Private Pleasures

WILLIAM K.

That evening a florist's box was delivered to my home. inside was a luscious bouquet and a brief card from Chas, "Come back." don't care how smart you are or how rich you are, if you haven't got The Luck you've got nothing, zip, zilch.

Now take me, I've always had The Luck. All my life.

Like I was running a small crib out in

Denver.

Nothing flashy, but clean.

I had four girls three white, one black and a boy.

None of them dopers. I also had a police sergeant on the pad, a nice enough guy who was as straig lit as a crooked cop can be.

One night Phil comes up to my place and I poured him a Chivas which was all he drank.

Willie," he says, "I think you better get out of town."

That was all he had to say.

I closed up shop and caught a plane the next morning.

My kids got away, too.

I read later the Denver vice cops had made a sweep the afternoon I was flying east.

All the skin peddlers I knew got cuffed, and some of them ended up doing time.

See what I mean by having The Luck?

I went to Miami and looked up some wiseguys I knew to see if I could work a deal. But they were all in heavy stuff like drugs and guns.

Not my style. So I went to Fort Lauderdale and located Big Bobby Gurk who was my cell mate once when I did a little bitty stretch in a Frisco clink.

Big Bobby had a good thing going. He was a bookies' bookie.

Like if a street bookie had a real heavy play on a horse or a football team, he could lay off some of his bets with Bobby. For a fee, of course. Gurk was like a reinsurer and doing okay. But he had no place for me in his organization.

"But I heard of something you might like, Willie," he said to me. "I got a client and his brother-inlaw is in the tile business. Floor and wall tiles. It's Italian stuff and expensive. This guy has got a competitor who sells the same tiles at a discount and it's killing him.

The same importer sells to both of them and swears he charges both the same, but my client's brother-in-law don't believe him. He wants someone to crash his competitor's office and swipe the guy's invoices so he can find out what the guy is paying the importer for the tiles.

Know what I mean? "

"I follow, Bobby," I said. "I'm no B-and-E guy but there may be another way to work it. What's he offering? "

"He says he'll pay a grand, but I think he'll spring for two."

"What's his name and where do I find him?"

It took me a week to cozy up to the competitor's secretary.

She was a spacey broad who was saving up to put the down payment on a white Caddy convertible (used).

For five yards she delivered to me photocopies of all her boss's recent billings from the importer of Italian tiles. I delivered them to my client and collected my two grand.

The Luck again.

Anyway, that was my first caper in what I learned later was called industrial espionage. It was like spying but no one got hurt, and the take was so good I bought myself a condo, a new Infiniti, and more clothes than I had ever owned before -suits and dresses. if that stops you, I might as well confess I've been into cross-dressing most of my life. Now, in the bucks, I've got women's shoes, silk stockings, pantyhose, lingerie, evening gowns, sweaters and skirts, even a mink stole.

There are a lot of guys with the same hobby, and I stay in touch with some I've met all over the country. We mail each other Polaroids of ourselves all dolled up. There are cross-dressing clubs in every city I've ever been, and we have cocktail parties and fashion shows with prizes for the most attractive outfits.

You're probably not going to believe this, but none of us are gay or have had sex-change operations. We're just normal, average guys who happen to enjoy wearing women's clothes. Hey, it's not a crime, there are no victims.

I've met several good clients at cross-dressing soirees, and one I met about a year ago-wearing an absolutely stunning strapless silver lame sheath-was the CEO of a company that sold cosmetics, grooming aids, suntan lotions, and stuff like that. I told him I was in the commercial information business, and he was very interested in what his competitors were having developed at the Mcwhortle Laboratory. He asked me to find out.

The Luck!

I tailed Marvin Mcwhortle for a week and discovered he was keeping a bunny named Jessica Fiddler. I ran a trace on her, and she had the specs of a sharp hustler. I figured she'd play ball, and she did. She sold me so many Mcwhortle secrets, including samples of new products, that I had three different clients buying information on perfumes, pharmaceuticals, and personal care products.

But when she told me about the ZAP Project to produce a testosterone pill that would make soldiers more aggressive, I knew immediately I was on to something that was too good to sell to a client for five or even ten big ones. Instead I went back to Big Bobby Gurk and treated him to a twenty-four-ounce steak dinner.

"Bobby," I said, "years ago you steered me into a new career, and I appreciate it. I owe you one, and now I'm going to pay you back."

"Yeah?" he said, chomping away. "How?" I told him about the ZAP pill and how, if it worked, it would make a Rambo out of a Milquetoast.

He stopped scarfing for a moment. "Hey," he said, "that's inarresting.

But what's it got to do with me?"

"Look," I said, "you're in the gambling biz. Maybe you don't book bets yourself, but your clients do, and everyone says you're the best man in Florida on odds, points, and spreads."

"Maybe not the best," he said modestly. "Harry Finkle in Sarasota is pretty good."

"And you got connections all over the country," I went on. "Right?"

"Yeah," he admitted cautiously, "I got a few contacts."

"Well, how about this…? Suppose, just suppose, the ZAP pill works, and I can glom on to a sample. We take it to a private chemist and he does an analysis. That's how we find out what's in the stuff. Once we know what's in it, we can have the chemist make up a supply."

"I still don't get it," Gurk said.

"Look, say there's a heavyweight title fight in Vegas We go to the challenger's manager and tell him we got a pill that will make his boy a tiger. The manager wants to win, his boy wants to win, and we want to win-especially if the champ is heavily favored and we've bet a bundle on the challenger who gulps a ZAP pill."

