Metzger's Dog

11 Margaret’s long brown hair lay in swirls and arabesques around her head on the pillow. It was a sight that made Chinese Gordon’s eyes water in joy, admiration, awe. He even detected a slight impulse toward gratitude but decided that probably wasn’t normal and concentrated on the marvelous, smooth white shape, the sheer beauty of her. It struck him as miraculous. He was chosen, for the moment, at least, to be in possession of the most beautiful thing on earth.

He leaned down and kissed her eyelids, softly. The lashes fluttered slightly and then the clear green eyes opened and stared at him. “Chinese, have you—uh—done something?”

“Nothing that compares with this. You could be a movie star, or at least a model or something.”

“I know. I could have been a contender. Cut it out and tell me what you’ve been doing.”

Chinese Gordon lay down beside her, teasing himself with the feel of her warmth, her skin. “Nothing much. You met Doctor Henry Metzger’s dog. If it is a dog.”

“He’s sweet. Every cat should have a two-hundred-pound dog. But what else? Chinese, you have the work habits of a snake. You swallow an animal whole and then hibernate for months. At the moment I don’t see any of your playmates, and all of a sudden you’re getting that self-satisfied look again.”

Chinese Gordon stared at the ceiling. “Mr. Gordon’s smugness remains a mystery. Mr. Gordon could not be reached for comment.”

“Just tell me this much: Are you in danger? I mean, this time have you and your merry men signed up to go to some country that smells like cow dung and teach little brown people how to murder each other, or did you just swindle somebody?”

“Neither. I plan to stay here, marry you, keep you pregnant all the time, get fat, the whole thing.”

Margaret sat up, and Chinese Gordon knew he couldn’t keep from staring at her breasts, so he didn’t try. She reached to the dresser for her cigarettes, lit one, and turned away. Chinese Gordon kissed the back of her neck, but she went on. “Okay, smartass. I’ve got it figured out. I read the papers before I came here. I knew something was coming, but I had hoped it might be something legal, or at least minor. I do that, you know—read the papers before I see you. Did you know there were over sixteen hundred bank robberies in southern California last year? I think I read all sixteen hundred, just to see if—”

“Bank robberies? What the hell are you—”

“That’s what I figured you’d do when you finally got bored enough.”

“That’s insulting, Margaret. The only people who rob banks are addicts and psychotics.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve figured it out. Just tell me, should I be expecting the police to burst in here any minute, or what? If so, I’d like to get dressed.”

“No.”

“What are you going to do with the cocaine?”

Chinese Gordon picked up his silver Rolex watch and squinted at it. “Pretty soon I’ll get a call with an offer for it. The offer will be lousy, but that’s no problem. You might say I’ve got Los Angeles by the nose.”

Margaret puffed on the cigarette and slowly blew smoke toward the ceiling. “I once read an article that said antisocial behavior peaked at age seventeen. I wonder what you were like at seventeen.”

“Let’s see…I guess I was in the army. That was the year after the Tonkin Gulf thing, and the big deal was ‘interdiction.’ That’s what they called it. They’d fly a few little groups of us in helicopters to spots on the Ho Chi Minh Trail they called ‘chokepoints’ and then pick us up before it got dark. Since nothing ever moved on the trail before sunset, it wasn’t too bad. I wasn’t yet the world’s greatest lover—I don’t think I actually got the championship officially until I was a little older and more sensitive.”

The telephone rang, and Chinese Gordon slowly got out of bed, still talking. “Youth and enthusiasm count for something, of course, but if I remember correctly, it was only when I was twenty-five or so that the United Nations Sex-master General sent a bipartisan commission to—.” He picked up the receiver. “Hello.”

“Congratulations, Mr. Gordon.” The voice was Jorge Grijalvas’s.

Chinese Gordon said, “Well, thank you, but I’m not really interested in buying anything over the telephone. You people always say I’ve won something and then I have to buy a bunch of aluminum siding or go to hear a sales pitch in a hotel dining room. Good-bye.” He hung up and kept talking but stood beside the telephone. “—to study what the British delegate, Lady Bunsworthy, called my ‘prowess.’” He ducked the pillow, which thudded against the wall, picked up the telephone, and walked out into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.

The telephone rang again and he said, “Yes?”

“This is Jorge Grijalvas, Mr. Gordon.”

“Oh, hi,” said Chinese Gordon. “What can I do for you?”

“Let’s not waste time. You have it, and I’m making an offer. Two hundred thousand cash.”

“Sorry. You’ve got the wrong number.”

Grijalvas hesitated. “Isn’t this seven-six-nine—”

Chinese Gordon interrupted. “No, the other number.”

Grijalvas chuckled. “I can take it, but this is simpler.”

“You’re welcome to try,” said Chinese Gordon. “Fair’s fair, after all. That’s how I got it. You’ve got twenty-four hours to make me a decent offer. After that it’ll be gone.”

“Don’t make me laugh. Who else can pay even that?”

“According to the last poll I took, there were only three people in Beverly Hills who wouldn’t. Two of them have asthma, and the other has an artificial nose—a terrible war accident, you know. Bitten off by a prostitute in Marseilles.”

“What do you want for it?”

“The police assessed it at a million. That’d be enough.”

“Surely you know that the papers exaggerate these things. And what do I get out of it at that price?”

“Something to mix with your powdered sugar and baking soda for the suckers.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Always nice to hear from you.” Chinese Gordon hung up and went back into the bedroom. “Where was I? Oh, yes. The United Nations. The whole issue was put best by Colonel Anna Liebchen of the East German Luftpizzle when she said—moaned, actually—”

“Where did you get this, Chinese?” Margaret was lying on her stomach on the bed, staring at something in front of her.

“No, what she said was—”

“Shut up. This is crazy.”

Chinese Gordon walked to the bed. He could see now that she had the box open, and sheets of paper were scattered on the pillow. “You shouldn’t snoop, you know.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I haven’t had time to do any reading in the past couple days. First there was Immelmann and his evolutionary freak of a dog, then I had our financial future to think about.”

“Where did it come from?”

“I liberated it while I was taking a plunge in the pharmaceutical industry the other night at the university. It’s probably not worth anything, but while I was there two guys were making some kind of deal on a security system, so I thought I’d check it out. That was the only thing that had a lock on it, so here it is. Most likely it’s a statistical study of the incidence of venereal disease in sixteenth-century nuns.”

“The hell it is. You got this at the university? In some professor’s office? Jesus!”

“Well, one of them had to be a professor. He was too pompous to be anything else. The other one looked like a salesman. What’s the big deal? Does it look like it’s worth something?”

Margaret rolled over to face him, still clutching several pages. “Tell me, Chinese, does ‘psywar’ mean what it sounds like?”