

  Rushmore decided he’d have to be more careful since Brenda seemed to have an uncanny ability to read his thoughts.

  “Come, Rushmore,” she said, taking his hand. “Enough talk. To the bedroom.”

  Chapter 12

  “Ta da.” Brenda stood in the doorway and motioned for Oshansky to enter.

  Oshansky marveled at what lay before him. A room that only cousin Maurice Bernstein could have designed. It was straight from an Ethel Merman stage set.

  “Welcome to my boudoir.”

  “Yes, it…it’s…very red. Very…it looks like a,” he paused. A what? A bordello, perhaps. A room that invited an imminent raid by the Palm Springs Police?

  “Of course it looks different from my other rooms. This is where I indulge my favorite color.”

  And plenty of other things no doubt, Oshansky thought.

  Though, of course, he could be wrong. After all Brenda was a grade school principal. Amend that to, had been a grade school principal.

  “Make yourself comfortable, Rushmore.” Brenda whipped the red satin coverlet off the bed and folded it carefully over a chair. “Don’t want it damaged. Don’t worry. Whatever happens in this bedroom stays in this bedroom. I know how to keep things private. Which also happens to be my personal motto: Keep one’s privates, private. Now finish up your drink so we can get started.”

  “Started?” His hand automatically went to his shoulder. “Started with what?”

  “Don’t play naive, Oshansky. That’s never becoming in a man. Strip.”

  “Just like that? Strip? No foreplay?”

  “Oh my lord, Oshansky. Foreplay? That’s for sissies. Which also happens to be the title of the book I recently finished writing.Foreplay is for Sissies. It’s at the publisher’s now. If you’re a good boy, I might even dedicate it to you.”

  Don’t do me any favors. “I’m sure you know people who are more deserving of that honor.”

  “Don’t be so modest, Oshansky. It’s going to be a best seller. It’s about skipping all that preliminary stuff that people get caught up in. Which, I’m sure you know, doesn’t necessarily lend itself to a more satisfying sex life. Better to go right at it. I presume you came prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?” Oshansky asked. He realized since moving to Palm Springs Sun Villas, he wasn’t prepared for much of anything. “I just happened to be waiting for my prime rib at the club when you came over. I wasn’t prepared for anything but a good meal.”

  “You should know by now that the best things in life are unplanned,” Brenda scolded. “Call it fortuitous or chance, or what have you. It comprises all those wonderful elements that set the world on its course and people like us on fire. You’re old enough to know that,” she said, looking him over. “So why are you ju
st standing there, Oshansky? How do you expect me to give you a rubdown if you don’t take your clothes off?”

  Oshansky’s hand automatically moved to his privates.

  “Don’t tell me you’re shy, Oshansky. A big New York detective like you. That’s not the description Francine gave at bridge today.”

  “Francine? Francine gave a description. Of what?”

  “Relax, Oshansky, I’m not into that bondage stuff like she is,” Brenda said.

  “You know that about Francine?”

  “My dear Rushmore, everybody knows that about Francine.”

  “Does Francine know that everybody knows?”

  “What does she care? She’s a slut. She has no shame. But enough talk. Let’s get to work.”

  She walked over to her black lacquered nightstand. Opening the top drawer, she pulled out a large plastic baggy. “Just in case,” she said, swinging back and forth what looked like a bag of children’s individually wrapped party favors. “Take your pick of condoms, Oshansky. I don’t want to get pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” Was she kidding? Fat chance of that happening at her age.

  “Speaking of which, how old do you think I am, Oshansky?”

  Too old to get pregnant, he thought. “You can call me, Rushmore,” he said in a feeble attempt to avoid answering.

  “Whatever. How old? Take a guess.” Brenda did a half twirl.

  “I’m not really good at guessing ages.”

  “Sure you are. Take a guess.” Putting her left hand on her hip she arched her back in a seductive pose.

  Oshansky found it difficult to avert his gaze from her abundant breasts.

  “Go ahead,” she encouraged. “Guess.”

  If there was one thing he knew was sure to get him in trouble, it was guessing a woman’s age. “I don’t know. Forty-nine.” Give or take one or two decades, he thought. “And a half,” he added for a touch of authenticity.

  “You’re such a flatterer.” Brenda did another twirl. “Actually I’m a grandmother, would you believe? Nobody believes it. How many grandmothers still look good in baby doll nighties?”

  He was grateful he could finally answer truthfully. “Not many.”

  Brenda went back to her nightstand and this time pulled out a small baggie filled with little blue pills. “How about Viagra or Cialis, Oshansky? It’s on the house.”

  “Thanks, Brenda. But no thanks.”

  “All right then. Let’s get on with it.”

  “It?” he asked apprehensively.

  “Relax, Oshansky. I promise you, my massages will rid you of all your aches, pains, and kinks. But I assure you, no bondage.”

  At the mention of the word, bondage, sharp pains coursed through his shoulder. Was it too late, he wondered to extricate himself from Brenda’s clutches with her ominous red fingernails without becoming the object of derision at the bridge group?

  One no trump, that Oshansky’s a real non-starter.

  Two no trump, imagine a man turning down a massage from a woman.

  Whoever heard of that!

  Three no trump, you think he’s gay?

  He had a two year lease with option to buy and a reputation of sorts to protect. Above all he valued his privacy. Being the object of gossip did not sit well with him.

  “So, Oshansky, are you going to strip or not?”

  He looked at Brenda. She was attractive in a school principal kind of way. Her breasts could certainly hold their own even among younger women. And being on the zoftig side in no way detracted from her appeal. Possibly added to it.

  Now that he thought about it, what harm could there be in getting a simple massage?

  “What’s that smell?” Rushmore asked.