"Now I get it," Bobby said slowly. "Or like there's a football team, a bunch of palookas with the odds against them.

We play them heavy all over the country, and then we get the pills into their pizzas."

"Right," I said approvingly. "Or grind the pills into powder and sprinkle it into their water bucket. What do you think, Bobby?"

"Yeah," he said, pushing his empty plate away, "it might fly.

Providing the pill works, of course. When can you get one?"

"I don't know. it's just being developed. I'm telling you about it now to see if you'd be interested if it's a success." He looked at me.

"And if it is, how much you asking?

I shook my head. "This isn't a one-shot deal, Bobby. I want a piece of the action."

"Uh-huh ", he said, "that makes sense. I think we could work something out along those lines. Listen, I gotta get back to my office. Let me know when you got the pill."

Later that night I attended a Rumba dance at my private club. I wore a dress that had been purchased at a West Palm Beach shop specializing in slightly used haute couture, designer gowns.

Mine was a really gorgeous Galanos, a black lace chemise over a stretch body stocking. I had applied makeup, of course, and was wearing my new blond wig with short bangs and a chignon.

After the dance a fashion competition was held and I won first prize, a bottle of Dom Perignon.

The Luck was still with me.

Chet Barrow was just the handsomest boy I ever C met in my whole life.

And he was nice. I mean he never punched my arm or pushed me like that icky Ernie Hamilton does sometimes.

So when Chet told me he was thinking about running away I decided to go with him because in the first place I liked him and in the second place things were getting so nasty at my house that I just didn't want to live there anymore.

Like Daddy came home late one night, and you could tell he had been drinking alcohol. He and Mother got in a terrible fight.

I was upstairs doing my homework but I could hear them. Then I heard a loud slap and Mom came rushing upstairs. She came into my room and locked the door. One side of her face was all red, and she was crying.

She sat on my bed and I went over and hugged her and she hugged me, and then I started to cry.

"Don't cry, darling," she said, trying to smile. "Please don't."

"You're crying," I said, "so I can, too." I touched her cheek. "Does it hurt?"

She shook her head but went into my bathroom and washed her face in cold water. Then she came out.

"May I sleep with you tonight, Tania?" she asked me.

"All right," I told her. "But try not to snore. The last time you slept with me, you snored and I couldn't sleep.

She laughed and hugged me again. "I promise not to snore," she said.

Well, she didn't but I couldn't sleep anyway because I was afraid Daddy might break down the door and come in and kill us or something. I just didn't know what to do, and then I decided I would talk to him and tell him how he was making me and Mother feel.

I didn't get a chance until Saturday when she went shopping.

Daddy got up late and came downstairs acting grouchy. I made him some coffee and he said it was good coffee and drank three cups.

He also ate a sticky bun. I ate one also and sat at the kitchen table with him.

"Daddy," I said, "I don't think you should drink so much alcohol."

"I don't drink so much, baby," he said. "just enough to make me feel good."

"I am not a baby," I told him. "I'll be nine next year, and maybe alcohol makes you feel good, but it doesn't make Mother feel good or me either. And you slapped her. You shouldn't have done that."

He sighed. "I know I shouldn't, baby, and I'm going to apologize to her. Everything will be all right."

"Well, I don't see why you don't like her cooking. mother is a very good cook, everyone says so." you think I don't He looked at me.

"What makes like her cooking?"

"Well, a lot of times you don't come home for dinner, and you smell of perfume, so I guess you had dinner with some other woman because you like her cooking better." I smell of His face got all twisty. "Who told you perfume? Your mother?"

I didn't want to get her in trouble. "No," I said, mells "I smelled it myself. I know what perfume s like."

"Listen, baby," he said, "sometimes you get too bossy.

Maybe I do things that you and your mot er don't like but that doesn't mean I don't love you. When you grow up, you'll discover that at times you do things that seem wrong to other people, but you just don't change because of other people's opinions. Either because you can't or because you don't want to. It's your own life. Do you understand what I'm saying?

"Well, I don't understand why you drink so much alcohol when it makes Mother and me so unhappy, and you say you love us and all." a golf He stood up. "I've got to go, baby, I'm late for date. Tell your mother not to expect me for dinner."

Then I knew he was just going to keep on doing like he was and nothing was going to be different. So I decided I better run away with Chet Barrow.

Chet didn't have much money and neither did I, but I thought that maybe if I left home my parents would be worried and Daddy would be so sorry for the way he had treated us that he really would change. Then even if the police found me and brought me back, Mother and Daddy would be so glad that everything would be better.

It was like a book I read that my uncle wrote. It was called The Adventures of Tommy Termite. It was about this boy termite who runs away because he thinks his parents don't love him and sometimes they are mean to him. A lot of things happen to him, some good and some bad, but finally he decides to go home and he finds his folks were worried sick about him, and now they love him and treat him nice.

I went looking for Chet, and he was in their garage. He was sitting on an old wooden box and looking at a folding map of the entire country.

I sat down on the box next to him.

"What are you doing, Chet?" I asked him.

"I've been thinking, " he said. "Look at how big the country is. See here-this dot? That's our town. just look at all the places I've never been-the whole rest of the map."

"Are you looking for a place you want to go when you run away?"

"Not so loud," he said. "My dad went to the lab, but Mom's still in the house. Your father's in there, too.

"He is? He told me he had a golf date."

"Maybe he does. I heard him say he just stopped by to bum a cigarette.

Hey, look here-this is the Intracoastal Waterway.

You know where that is, don't you? "

"Of course. It's near Federal Highway."

