Fresh Disasters

18

The night passed in a fog of champagne and mad love, with mouths employed voraciously and plenty of good, straight sex: sitting, standing, kneeling and reclining. Stone woke, exhausted, with a hand on his penis, and to his alarm, it was responding yet again.

“This time I’ll die,” he said.

“There are worse ways to go,” she replied, then used her tongue to help her hand. She threw a leg over him and settled down, guiding him in.

Stone emitted a pitifully gratified noise.

“Why didn’t they print the pictures?” she asked offhandedly.

“Huh?”

“I saw the mention of Bernie and Marilyn on Page Six, but they didn’t use the photographs. Why?”

Stone stopped helping, but Celia continued to slowly move up and down on him. “What?”

“Oh, come on, Stone. Don’t be coy. When I told you about the penthouse exhibitionism I expected you to use the information, but didn’t you give the Post the pictures your man took?”

“You flabbergast me,” Stone said.

“It doesn’t seem to be affecting your erection,” she said, giggling.

“How on earth do you know…what you think you know?”

“Didn’t you used to be a detective?”

“Yes, but…”

“Then figure it out.”

Stone thought for a minute. “Okay, you got me. I can’t figure it out.”

“I’m living, temporarily, in the building directly across the street from Marilyn, and the doorman, Tim, is my buddy. He saw the piece in the Post, too, and he told me about the man with all the cameras on the roof.”

“I’m relieved to hear that,” Stone said, “because I had begun to think that you were some sort of psychic.”

“Oh, I’m pretty psychic, too; how do you think I knew you would use the information I gave you?”

Stone began to help with the sex again. “I think I’m just going to stop thinking, at least when you’re around.”

“Well, you’ve been thinking with your cock all night, and that’s all right with me. You don’t need a brain to make me happy in bed.”

“Then you’ve come to the right place,” Stone said.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“There was a question?”

“Why didn’t they use the photographs?”

“I was thinking about that-this was before we got into bed together-and I think they’re playing it very smart.”

“Hang on a minute.” She began moving faster and making little noises, then she came all in a rush, followed closely by Stone.

She rolled off him and lay on her back, panting. “Okay, you can have your brain back now. How is the Post playing it smart?”

Stone took a few deep breaths and handed her the box of tissues from the bedside table. “This is how I figure it: Bernie doesn’t know they have the pictures; he thinks they’re operating on nothing more than a rumor. So they run what he thinks is a rumor the first day, then Bernie sues them immediately, denies everything, claims slander. They wait for the suit to be filed, then the next day-that’s today-they run the pictures, thus blowing Bernie’s lawsuit out of the water and making him look even more like the ass he is. You could call that humiliating him, legally, and Bernie prides himself on knowing how to manipulate the law, so he’s hoist with his own petard.”

“What’s a petard?”

“Some sort of medieval weapon, I think, but the phrase means, if I’m right, that the Post will pretty much fuck Bernie with his own dick.”

“How very appropriate,” Celia said, laughing.

“Just what is your interest in all this?” Stone asked. “Do you have an axe to grind?”

“You might say that,” she replied. “Right after Bernie had started seeing Marilyn, when we were both working at the day spa, he made a big pass at me. She never even knew that, but somehow she got the idea that I was interested in him, and she took delight in telling me all the details of their affair, as if she were making me jealous. I got really tired of it, but she wouldn’t stop, even when I asked her to. I quit the job, just to get away from her.”

“God, I hope I never make you angry with me,” Stone said.

“That would be unwise, indeed. Where’s the breakfast in bed you promised me?”

“Celia, it’s…” he checked the bedside clock “…six oh five in the morning, and my housekeeper doesn’t arrive until eight. And I can’t even make a fist, let alone cook, in my present condition.”

“What you need is a hot bath,” she said, getting out of bed. A moment later, water could be heard running in the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, Celia sat in the big tub, holding a limp Stone in her arms. “There, there,” she said, stroking his hair. “This is wonderful,” he sighed.

“Of course it is. And when we’re done here, I’m going to give you the best massage you ever had in your life.”

“I think I’m going to have to take the day off,” Stone said.

She laughed. “I wish I could join you, but I have appointments today.”

“So you live in that building on Park? You’ve been very mysterious about it.”

“Not mysterious, just careful.”

“Why careful?”

“I’m afraid I have a crazy ex-boyfriend on my hands.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Not much to tell. I lived with him in a big loft downtown for a couple of years. It was fine for a while, but then he got into drugs and started becoming violent.”

“He was violent with you? He is crazy.”

“You’d think my size would have intimidated him just a little, wouldn’t you? He was only about six feet, and I think that always annoyed him. I took it at first, and then I started hitting him back.”

“Didn’t that stop him?”

“No, he started using weapons-his belt, once a whip, if you can believe it.”

“And how did you respond to that?”

“I picked up one of his small sculptures-he’s a sculptor-and coldcocked him with it. Then, while he was still unconscious, I packed up and got the hell out of there. A friend lent me the apartment on Park, but Devlin, the sculptor, is looking for me, and he’s furious, so mutual friends tell me.”

“What do you think will happen if he finds you?”

“I think he’ll kill me.” She paused. “If he can.”

“Then I think you ought to start taking this seriously,” Stone said.

“Oh, I am taking it seriously.”

“Have you applied for a protective court order?”

“If I did that, the court would bar him from coming within a hundred yards of me, or something, right?”

“More or less.”

“The problem is, he’d have to be told where I’m living, so he could stay a hundred yards away.”

“You have a point. So what do you intend to do?”

“I’m thinking of killing him,” she said.