  “Relax, Oshansky. It’s Explosiva Exotica. Ordered it on the web from Sexuality Incorporated. A European exclusive from China.”

  “Asia. China’s in Asia.”

  “Whatever. You know those Chinese. They’re everywhere. They know all about making love. All that Karma Sutra stuff.”

  “It’s Kama. And it’s from India. Kama Sutra’s Indian.

  “Oshansky, you shouldn’t get so caught up in technicalities. It’ll just make you old before your time. Anyway, this stuff’s guaranteed.”

  “Guaranteed to what?”

  Brenda, obviously bored with the discussion, didn’t answer.

  There was nothing much he could do now except take her advice and do as she ordered. He removed his clothes. Then with an audible exhalation, he lay face down and closed his eyes. It didn’t take long before his muscles began to respond to Brenda’s expert kneading and pounding. He hadn’t realized the amount of tension he’d stored up over the years. His eyes turned heavy and he started to doze off.

  “Turn over.” The command emanated from some far-off place. “Don’t pretend, Oshansky. You heard me. Turn over or I’ll have to put you in the corner,” the voice demanded.

  Oshansky thought back to Mrs. Marsh, principal of his elementary P.S.125, back in Brooklyn. Tall, slim Mrs. Marsh. A Rapunzel with long golden hair and a bosom that inspired awe even at his ripe young age of nine.

  Oshansky felt himself becoming hard. “Uh, Mrs. Marsh, I mean, Brenda…could you please….we need to get to know each other better before we do this.”

  “Turn,” Brenda demanded.

  As he shifted over to his back, Oshansky felt his burgeoning hard-on begin to shrink.

  “Please, Brenda,” he said, his left hand pushing at the top of her head. “We’ve just met.”

  Brenda, having now taken his most private part between her lips, ignored his plea.

  The last thing he noticed before he exploded was that Brenda’s fingernails matched her lipstick.

  Brenda lifted her head and looked at him. “Now, tell me, Oshansky,” she said triumphantly, “wasn’t that better than anything you had with Francine?”

  She straightened up and wiped her lips with the back of her hand, smearing what was left of her lipstick. “Stay the night, Oshansky? We’ll go at it later when you get your strength back.”

  “Not on your life. What I mean is, it’s time for me to go home.”

  “Why, what’s at home?”

  “My dog. I have to walk my dog.” Oshansky made a mental note to check out the Palm Springs animal shelter in the morning. Pick up a German shepherd or maybe, he smiled at the thought, a Doberman. One he could train to attack on command.

  “Ah, you’re smiling, Oshansky. Finally! I’m glad you enjoyed it. So you’ll stay the night?”

  “Next time,” Rushmore said, looking around for his clothes. “Have you seen my clothes, Brenda? I’ll need them to drive home.”

  “Not so fast. You’re not leaving me like this, are you? I hope you’re not one of those selfish men that once they have their fun, don’t give a damn about the woman.” Brenda let her black nighty slip to the floor. “On your knees, Oshansky,” she ordered. “You may begin.”

  Oshansky recalled the time when he was called into the office of the lovely Mrs. Marsh for pulling Mary Lou Oshmann’s pigtails in arithmetic class. She motioned him to a seat opposite her. He stared wide-eyed, open mouthed, at her beautifully formed breasts. Only when Mrs. Marsh ordered him to stand in the corner did he reluctantly avert his gaze and do as she commanded.

  As he stood facing the wall, he’d turn to sneak looks at her. When he saw her in slow motion reach down to adjust the garter belt holding up her stockings, he had to struggle to muffle his moans. And then it happened –– and he was sure he’d die either from excitement or as a punishment from God –– he caught sight of her glistening white thigh glazed over with short golden hairs which gave him his most painful (up until then) hard-on.

  To add further fuel to his fire, at that very moment, Mrs. Marsh looked over at him, a faint smile on her lips and, he would swear, gave him an almost imperceptible wink.

  Oshansky fell to his knees. He noticed Brenda’s toenails were painted the same brilliant red as her lips and fingernails.

>   “Now work your way up. And do it to my satisfaction,” Brenda commanded. “Or you’ll start over.”

  Oshansky worked his way up her right leg while spending as little time on each area so as not to elicit any complaints and have to start over. Thank goodness she was short.

  After all, men have had it worse, he consoled himself, thinking of the men who fought in the trenches of World War One.

  When he reached the holy triangle, Brenda grabbed his head and clutched it tightly to her. Was suffocation to be Oshansky’s end?

  Finally she released him. “Good job, Oshansky. You be a good boy now, and stay away from all those condo hussies, you hear? And we’ll get together again soon. After my ex leaves.”

  “Your ex?” Oshansky asked, surprised. “Your ex? Where’s your ex?”

  “Oh, did I forget to tell you? He’s in the other bedroom. He’s an accountant and comes down from San Francisco to do my tax work twice a year. Saves me a pile of money. Don’t worry, he could care less what I do. He’s gay. Has his own wife or whatever you call it.

  ***************

  Oshansky poured himself a tall glass of scotch and gulped it down, stripping off his clothes for the second time that night. He collapsed onto his unmade bed and fell into the sleep of the innocent.

  Floating above him was Mrs. Marsh, wearing a diaphanous white mini gown and sparkly silver sheer stockings which were held up by a golden garter belt. She gently waved her pink wand while softly calling out,“Oshansky. Oh, Rushmore Oshansky.” She kicked her legs slowly back and forth in order to stay aloft, allowing him glimpses of her gossamer blond pubic hair. Oshansky reached toward her and just when he thought he might have her within his grasp, she smiled gently down at him, and with one final flutter of her legs, allowed him a last magical peek before floating gracefully away.