"That's right. And it goes all the way up the coast. You get on a boat down here and you can go all the way up to Maine.

Isn't that neat?"

"Uh-huh. Is that what you're going to do?"

I'm just planning things."

"I haven't decided yet.

"Did you do what you promised?"

"What did I promise?"

"That you'd think about letting me go with you."

"Yeah, I been thinking about it. But I don't know… It could be dangerous.

You might get hurt

"I don't care. I want to go."

Well, I'll keep planning about it. That don't mean I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Doesn't. I don't care how long it takes to decide. I talked to my father this morning, and nothing is going to change in my house so I might as well go."

"Your mother will cry-"

"She cries now, Chet, and I'm still there."

He tried to fold up his map but he made a mess of it so I took it from him and folded it up right. We sat there awhile without talking. Chet scratched his ankle. ,You know," he said, "grown-ups are supposed to be so smart.

I don't think they're so smart, do you?"

"Sometimes they can be dumb," I said. "Like this morning my father told me he couldn't stop drinking alcohol. You know that film we had at school about taking dope? It was like that, like he was addicted and couldn't stop."

Maybe he is. Addicted, I mean."

"He could stop if he wanted to- Like I used to eat candy bars all the time. I got so fat. Remember that?

"Yeah, I remember."

"Well, I decided I'd just quit and I did. Once I make up my mind to do something, I do it."

"But that's you. People are different."

"Well, I don't see why my father can't just decide to quit, and then he would."

"I don't know," Chet said. "Ernie Hamilton wants to stop picking at his zits and he's still doing it."

"Because he's a stupid boy."

"You really think so?"

"Yes. I do."

"Do you think I'm stupid, Tania?"

"Of course not. I think you're very smart. You get all good marks, don't you?"

"Well, maybe not all, but a lot of them. You're smart, too."

"Thank you," I said.

He turned to face me. Suddenly he leaned forward and kissed me right on the mouth. It was the first time a boy had ever kissed me. I pulled back.

"You shouldn't have done that," I told him.

"Sure I should," he said. "Did you like it?"

"Yes," I said. reg went in to work on Saturday-he does that a lot-and Chester was outside when Herman Todd stopped by to ask if I could spare a cigarette.

He looked sharp in a plaid sport jacket and lime green slacks. He said he had a golf date but he didn't seem to be in any hurry.

I was in the kitchen making a meat loaf we were going to have for dinner that night. And I was watching a travelogue about Baluchistan on the little portable TV I keep on the counter. But I turned it off when Herman came in and gave him a cigarette.

"You look very snazzy this morning," I told him.

"And you don't look like Mother Hubbard yourself," he said, grinning.

"Now those are really short shorts.

"I like to be comfortable around the house," I said.

"There's no point in dressing up to make a meat loaf or run a vacuum."

"It's a wonder Greg can get any work done if you dress like that," he said. "Is he around?"

"No, he went to the lab."

"All work and no play," he said. "Doesn't he ever relax?

"Not very often."

"Too bad. He doesn't know what he's missing. How about you, Mabel?

What do you do for kicks?"

"Watch Baluchistan on television."

"That sounds tame. Don't you ever get an urge to take a walk on the wild side?"

I was working at the sink and didn't look at him. "Such as?"

I asked.

"Oh, this and that," he said. "There's a big, wonderful world out there, Mabel. A lot of fun, a lot of laughs. You should be getting your share."

"Someday," I said. "Maybe."

He came up close behind me and put a hand on my fanny.

"Don't wait too long, sweetie," he whispered in my ear. "You and I could have a great scene together.

"Yeah?" I said. "How could we do that?" I don't know why I said it.

"It could be worked," he said, stroking my can. "Trust me.

It would take some finagling, but it could be done. Will you think about it?"

I nodded, still not looking at him. He gave my butt a final pat and then he left. I held the edge of the sink because I was shaking. It was the first time a man had come on to me since my marriage, and I was all bollixed up. I decided I better tell Dr. Noble about it. That's what I was paying her for, wasn't itadvice.

I had a session with Cherry on Tuesday and told her how I had been propositioned. I didn't say who it was, but I had already mentioned Herman Todd so she probably guessed.

"How do you feel about it?" she asked me.

"Shaky," I said. "I want to and I don't want to. Oh, shit, I don't know how I feel. Tickled in a way because I can still turn a man on.

What do you think I should do?"

She looked at me a moment, not saying anything. Then, "Mabel, how often do you and your husband have sex?"

"Infrequently," I said. "And that's one word, not two.

She didn't even smile. "Were you sexually active before your marriage?"

"Very. And I do mean very."

"What made you decide to get married?"

"Oh, I just figured it was time to settle down."

"Were you in love with Gregory?"

"Oh sure, I liked him. But to tell you the truth, doc, I liked all the men I dated, one way or another. I like men.

That's no sin, is it?"

"Of course not. But of all the men you liked, you picked Gregory. Was there something special about him? " I laughed. "Sure there was. He had a good job and good chances for promotion. You can't blame a girl for being practical, can you?"

"Mmm. Do you want to save your marriage, Mabel? "

"Of course I do. if it can be saved. I'm willing to do anything I can, but I'm not sure Greg is going to change. He's so cold and distant."

"Have you ever told him how you feel?"

"I've tried to. He just doesn't want to talk about it. To talk about us."

"Do you think he'd be willing to talk to me? I could see the two of you separately and then, if progress is made, the two of you together."

"Greg would never go for it. A lot of the work he does at the lab is secret, he never says a word about it. And gradually his life has become secret, too. He just won't reveal anything about himself. He won't talk about personal things. Not to me anyway. Sometimes I think he must hate me."

