Strip Poker

by Lisa Lawrence

  “If you ever get divorced, Teresa, and I certainly hope you don’t go through it, you discover that one of you gets custody of your friends. And I know it sounds sexist, but as you get older, you discover your remaining friends are overrepresented by your own gender.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier just to ask Candice what she wants?”

  “We, um, don’t have an easy relationship these days, with all that’s happened between her mother and me. And she’s at that age where I’d like to show that I don’t have to ask, that I know my own daughter.” He looked down guiltily at his coffee. “Even if I don’t.”

  “I take it the mother won’t give you any help.”

  “Not at all.”

  “All right, then. What did you have in mind? Clothes? You know I may be a little old myself to know what’s hip for nineteen-year-olds, George. If it’s clothes, I need to know sizes, and—”

  “I was thinking more music, movies—DVDs she might like.”

  “But George, I doubt highly that…”

  I was about to say why would he think I could guess at his kid’s taste when the proud father passed along a photo from his wallet of his little girl. And then I understood. I saw George Westlake’s high forehead and eyes in a lovely teenager’s face—a face that was quite noticeably a light café au lait shade that was deeper than his own white complexion.

  “Your ex-wife’s black?”

  “Yes.”

  “You asked me to help you shop because your daughter’s mixed race, so you figure I should know?”

  “Yes,” he said promptly. Then quickly added, “But not just that. Look, I meant this in no way to offend you. Yes. I asked you to help me because you are a young black woman—”

  I didn’t dive in reflexively with my rant that I’m African. I let him get it out.

  “My ex never made a big deal out of heritage, and I wish I could say I took a greater interest in hers, but I know my daughter watches MTV and listens to these black fellows, Sean something, and whatever the other guy’s name is, Paul whatever—”

  “Sean Paul,” I laughed. “It’s one guy.”

  “See?” he said, looking exasperated. “Before I moved out of the house, I’d come in and she’d be watching telly shows I’d never heard of. My Wife and Kids or…? That’s not it. It’s My Wife’s First Kid or—”

  “You had it right the first time,” I giggled. “Enough! I’ll help you.”

  “I’m sorry,” he groaned. “I’m a sad white male.”

  “No, I think you’re a good father,” I assured him. “I thought for a moment this was an elaborate ruse to get into my knickers, but it’s just too…”

  “Sad?”

  I smiled. “I really want to pick a different word. I want to.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “No.”

  “Understand,” he said, recovering, with a glint in his eye, “I do still want to get into your knickers.”

  “Okay then, fairly warned,” I purred. “I see you have your preferences. Is it only physical then with you? Black women?”

  He let out an embarrassed sigh. “I don’t want to be that shallow. I mean…Well, my wife—my ex-wife—is black with Guyanese roots. Yes, of course, I was interested in what made this woman her, so I took an interest in that culture. But all of today’s things…This hip-hop stuff, who the stars are and the clothes—I think a lot of it must be influenced by America, and it’s my daughter’s generation, and—I don’t want to sound old, but—”

  “I understand,” I cut in. “You’re not old. It’s not your thing, that’s all. It’s not the thing for millions here. I’m sorry if I was a bit touchy. You’re very brave to at least admit your ignorance.”

  “Thank you,” he said, and there was that touch of boyish shyness again.

  I could see what Helena meant. He was playing the circuit, yes, but he’d been off the market for a good long time and had to learn the signals and cues all over again. I found myself beginning to like him. It didn’t make me want to take him to bed like Neil, but he was sweet in his gentlemanly way. I like flirting, and flirting with him was fun because despite being rusty, he knew that flirting shouldn’t advance an agenda.

  “But you do like black women, don’t you?” I pressed, leaning a bit forward to draw him out.

  “I have to say I do,” he smiled.

  “Interesting. I guess I could see you going after Janet Marshall. She looks great for her age, and she’s really successful—”

  “Oh, no,” he scoffed.

  “Too old?”

