Naughty Neighbor

Chapter 6

It was twelve-thirty when Pete pushed his way into the McDonald’s on K Street. Kurt Newfarmer was already there. He was sitting in a front booth with what looked to be a firebreak around him. He wasn’t the sort of man people naturally gravitated toward.

Pete got a coffee and joined him, counting up the cartons and crumpled wrappers on the table. “Two Big Macs, one fish filet, three large fries, McNuggets, and a chocolate shake. Not hungry?”

“Watching my waistline.”

They were the same age, late thirties, but Kurt’s brown hair had already started to recede, and what was left had been cut in a Marine Corps buzz. Kurt Newfarmer was six feet with a corded neck and tightly muscled body that looked deceptively lean and loose. He was wearing a grimy ball cap, grimy jeans, running shoes, and a hooded sweatshirt of indeterminate color. Stained thermal underwear showed at the neck of the sweatshirt. He had a three-day-old beard, his eyes were lined and narrow, and years ago his nose had been reshaped by a gun butt. He reminded Pete of a down-and-out homeless hundred-and-eighty-pound ferret.

Pete had first met Kurt when he was in Argentina, and Kurt had been the signal man for a ranger unit. Kurt was a communications genius. Two years ago he’d quit the army and started doing freelance wiretap. It was rumored he was also semi-officially on the payroll for one of the three-word agencies.

“I’ve got a problem,” Pete said.

“Don’t we all.”

Pete pointed to his eye. The swelling had gone down, but he had a classic shiner. “Three days ago this problem broke into my house.”

“I like the part along the bridge of your nose that’s turning green,” Kurt said.

Pete knew Kurt had him pegged as a bad apple. Pete figured that was pretty funny since next to Kurt he thought he looked like Mr. Nice Guy. “I might need some help.”

Kurt gave the bulge under his left armpit a pat. “Just tell Uncle Kurt, and he’ll take care of it.”

“Must be awkward to get at your gun with that sweatshirt on.”

“Hell, I hardly ever use it. It’s been days since I’ve shot at anyone.” Kurt took a cigarette from the pack on the table and lit up. He dragged smoke into his lungs until there was a half inch of glowing ash at the end of his Camel. Smoke curled from his nose and rolled out the side of his mouth. He squinted at Pete through the haze. “So what’s going on? Bummed-out husband?”

Pete felt dizzy with nicotine deprivation. He automatically leaned forward to catch the secondary smoke, caught himself in midlean, and reluctantly shoved himself away.

Kurt caught the movement. “Trying to stop smoking again?”

“Could you look like you’re enjoying it a little less?”

The grin broadened. “It’s great, man.”

“You available for hire?”

“What do you want done?”

“For starters, I want to listen to a couple of people.”

“You’ve come to the right place.”

Louisa sat at her kitchen table and stared out her back window. There was a small gray bird sitting on her bird feeder. It wasn’t eating, it wasn’t preening, it wasn’t chirping. It was just hunkered down, its feet automatically clamped onto the wood dowel.

Louisa supposed it was wondering what to do next. She was in a similar state. She was the firstborn in her family and like most first children, she’d been the achiever. She’d been the honor roll student, the responsible daughter, the first to graduate from college.

Despite all this, her sense of purpose had never been well defined. For all her intelligence and discipline, she’d been a drifter. She’d made the major decisions of her life by default. She’d worked hard to excel at whatever task was before her, but she’d never charted a course for herself. She’d never felt impassioned about a career choice, so she’d simply traveled the path of least resistance.

It hadn’t been so bad, she thought. But it hadn’t been great, either. At best, it had paid the rent and kept her too busy to dwell on the fact that her life lacked zest. Looking at it in retrospect, she decided her life had been…adequate.

All that had changed since she’d met Pete Streeter. Pete Streeter was to her life what the big bang had been to the creation of the universe. She imagined herself as traveling in a new orbit, amid cataclysmic forces. Plague, pestilence, volcanic destruction were now hers for the asking.