"Why would he hate you, Mabel?"

"Who the hell knows. I've never hurt him."

"Never?

I found it hard to tell her. Listen, it's not easy to confess private things to a stranger. She may have been my therapist but she was still a stranger. I mean I liked her and all, but I wouldn't strip myself naked in front of her. And what she was asking was a lot harder than taking your clothes off.

But then I figured what was I paying her for and then holding back things that might help her to help me. That didn't make any sense at all. So I decided to tell her. I was sure she had heard worse things from some of her screwed-up customers.

"Actually, I did something," I told Dr. Noble, "but it couldn't have hurt Greg because he doesn't know the truth about it."

"What was it, Mabel?"

"Well, before I was married, I got pregnant. I told Greg it was his.

Look, it might have been, I wasn't really telling a lie.

But it also could have been four or five other guys. I was playing a big field and I just didn't know for sure."

"But you selected Gregory?"

I nodded.

"Why him?"

"I told you. He was smart and making a good living. The other guys weren't serious. If I had told them I was pregnant by them, maybe they'd have offered to pay for an abortion but probably they'd have said, Tata, Mabel, lots of luck."

"

"Why didn't you have an abortion?"

I figured I better level with her. I had already confessed so much, it seemed silly to stop now.

"At the time I was working in a bakery. It was just walking around money but I didn't need much. I was dating almost every night, so my food bills were nothing. And sometimes the guys would give me gifts.

Costume jewelry or maybe a sweater. Nothing really expensive. I never took cash. Never! I had a great body in those days. Everyone said so.

But the fun and games went on and on, and I began to get scared.

I still had the bod, but I was getting a little long in the tooth. You know what South Florida is like-a new crop of centerfolds every year.

I wasn't ancient or anything like that but I began to wonder what was going to happen to me. I'd see a bag lady ooting through a garbage can and I'd get the chills. r I figured I better make a permanent connection real soon.

And then I got knocked up. I know I'm not the brainiest woman in the world-you've probably discovered that for yourself-but I saw the pregnancy as leverage. You know? To get what I wanted, a steady husband and a home. So I picked Greg. I suppose you think I'm a stinker for doing that."

"No, I don't think you're a stinker, Mabel," Dr. Noble said.

She really did have a nice smile. "I think you reacted to your circumstances in a remarkably sensible way.

What you did solved your immediate problems-but it resulted in the new problems you have today. Do you think that's a fair assessment?" guess.

"Mabel, I previously urged that until we can get your life straightened out I would prefer your not making any major changes.

That includes having relations with the man you say propositioned you.

I can't tell you what to do, of course, it's your decision.

But I believe that if you start a new intimate relationship at this time, it will only add to your problems and make a solution more difficult. Will you think long and carefully before you decide?"

"Oh sure, doc, I'll do that."

"And now I think our time is up. See you on Thursday? "

"I'll be here."

I left Dr. Noble's office realizing she hadn't really told me what to do. I guess she didn't want to be blamed if what she told me to do turned sour. Like she said, it was my decision. The way I saw it, it was a no-win situation.

Laura at Hashbeam's had sent me a postcard saying they had a new shipment of sequined T-shirts she thought I might like. So I walked over there to take a look. I was feeling so miserable I had to buy something. just for a lift, you know.

I've played the fool all my life. And I've discovered l'you can know it and not do a damned thing about it. I mean you can be stone-cold sober and still act the fool. You do something stupid and you say to yourself, "This is stupid," but you keep right on doing it. I've decided a man is really a slave to his glands.

At least I am.

"You're an erotomaniac," Chas once said to me. "When the hell are you going to grow up?"

"Never," I said. "What's the point, big brother?"

Wednesday was a rough one at the office. Most of my days are rough, but this was supertough, a lot of unexpected claims, two big deals that fell through, and a nutsy client who stormed into my office screaming his policy was paid up but he just of another premium notice. It took me an hour to calm him down and send him on his way. He was wrong, of course.

By four in the afternoon I'd had it and told Goldie I was going out to the club and she could reach me there if the office burned down or one of our agents dropped dead.

"In other words," she said, "you don't want to be bothered."

"Good thinking," I said.

This golf and tennis club I belong to is a great place.

Marleen hates it but I love it. She'll only go out there for the New Year's Eve bash, but I'm there three or four times a week. I run up some humongous tabs but the company hasn't complained yet since I've done a lot of business on the back nine or at the bar.

It's an unusual country club for Florida because it has absolutely no restrictions. Blacks, Jews, Cubanswe take anyone who can afford the fees. No prejudices whatsoever. My God, we even have members who don't drink.

One of the best things about the place is that a lot of women go there, wives, mistresses, girlfriends, or just wanna-bes. They go for golf or tennis, to have lunch, or to enjoy the free buffet during the Happy Hour. Usually there are more women than men in the bar.

By the time I got out there on that Wednesday, the Happy Hour was in full swing, and there were many, many gorgeous heads, not all of them with escorts. I exchanged greetings with several pals, male and female, and was finally able to belly up to the crowded bar and order a double vodka-rocks. By the time I got that down (ten minutes tops) my rough day at the office was a dim memory and I was looking around for company, something tasteful and friendly.

I didn't find her, she found me, asked me to light her long, brown cigarillo, and that was that. Her name was Laura, and she was a funky lady with marvelous lungs and a raspy voice she used to tell jokes usually heard only in the men's locker room. She was divorced, she said, and had just canceled her boyfriend.