  “Yes. I am. Janet prefers her men young. And fit. Someone like Lionel or Neil is more her speed. Janet’s a good friend these days.”

  “You don’t look like a fellow who gives up on what he wants,” I remarked.

  “Not often.” He rested a hand on my thigh for a fleeting second. “But sometimes you change your mind about what you want.”

  We paid for our coffee, and I led him to the big HMV store close by, where I thought we’d make out like bandits for his daughter. Good sale on this week. I grabbed one of their wire baskets, and he grinned in surprise, making a quip about how it was like we were going to Waitrose or something. Ha, if he only knew how I wish I could afford Waitrose.

  He held the basket while I tossed in the latest releases from Outkast, Usher, but no point going for the no-brainer options like Alicia Keys or Twista, his daughter probably had those since they were playing everywhere you went. Then I checked the racks for a couple of artists that were only now starting to cross over to the UK from America. They were soon to hit big and if the kid had any taste, George would score major points for finding them first.

  “How are we doing with your budget?” I asked over my shoulder. Okay, he’s rich, but it’s polite to ask.

  “We’re fine,” he said pleasantly. “Better than fine. It’s her birthday, I’ll splurge.”

  “No, no,” I told him. “We’re done here.”

  I tagged along behind as he settled up at the cashier’s, and he absently handed me a boxed set of Peter Gabriel I had been admiring. “Here you go,” he said. “A little thank-you for your trouble.”

  “George! Wow! How did you…?”

  “I spotted you looking at the box,” he laughed. “You had the look: ‘Do I indulge myself?’ And even I know Peter Gabriel’s too old for my daughter.”

  “Thank you.” I linked my arm through his, and we walked out of the store like that, seemingly a couple. As we strolled Oxford Street for a bit, I looked him up and down and said, “Since you’re making use of my buyer talents, can I suggest something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You get all your suits tailored, but your wife used to choose your casual wear, didn’t she?”

  “I wouldn’t say she chose for me, but she would suggest,” he said sheepishly. “Okay, yeah, she dressed me. What’s wrong with this?” He motioned to his shirt.

  “Nothing at all,” I reassured him. “I like it. But it’s safe. And you could use a dash of colour. Now that you’re not with your wife, you must be falling into some old habits. I notice you came to the game in your suit, and I’ll bet it’s because you feel most comfortable in one. You’re not closing a business deal, George, you’re making a seduction.”

  “All right then. Tell me some things I should wear.”

  “Oh, we can do better than that!” I laughed.

  I didn’t think he could pull off anything from Diesel, but I led him to Burton and John Lewis, believe it or not, has been doing some really interesting stuff with Italian fabrics lately. I picked out shirts and a couple of pairs of trousers for him. I had him looking pretty good after an hour, and I extracted a promise that he would show up in one of his new ensembles the next time he felt like playing cards. It was around five-thirty when we stood on a side road near Bond Street Station, finished for the day, and he said, “Why don’t I buy you dinner tonight? As a thank-you.”

  I lifted the shopping bag that held my present. �
�You’ve already thanked me.”

  “That was for Candice. I haven’t paid you back for helping my wardrobe.”

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I should get going. But I want you to know I had a lovely time.” In this, I was telling the truth.

  I stepped in and kissed him, and he was a surprisingly good kisser (the goatee tickled). I leaned into him only very gently yet I felt an insistent hardness below. He blushed faintly and said, “I need you to stand still for a minute.”

  To hide him until he calmed down.

  “I think being close to you is a bit counterproductive,” I giggled.

  His trousers made a tent for a very long, impressive bulge.

  “Christ, this is embarrassing,” he said, turning away from passing shoppers. “I’m sorry, Teresa. To be honest, it’s been a while.”

  “But you go to the games,” I said, a little surprised.

  “I play but I’m not the best player, and it’s not like I’m the most in demand,” he admitted. “Vivian bets on me sometimes because she’s bored, but she only gets me down to my underwear before she turns her attention to Lionel or Neil—Giradeau, even Cahill or whoever the new face is. I won her once ages ago, but I think she let me win. It was very perfunctory—”

  “I don’t need to know, George,” I said quickly.