She continued to watch the bird, feeling a special kinship, wondering at his next move. He could be contemplating a flight to Florida, or debating a love affair. He could be wrestling with a dinner choice, reviewing bird feeders of the past, recalling gourmet sunflower seeds and suet balls. Maybe his head was filled with dreams of foreign lands, just as hers had been the night before.

“Go for it,” she said to the bird. “Take a chance! What have you got to lose?”

The bird cocked his head and smoothed fluffed feathers. Then he took off from the porch and smacked into the kitchen window.

Louisa jumped out of her chair and ran out the back door. The bird was lying on the frozen ground with his head at an odd angle and his bird feet uncommonly limp. Louisa felt time stand still for several seconds while she stared at the bird. She could see his heart beating under his breastbone. His eyes were open but unfocused. Several more seconds passed and the bird started flopping around, staggering a few steps and falling over. He stopped staggering, sat very still, and rested a bit. Finally he flew away.

“Damn stupid bird,” Louisa said.

She turned and found she was locked out of her house.

Each of the row houses had a small backyard, enclosed with a privacy fence, which sloped up to a narrow, pockmarked macadam alleyway. Houses on the other side of the alley had ramshackled wood, single-car garages.

Louisa’s side wasn’t so affluent. Louisa’s side only had room for garbage cans. To get to the front of her house she had to let herself out the back gate, walk down the macadam lane for four-house lengths to a driveway connecting the lane to 27th Street and 28th Street. She gave her doorknob one more try, but it was useless. It was definitely locked.

She kicked the door and swore. Then she looked around to see if anyone was watching. No. No one was home on either side of her. Everyone worked. Everyone but her. She didn’t think Pete Streeter counted as legitimate employment.

She swore again and hustled up to the alley, saying a fervent prayer that by some act of God her front door wouldn’t be locked.

Pete pulled up to the curb just as she was approaching their house. She had her mouth set into a grim line, her nose was red from the cold, and she had her shoulders hunched and her arms wrapped across her chest. No coat. No hat. No gloves. It wasn’t hard to figure out. “How’d it happen?” he asked.

“Some idiot bird crashed into my kitchen window, and I went out to see if he was okay.”

“Ahh.”

She stood her ground in silent obstinacy, mentally daring him to make a wisecrack.

“So, did kamikaze bird go to the big bird farm in the sky?”

“Flew off without so much as a chirp.”

“The front door locked too?”

“Probably.”

He took his jacket off and stuffed her into it. “Wait in the Porsche where it’s warm. I’ll see if I can get in.” A few moments later he returned and slid behind the wheel. He tapped a number into his cell phone and explained to Horowitz that he was locked out. “They’re on their way,” he told Louisa.

“You don’t suppose the bird was prophetic, do you?” she asked Streeter. “I mean, it couldn’t possibly be the word of God, making a statement to the effect of bashing one’s head against a brick wall, or trying to fly to unrealistic heights, could it?”

“What kind of bird was it?”

“A little gray bird.”

“Definitely not the word of God. God uses big birds to send messages. Condors and eagles. Maybe an occasional albatross. Your little gray bird probably forgot to put his contacts in when he got up this morning.”

Louisa wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know,” she said. “It has to make you think.”

Pete looked at her and decided she was a woman at a crossroads. “He didn’t actually hurt himself,” Pete said.

“But he could have.”

“But he didn’t.”

They stared at each other, and they knew they weren’t talking about birds. Pete was a risk taker, and all her life she’d been risk averse. The previous night, change had sounded exciting. Now it was intimidating. What was right for Pete Streeter wasn’t necessarily right for her. He was his own person.

She’d spent a few hours that morning at the library, reading back issues of the trades. She’d discovered there was very little written about Pete’s personal life and early childhood. He was obviously a much more private person than she’d originally thought.

He was also much more wealthy. Good screenplay writers were well rewarded, and Pete Streeter seemed to be one of the best. Screenplay writers also enjoyed less recognition by the public than other members of the movie community.