Well, to make a long story short-if it isn't too late-we had more drinks, a lobster dinner at the club, and by midnight we were bouncing together on her king-size waterbed in a ground-floor condo in Boca.

"Pull the drapes, for God's sake," I said. "Or turn off the light."

" Nah, " she said. "This place is totally inhabited by retirees. They take their Fiberall and they're asleep by nine.

No one's going to peek in on us."

What a scrimmage that was! I staggered out of there around three A.M wondering if I should head for the nearest Intensive Care Unit.

I was crossing the parking lot to my Lincoln when a guy who looked like a sumo wrestler stepped from the shadow of a bottle palm and fed me a knuckle sandwich that dumped me on my ass.

"You son of a bitch," he growled. "I see you around here again, you're dead meat."

He stalked toward Laura's apartment, and I had no desire to stop him.

Would an injured hummingbird challenge a rabid rhino?

I figured he was the "canceled" boyfriend, and dear, sweet Laura had left the drapes open, the light on, and had used me to raise his jealousy level.

Well, what the hell. I learned a long time ago that if you're going to drink and cruise sooner or later you're going to get hurt.

I dragged my split lip and loosened bicuspid home to Rustling Palms Estates. Marleen and Tania were asleep, of course, so I stumbled into the guest bedroom and got most of my clothes off before I fell into the sack.

I awoke a little after eleven on Thursday morning, and naturally I had the house to myself. I phoned Goldie and told her I'd be late.

"I already know that," she said.

I tossed down an ounce of cognac, took a hot shower, and then put an icebag on my puffed lip. it didn't look too bad, but my loose tooth was throbbing. I used my electric shaver, dressed, and went over to the Barrows. I hoped Mabel would make me a cup of coffee, and while she was doing that, I could take up where I had left off Saturday morning.

But she wasn't home, so I got in my car and headed toward my brother's studio for our weekly lunch. I stopped on the way to pick up a big pepperoni pizza and a cold six-pack of Bud.

Chas took one look at my face and said, "I bet the other guy hasn't got a mark on him."

" You'd win your bet," I said. "I was overmatched."

We ate warm pizza and drank cold beer. I didn't feel much like talking, but Chas did.

"One of these days," he said, "you're going to get into serious trouble.

Did you ever think of that?"

"It'll never happen," I told him. "God looks after fools and drunks, and I qualify on both counts."

"Why do you do it?" he asked me. "Drunk almost every night and whoring around. If you want to destroy yourself, that's your business.

But you're also hurting your wife and daughter."

"Don't try laying a guilt trip on me, Chas," I said. I get enough of,that at home. Hey, remember my telling you about the dumpling who lives next door? I think I'm making progress there.

I got a feeling she's ready.

But he wouldn't let me change the subject.

"Do you really enjoy the way you're living?" he demanded, and I got miffed.

"Damned right I enjoy it," I said. "Look, pal, you're born, you live a little while, and you die. What's the big deal? it's all bullshit, and you know it."

"What is?"

"Life is, that's what. So I grab what pleasure I can."

"Don't you believe in anything?"

"Sure I do," I said. "I believe in gathering ye rosebuds while ye may.

And I'm going to gather as many goddamn rosebuds as I can before I kick off."

He shook his head. "Your lousy rosebuds are booze and broads. Did it ever occur to that tiny, tiny brain of yours that there are other things that might give you more pleasure?"

"Such as?"

"Love, for one."

"Spare me," I said. "As far as I'm concerned love is just another four-letter word."

"You've got a lot of learning to do, sonny," he said.

"I don't want to learn," I said. "I'm selfish and I know it.

But everyone's selfish. Did you ever know anyone who didn't act out of self-interest?"

"Yeah," he said. "Me."

"That's right," I said. "And look what it got you."

"Have you ever heard me complain?" he asked quietly.

"No, I haven't," I admitted. "And I admire you for it. But I don't admire you for volunteering to have your ass shot off.

That was just stupid."

"For you maybe," he said. "Not for me."

I sighed, finished my second beer and stood up. "I've got to get back to the office," I told Chas. "You and I are never going to agree on what it's all about."

He crushed his empty beer can in his heavy paws and looked down at it.

"I worry about you," he said in a low voice.

"Not to worry, big brother, I'm fine." Then I bent suddenly to kiss his cheek. I couldn't remember ever having done that before. "Take care,"

I said huskily.

I drove back toward town thinking of what he had said and what I had said. He had shaken me up, I admit it. I've always known Chas was smarter than I was, and it bothered me when we disagreed, I'd get an antsy feeling that the deep sonofabitch might be right. So I turned north and headed for the club to get hammered.

Maybe Laura would show up.

It was obvious to me from the start that I had two ivital and interrelated problems on the ZAP Project, correct dosage and behavioral results. Since I could find no record of similar research that could be used as a guide, my only option was raw experimentation.

When all the specialized equipment was in place in my private lab, I prepared what I considered a weak solution of the synthetic testosterone I had developed. I made careful notes of the amount o the ormone used and the volume of the inert carrier in which it was suspended.

I then donned heavy rubber gloves, removed a male white mouse from its cage, injected it, and returned it to the cage. I removed my gloves and positioned a TV camera to record results, if any. When I turned back to the cage, the injected mouse was dead, lying on its back with all four paws in the air.

I then weakened the solution progressively with small subtractions of the quantity of testosterone, and the sixth injected mouse lived, scampering about the cage energetically and exhibiting no apparent ill effects. I captured this reaction on videotape and updated my notes.