  “Sorry, too much information. I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve got to stop apologising, George. I had a really good time.”

  “So did I,” he replied. He wore an expression of such vulnerable open need. I wanted to be compassionate.

  “I wish you’d reconsider,” he said.

  “Dinner tonight? We both know where that’s going.” I arched my eyebrows at him and offered, “If you’re in a hurry, there’s always the games.”

  “That’s not what I…” He sighed. “I want it to be your choice to have my company.”

  “It was today. And it always will be. You have nothing to worry about on that score.” I gave him a swift kiss on the cheek and said, “I’m going now. You’ve got a PC at home, right? Got broadband?”

  He shrugged a yes.

  “Start it up when you get home and call my mobile. I’ll have something for you.” I flashed a smile intended to dazzle and then strolled away. I would bet anything he was watching my back for a good twenty seconds.

  I treated myself to a pasta dinner at Amalfi’s in Soho, and then jumped on the tube. I knew it would take George longer to get home since he mentioned he’d bought a new house in Walton-on-Thames. By the time I emerged from Earl’s Court Station, my mobile bleeped in my handbag.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I said. “You online?”

  “I can be.”

  “Good. But first, I want you to take your clothes off and sit down at the computer.”

  I heard a rustle of clothing being unbuttoned and shed, and I knew he was complying. “You sound about done. Comfy?”

  “It’s a little cold.”

  “You’ll warm up, George, no worries.” And I gave him a very specific URL.

  He told me to hang on and then eagerly typed. After a moment, I heard him gasp in surprise, and I roared with laughter. “Oh, my God!” he whispered. “It’s you! When did you have these taken?”

  “About five years ago,” I said. “And please do not share them.”

  “No—no, of course not. You look beautiful, Teresa.”

  He was looking at the website of a photographer friend of mine who had persuaded me to do a series of artsy glamour nude shots for him. Some pics had made it into a coffee table book he released, but it was out of print and never got wide distribution. Still. I could be found on his website, arching my back and looking sensually aroused by the Pacific Ocean, and then there was the one where I was lying in the sun with a sheer netting for a prop. Hey, I made good money and got a vacation out of it.

  “Are you hard, George?” I whispered into the phone.

  “Y—yes.”

  No doubt he had clicked on the couple of pop-up shots of me on my knees, looking into the camera with more than a come-hither look, more like a come-and-stick-it-inme-now look.

  “You have a good time then.” I laughed a goodbye and clicked off.

  The idea of him sitting there nude at that very instant and masturbating to my pictures gave me a chuckle. And the pictures were a useful consolation prize that avoided me having to shut him down right away. He was a nice guy, and as strange as it sounded, I think I could handle fucking him, but dating him held all kinds of traps.

  The big trouble was that shopping with George Westlake on a Saturday afternoon didn’t get me any closer to the blackmailer. Unless it was Westlake, and no, of course, I wasn’t about to rule him out just because he had a black ex-wife and a mixed-race kid. Wandering around HMV, I had slowly drawn him out about his own work, how he had built up his modest empire, and I made mental notes to check out each dropped name, every casual reference.

  But I had a feeling they would all check out.

  I had already poked my nose into Lionel’s business affairs on the theory that someone might hold a grudge and was using his personal life as a pretext to intimidate him. But slim pickings there. Yes, those that screw together do deals together, and my digging uncovered the fact that George Westlake had given Lionel a hefty discount on time-shares in Majorca for a corporate junket. One month later, George’s stock portfolio included a tidy profit on some new metals trading. And that was recent. That should make them buddies, not foes.

  There was another possibility—friends that had a falling-out.

  Change the theory of the crime, and you change the suspects and change the motivations. Suppose it was personal.