She’d seen all his movies, yet she hadn’t recognized his name when he’d introduced himself four days before. When she’d done a mental review of his movies, she’d been able to reach a few perfunctory observations on style. All movies had content. All movies were fast paced, filled with action, laced with humor. He had a decided preference for political thrillers. He’d been nominated for an Academy Award three times. One nomination had resulted in an Oscar. And as they were known to say in Hollywood, Streeter was big box office. His movies had all been financially successful.

He’d put a lot of himself into his screenplays, she’d decided. Under all that incredible hair was intelligence and sensitivity and an understanding of human nature. She also recognized that her judgment of him might be colored by his ability to inspire passion, the likes of which she’d never before experienced. It wasn’t enough to make her want to spend the rest of her life with him, but she didn’t want to minimize the accomplishment, either.

She wasn’t ready to deal with her conflicting, rapidly changing feelings for Streeter, so she turned the conversation back to business. “Did you find anything interesting in Pennsylvania?”

“It’d be easier to get into CIA headquarters in Langley than to break into that pig farm. The place is surrounded by an electrified fence and razor wire. I only got as far as the front gate. They don’t give guided tours, and the guard wasn’t impressed with my Mr. Charm routine.”

“Low cholesterol bacon is very high tech.”

“How about you? You have any luck?”

“I got three invitations to lunch and found out Beverly Kootz is having an affair with her hairdresser.”

“Anything else?”

“Nolan hired a new press secretary. Some bimbo from New York. Worked in broadcasting. Supposedly has a lot of contacts. Rumor has it, she’s been seen going in and out of motel rooms with Stu Maislin.”

Pete leaned closer so he could smell her hair. “The plot thickens.”

“Mmmm. I think Nolan probably owed Maislin a favor, and they used my association with you as an excuse to give the slut a job.”

“Nasty.”

“Hey, that’s life.”

“You’re being very philosophical about this,” Pete said.

“Getting fired has forced me to reexamine my life.”

“Did it come up short?”

She thought about it a moment. “Not exactly short. Maybe a little undernourished.”

“Needed a kick in the pants?”

Louisa laughed. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He’d promised himself there’d be no more groping in a car, and he decided it was going to be a damn hard promise to keep. He was besotted, he ruefully admitted. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, only that he’d been hit fast and hard. It had started out as an innocent physical attraction, had quickly grown into an amusing infatuation, and then the virus had skyrocketed out of control. He could feel affection and desire multiplying exponentially inside him. Two hours earlier he’d been able to joke about being in love. Now it had him by the short hairs.

He should be watching for Horowitz, he thought, but Louisa was silky and warm beside him. He ran his thumb along the line of her jaw and watched her lips part in expectation of a kiss. He suspected she wasn’t going to be much help with the groping problem. He wasn’t completely unhappy about that, he admitted. He twirled a curl around his finger while he debated if he should tell her his feelings.

“Listen, Lou, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s about last night-”

“Last night was possibly the most embarrassing night of my life. I don’t know what came over me! I attacked you, for crying out loud!”

“Yeah. You were great.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t want to talk about the way you tore at your clothes until you were sprawled across my lap completely naked?”

“Exactly. That’s exactly what I don’t want to talk about.”

Louisa bit down on her lower lip.

He pinned her to the seat and slid his hands under her shirt. “Lord, Lou, you’re so hot.”

“How do you know?”

He smiled like the cat that just swallowed the canary. “Men know these things.”

A thrill ripped through her at his touch, and with it came panic. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Demonstrating. I have a visual aid, too, if you’re interested.”

“No!”

She knew exactly what visual aid the man was talking about. It was straining the seam of his jeans. Thank goodness they made jeans like iron these days, she thought. If it had been an inferior pair, his visual aid looked like it might burst right through.

“This is a respectable neighborhood,” she told him. “People don’t go around using visual aids in broad daylight here. It’s illegal, I think.”

She was finding it difficult to breathe, difficult to remember why she didn’t want to see his visual aid. He kissed her deeply, not bothering to hide the extent of his need, and reality whirled away from her. There was only Pete and the enslaving sensations he produced in her body. There was lust, red-hot and bawdy, and there was a sweet excitement, a premonition that she was about to fly off in a million new directions through uncharted space.