I then obtained a larger wire cage from the supply department. I injected another male mouse with the weakened hormone solution and put a dot on its back with a black Magic Marker. I put it into the large cage, then focused and started the TV camera. I put an untreated mouse into the large cage with the injected mouse and stood back to observe the results, stopwatch in hand.

The untreated mouse was killed in less than thirty seconds.

After the killing, the dotted mouse continued to bite and worry the corpse for several minutes. I repeated this experiment twice more with identical results.

I then put two untreated mice in the cage with the injected and marked mouse. Both were killed almost instantly. I tried three mice, and then four. It was a remarkable and disturbing thing to witness, The untreated mice were totally incapable of defending themselves against the savage attacks of the mouse with a heightened testosterone level.

Because I work slowly and precisely (and keep copious notes) these experiments took the better part of two weeks. Then Marvin Mcwhortle came down to my lab and asked for a progress report.

I reported what I had accomplished so far, and I ran videotapes of the murderous activities in the big cage. Mr. Mcwhortle watched intently, fascinated.

"Incredible," he said, shaking his head. "But are you certain the killings were the result of the testosterone injections and not due to some other factor?"

"Naturally I ran control experiments," I replied, somewhat offended that he imagined I might have neglected such an important discipline.

"When untreated males were placed together in the same cage, there was no overt display of aggression. In fact, they spent much of their time playing with each other."

"So you feel the aggression was definitely the result of the added testosterone?

"Preliminary results would seem to indicate it," I said cautiously.

"But there is much work still to be done."

"What comes next?"

"I want to place two, three, and then several injected male mice in the same cage and observe what happens. Then I intend to repeat all my experiments with female mice placed in the same cage with an injected male. I think it important to establish if the male's murderous frenzy occurs in the presence of ovulating females or if his aggression is converted to an increased sex drive."

"That should be interesting," Mr. Mcwhortle said, grinning at me. "Be sure you make tapes. I've got to see that." That evening, on the drive back to Rustling Palms Estates, I asked Marleen Todd, "Do you admire strong men? " She laughed. "What a question! If you mean weight lifters and bodybuilders, the answer is no, emphatically no! I think they're grotesque."

"I phrased the question awkwardly," I said. "I meant vigorous men, aggressive men, men who want to dominate." , "The answer is still no. I've always suspected that men like that are trying to conceal an inner feeling of inferiority. And so they overcompensate."

"Do you think most women feel the way you do?"

She considered that a few moments. "I really can't say," she said finally. "I know there are women who admire forceful men and respond to them. Why do you ask, Greg?"

"just curiosity, " I said. "I told you I'm a klutz when it comes to human relations. I usually know how research animals will react, but I can't predict people. I just don't understand why they do the things they do, what their motives are, what drives them."

"I think most people have a very basic drive," she said.

"Self-preservation. That may be the fundamental instinct, but then it gets complicated. For instance, I'd die for Tania. I'd sacrifice myself if it meant her survival."

"And these women you mentioned who respond to forceful men, are they also motivated by selfpreservation?"

"They may be," she said warily. "Perhaps it's atavistic, the cavewoman wanting a strong, aggressive cavernan because he can kill a saber-toothed tiger and bring home meat."

"Probably," I said, smiling. "So the females who admire aggressive males are really trying to insure their own survival?"

"That's one possibility," Marleen said. "Another is that they're instinctively seeking strong genes for their offspring.

And that leads to the survival of the family, the tribe, the nation, and ultimately the human race."

I groaned. "No wonder I'm confused. We start with women responding to strong men and end with the immortality of the species. Well, I suppose that's what evolution is all about."

"Greg, does this have anything to do with the project you're working on?"

"Only indirectly," I said cautiously. I couldn't reveal more. "And speaking of projects, how is yours coming along?"

"I'm going to be just as secretive as you," she said. "But I will tell you it's a new perfume, and if it works the way I hope, it will revolutionize the fragrance industry."

"That sounds exciting," I said, although I didn't think it did. "What makes it so revolutionary?"

"Well, I don't want to go into details, but you know that scientists still don't understand exactly how the sense of smell works. They do know that certain scents can recall emotions and awaken memories or-and this is iffy-inspire emotions and awaken appetites. That allegedly includes sexual desire. But my new perfume, if it succeeds, takes a totally different approach. It aims at behavior modification. Greg, why are you looking at me so strangely?"

"You mean," I said, "your new perfume might work the way nitrous oxide makes people laugh and acts as an anesthetic? "

"Not precisely like that," Marleen said. "But its effects would cause people to act differently from the way they normally act."

"And this modification or change in their behavior, would it be pleasurable?"

"Oh yes." , "But could your new fragrance result in any ill effects? For instance, antisocial conduct by the women wearing it or by anyone sniffing it?"

"Good heavens, no!" Marleen said decisively. "If I thought that might happen, I'd drop the whole project immediately."

I was about to say, "I wish I could say the same," but I remained silent. Still, her forthright statement stirred up all my original doubts about the moral and ethical proprieties of what I was doing. I had no desire to create a new crop of killers and rapists. It seemed to me there were enough of that breed without encouragement from the Mcwhortle Laboratory.

"A penny for your thoughts," Marleen said. "Haven't you heard of inflation?" I asked. "Now they're worth at least a nickel."

And we both laughed. cwhortle called me from his office one morning, a Friday it was, and said he was feeling horny and would be over at noon.

That was a pain because I had an appointment to get my nails done.

Naturally I told him to come ahead, and then I phoned the beauty shop to cancel. I had a good thing going with the old man, and I wasn't about to make waves.