  If George had a thing for black women and he was behind all this, the anonymous notes could be interpreted very differently. After all, Lionel’s note had warned him to stop seeing “her,” presumably Janet, while Janet’s note referred to her “having to pay to get off.” Instead of Lionel feeling vengeful after a poor performance, what if it was Westlake venting his jealousy?

  I rang Helena to get the lowdown. “Oh, yes, darling, he was terribly smitten with Janet for a while. Made a few plays for her, but she always shut him out, and when she and Neil began their conspicuous losing streak to each other, I think he got the message.”

  Neil. There was still Neil to consider. Dummy, I told myself.

  You forgot that Westlake probably knows of her involvement with Neil or at the very least got the hint something was there. Confirmed by Helena. A poker regular obsessed with Janet was one of the first scenarios we rejected because of the logic. Jealousy didn’t make sense when you factored in a note to Lionel but not one sent to Neil.

  And Janet’s note had referred to her as a “sad old bag.” Again, just as with Vivian Mapling, the language didn’t fit. Would George use an insult like that? There was only a couple of years’ difference between them.

  Yet when he talked about young guys who were “Janet’s speed” he had mentioned both Neil and Lionel.

  If he was our blackmailer making death threats, then my passing on links to my nude shots was upping the ante in a very dangerous game.

  4

  Tuesday. Time to find out what Lionel wanted. The lobby of his employer, Buccaneer Cape Mining, put on an impressive front. Its top brass had turned it into a gallery for up-and-coming painters, many a little too influenced by Bacon for my tastes, but it’s not as if I had the bank account to voice an opinion. Big tanks of tropical fish. BBC 24 and CNBC Europe on large television screens overhead, and the standard coffee table fare of this morning’s Wall Street Journal Europe and The Financial Times.

  Lionel came out and smiled at me as if we were old colleagues, shaking my hand and greeting me as “Miss Knight,” asking if I’d had any trouble finding the office. Past the desk at front reception, he fell silent, ushering me into his professional sanctum and only then finding his voice to ask if I wanted coffee. I declined. He shut the door, and I heard the tiny clic
k as he locked us in. I already saw that the vertical venetian blinds were closed.

  He sat down behind his desk and spoke as if he were upbraiding one of his own staff. “You’ve been going around asking a lot of questions about me.”

  I leaned back in the chair opposite him and folded my arms. And smiled. “You wanted to meet me in person for that? I could have told you to go to hell over the phone.”

  “If you want to know something,” he said, smoothly ignoring my reply, “why don’t you just come to the source? What? What are you looking for?” He saw me make a big show of looking around.

  “The luggage. You must keep it around somewhere for all that ego.”

  “Then why all the questions?”

  “It’s a small world, Lionel,” I said. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I merely traded notes with another dissatisfied customer. You really are giving black men a bad name, you know.”

  “Shondi,” he growled, huffing in exasperation. “Thought as much. She’s a big-mouthed slut, and anything she tells you—”

  “You’re doing the games, and she’s the slut?”

  “Whoa, whoa, hold on,” he said. “It’s not like that. There’s a difference between getting it on with people you know or at least you can be sure of, and letting an entire floor of people see your crack and giving it away to one and all! I never took her around to that scene. Not ever.”

  I was scathing. “Let me guess. The deal was you guys fuck other people, but when it’s you two, it’s making love, right?”

  “You don’t think there’s a difference?” he shot back. “Poor you.”

  “Sounds like it was you who made up the rules all the time,” I argued. “Maybe she got tired of it.”

  He looked down at his desk blotter. “That’s not why we broke up.”

  “Yeah, I heard why. You two had a political argument that got ugly.”

  He scoffed at that one, looking genuinely surprised. “Is that what she told you? She substituted that shit about my company and how ‘what I’m doing is all wrong’ for our break-up argument? Oh, man. Okay, whatever.”

  I didn’t press him on this. It wasn’t relevant to the case why the two horny lovebirds parted ways. I was looking for other connections. He calmed down a bit and tried to be charming. “Shondi can do what she likes now. And I’ve matured since her. I’ve learned to appreciate a finer type of woman.”