A sharp rap on the driver’s-side window broke into the kiss, and Louisa was dimly aware of Pete pulling away and swearing softly. It took a moment for her to realize Horowitz had arrived.

“I’m from Horowitz Security,” the man said when Pete rolled down the window. “You the people that’s locked outta the house? Nice to see you’re putting your time to good use.”

“Trying to keep warm,” Pete said.

“Looks like it’s working.”

Five minutes later Pete and Louisa were alone in Louisa’s apartment. Pete closed the front door and activated the system. “Now, where were we before Horowitz…”

Louisa narrowed her eyes and tapped her foot. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.” She looked down the front of her shirt. “My bra is missing. Where is it?”

He pulled it out of his pocket.

“How did you do that? I have all the rest of my clothes on! How did it get into your pocket without my suspecting?”

“It’s an innate talent.”

“You’re a despicable person,” she said. “You’re a real scuzzball.”

His hands were tangled in her hair, and his lips were very close to hers. “You don’t mean that.” His lips brushed over her mouth; his voice hummed, softly resonant, against her ear. “I think you’re beginning to like me.”

“Maybe a little.”

He kissed her lightly. Then he kissed her again with much more feeling. He’d do it right this time, he promised himself.

He swept her into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. His hands inflamed as they undressed. When she was naked, he took his mouth to her, covering her with kisses that were achingly gentle and supremely intimate.

He was still fully clothed. He was afraid to love her any other way. He was determined not to rush, not to let his own passion set the pace.

Never had she wanted a man like this. She was burning with a hunger she’d never even suspected existed. The previous night she’d felt all explosive energy and a need that was frantic and furious and frighteningly powerful. This was slow, relentless heat, inexorable, unescapable. She itched for release and was sure she could no longer bear the exquisite torture. But it continued, and, impossible as it seemed, the intensity increased.

He stood, peeled off his clothes, and pinned her hands to the bed. The sense of union was overwhelming, taking his breath away, causing him to pause for a moment.

She dragged her eyes open. He was beautiful. His expression was one of rapt attention and tender affection. She could spend a lifetime looking at his face, she thought. A lifetime of loving him and being loved. She would never tire of him, never grow bored, never stop wanting him.

She watched the control slip from him, saw his eyes darken as passion gained the upper hand. And then she was gone, taking him with her, hurtling through time and space, lost in that all-encompassing velvet blackness only perfectly matched lovers know.

They lay together for a long time afterward in companionable silence. It had been better than death by doughnut, she thought. And she was definitely happy she hadn’t died of starvation. She suspected this was one of those moments in time, like daybreak, when the world held its breath, crossed its fingers, and made promises. She didn’t care. It was lovely, all the same, and she allowed herself the luxury of feeling in love.

They crawled under the quilt and snuggled into each other. This time the loving was relaxed. This time they loved with smiles and whispered words. It was an affirmation of a loving friendship, filled with the joy of shared intimacies.

Overhead, the phone rang once. Louisa forced her eyes open. “Your phone rang.”

“The recorder will take it.”

“You still getting threatening phone calls?”

“The recorded messages stopped two days ago, but this morning I got an interesting call on my cell phone. Stu Maislin told me in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t pleased to have me snooping around in his house. He indicated I might lose a part of my anatomy if I continued to harass him.”

Louisa propped herself up on one elbow and looked at him. “I’m afraid to ask which part.”

“Your favorite.”

“Bummer.”

Louisa’s phone rang in the kitchen.

“Probably your mother,” Pete said.

Louisa rolled out of bed. “I’m going to tell her everything.”

Pete grabbed for her ankle, but she was too fast.

A moment later she yelled out to him. “It’s for you. It’s some guy named Kurt. Says you gave him my number.” She covered the mouthpiece and lowered her voice. “Who is this guy? He sounds like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s cousin from New Jersey.”