He showed up hot to trot and started undressing right away.

He always wore boxer shorts that almost came to his knees-real droopy drawers. One pair even had little bunnies printed on them.

I never laughed of course. I just said, "oh daddy, you look so cute!"

He told me from the beginning that his ticker was on the fritz-it speeded up sometimes-so when we had sex, I did most of the work. I always told him what a great lover he was, and he liked that. Note to wives everywhere, if your man doesn't get that bullshit at home, he'll get it somewhere else.

Afterward I brought him a cold bottle of the dark beer he liked, and got a diet cola for myself because, I had put on a few pounds recently and my tush was getting pillowy.

He had brought me a big jar of a new moisturizing creme his laboratory had developed. It had a bronzer in it so you could get a tan without going out in the sun.

"Thank you, daddy," I said. "It will be great for rainy days. How are you coming along on that crazy pill you told me about-the one that's supposed to make every soldier into Superman?"

"Coming along fine. Greg is making progress."

"Who's Greg?"

"Gregory Barrow, our top research chemist. He's handling the project.

The man is a genius."

"I've never met a genius. What's he like?"

"A mousy kind of guy but all brain. I know he's married and has a kid, but his job is his whole life. I mean he doesn't play golf or anything like that. A real workaholic. I wish I had twenty more like him."

"You think the ZAP stuff is going to be a success?"

"Well, Greg has it in liquid form now, and when he injects it into mice, it turns them into pit bulls. I don't see any reason why it shouldn't work with humans if we can get it into pill or powder form."

"Maybe the government will give you a medal."

He laughed. "If they pay their bills on time, I'll be satisfied.

Listen, Jess, I've got to get back to the office. A client's coming in who wants to talk about a new product, a suntan lotion combined with an insect repellent."

"Hey," I said, "that's a great idea. The last time I went to the beach I almost got eaten up alive by sand fleas."

"Lucky fleas," Mcwhortle said, grinning at me.

He gave me my salary check before he left. What a sweet hustle I had going.

I showered and dressed, then phoned William K. Brevoort. He wasn't in, so I left a message on his answering machine. I watched a soap opera on TV for a while, but then Willie got back to me. I told him I had something for him, and he said he could come over that evening,around nine o'clock, and I said okay.

I phoned Laura Gunther at Hashbeam's Bo-teek and asked her if she'd like to have an early dinner at a rib joint we both liked.

She said sure, and we made arrangements to meet there at six-thirty.

Laura was the only close woman friend I had made in town since I moved up from Miami. She worked at Hashbeam's, and I stopped by one day to look around and we got to talking. It turned out she had been in the game herself but had gone straight and married a real-estate broker.

That lasted all of two years and now he was divorced. She wasn't exactly hurting for bucks but had taken the job at the Bo-teek to keep from hitting the convention circuit again.

She was a wild one, a big, heavy broad who smoked long, skinny cigars and had the voice and vocabulary of a trucker. Her current boyfriend was a guy named Bobby Gurk. I think he was in the rackets in Lauderdale, but I never asked questions.

We had a great dinner at the rib joint. Laura told me about the problem she was having with Gurk. He wanted her to stay home every night in case he suddenly decided to drop by. She told him to get lost, and they were always fighting about it. , "That elephant thinks he owns me," Laura said. "He doesn't pay enough to own, he just rents."

"Why don't you dump him," I suggested. "You should be able to do better."

"I'm working on it," she said. "I met a guy out at the club the other night who thinks he's God's gift to women. Married, of course, but he's got deep pockets. I gave him a freebie. The next time he comes sniffing around I'll tell him the facts of life, no pay, no play. it Then we started talking about new summer fashions, what was in and what was out. After a while it was time for me to leave.

We split the check and made plans to go to the beach on Sunday.

I got home around eight-thirty. My six-year-old Pontiac was making funny noises, and I decided I needed new wheels. I figured I'd drop a few hints to Mcwhortle. He knew all about no pay, no play.

Willie the Weasel showed up right on time, looking as nifty as ever.

That guy sure knew how to dress. All he wanted to drink was a glass of club soda, so I brought him that.

I told Willie about Mcwhortle's visit that morning. I didn't want to give him the whole jar of the new moisturing creme with bronzer in it, so I dug out a tablespoonful and wrapped it in aluminum foil. He said that would be enough for analysis. I also told him about Mcwhortle's client who wanted the lab to develop a suntan lotion combined with an insect repellent.

"Sounds good," he said. "See if you can get me a sample when it's finished."

He took the foil-wrapped moisturizer and gave me a white envelope containing my payoff – I guess handing me bare cash just wasn't his style, it had to be in a clean white envelope.

He started to leave, then suddenly stopped. "Oh, by the way," he said casually, as if he had just remembered, "anything new on that testosterone pill?"

It was a great performance, but it didn't fool me one bit.

I mean the guy was slick but I was slicker, I knew immediately that he was really interested in the ZAP thing, which meant big bucks were involved.

"Yeah," I said, "Mcwhortle talked about it some."

"What did he say?"

"Tell you what," I said, "I figure that project is something special.

Very important. Top Secret stuff."

He stared at me. "I told you there'd be an extra two big ones if you can get me a sample."

"So you did," I said. "But I prefer a pay-as-you-go plan.

How about an extra grand right now?"

His expression froze up. "You wouldn't be getting greedy on me, would you, Jess? "

"Nah, Willie," I said, "not me. I'm just doing what you do.

You told me you buy information from people who know and sell to people who want to know. Right? Well, I know and you want to know. Greed isn't involved. It's just business."

His face was still set, but he dug out his wallet and this time he handed over the cold cash, his hand to mine, no white envelope. I thanked him and told him what Mcwhortle had said about the injections making pit bulls out of mice.

"And does he think it's going to work on men? the Weasel asked.

"He said he doesn't see why it shouldn't if they can make it into a pill or powder."

"Did he happen to mention the name of the chemist who's working on it?"

The schmuck wanted me to show him my hole card? What did he take me for-a total twerp? I was going to feed him information all right, a little bit at a time. Cash on delivery.

"No," I said, "he didn't mention any name." Brevoort nodded, tucked his wallet away, and started out. He paused at the door.

"That's a very attractive frock you're wearing tonight, Jess," he said.

"Thank you," I said.

After the door closed behind him, I stood there a moment, still startled.

How many times have you heard a man use the word "frock"? I wondered, What's with this guy? must confess I had high hopes for a perfume based on oxytocin, the "cuddle hormone." If it succeeded, the wearer and anyone who sniffed it would become emotionally warmer, more affectionate, more caring. It seemed to me that in today's world such a scent would be of inestimable value to both sexes, but especially to men.

But Cuddle might have an even wider application. I was aware of the exciting things the Japanese were doing with what are called home fragrances or area fragrances. Perfumers were releasing scents through the ventilation ducts of homes, offices, and factories. It was claimed that certain tailored fragrances reduced stress, calmed anxieties, and improved the morale of workers assigned to boring routine jobs.

In other words, mood and behavior modification via the sense of smell! it was fascinating to imagine what effect Cuddle might have on a large gathering in an enclosed area. It was possible that such a mollifying scent, released, through air conditioning vents, could be used to control prison riots.

And sprayed in the hall of a diplomatic conference it might result in quick and friendly agreements.

Our supply department had to order the aerosolized form of synthetic oxytocin from Europe, and while awaiting its arrival I busied myself experimenting with top and central notes for the new perfume. Top notes are usually of the citrus family. They give the scent a fresh, tangy odor when first sniffed, but rarely last long. Central notes are the body of the fragrance, giving it richness and "heart." They are customarily floral scents.

The base or bottom note in the final meld is the longest lasting and gives each perfume its unique personality.

I started blending a lemony extract as a top note with lavender for the central. The oxytocin, if its scent was acceptable or if it had an objectionable odor that could be neutralized or masked, would be the distinctive foundation of Cuddle., When the containers of the aerosolized synthetic hormone finally arrived, I carried them into the lab and organized my private worktable. There were two other "noses" in the lab at the time, but they were intent on their own projects and paid no attention to what I was doing.

I prepared several strips of blotting paper and set up a drying rack.

Then, donning thin latex gloves, I held a strip of paper with wooden tongs and dampened the lower half with oxytocin spray. I passed the strip quickly beneath my nostrils and sniffed. I smelled nothing.

Then I brought the strip closer and inhaled deeply. I caught an odor that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. I tried again.

The faint scent puzzled me. There was nothing in my experience as a perfumer that was even remotely similar. It was not citrus, floral, resinous, oily, or of animal origin. It really had no relation to any scent that I could recall.

I clipped the dampened paper strip to the rack to dry. Then I slowly walked along the shelves of bottled fragrances and extracts, reading labels and hoping to find one that might jog my olfactory memory and provide a clue to which family of scents the hormone belonged. I found nothing that could be compared. The oxytocin seemed to have a unique fragrance.

I returned to my table and sniffed my test strip again.

This time the distinctive odor was more pronounced, as it naturally would be since the liquid carrier was evaporating. Now the drying scent was more Pleasing and triggered a vague association in my mind I could not define. I sniffed once again and was convinced the scent was stirring a sensory memory. But I couldn't pin it down.

I took the test strip from the drying rack with tongs and carried it across the lab to the worktable of Mary Goodbody. If there was ever a misnamed woman it was Mary, for the poor dear was terribly obese. But she was sweet-tempered and an absolutely first-rate "nose." She looked up as I came near.

"Mary," I said, "I hate to interrupt, but would you take a sniff of this and tell me if it reminds you of anything."

"Sure," she said cheerfully. "Hand it over." , She took the tongs and passed the strip quickly beneath her nostrils, taking a small sniff. "Odd," she said.

She brought the strip closer to her nose and inhaled deeply.

She was obviously as puzzled as I had been because she stared at the stained blotting paper a moment, shaking her head.

"Does it recall anything to you?" I asked.

She took another whiff of the diluted hormone, and her eyes closed.

She was silent for almost a minute. Then her eyes popped open.

"Got it!" she said triumphantly.

"What is it?" I said excitedly. "What does the scent recall?

"Mauve," she said.

You know, she was completely correct. The smell of oxytocin produced a memory of mauve. It was the first time in my professional life that a scent had called up a recollection of a color.

I bent to kiss Mary's cheek. "You're wonderful," I told her, "and right, as usual. Thank you so very much."

"What is that stuff?" she asked curiously, handing back my sample.

"Something new," I said, and sailed back to my worktable considerably elated. The recalled memory of mauve fit Darcy amp; Sons' prospectus perfectly. They wanted Cuddle to be a "soft, sentimental, and nostalgic" fragrance. What color fit those specifications better than mauve?

I wasn't yet ready to test the aerosolized oxytocin on my skin. I first had to determine its effects on mood and behavior.

If it proved to have none or had deleterious effects, it would simply have to be discarded.

Our most recent company newsletter had reported the pharmaceutical division was working on a new nasal decongestant to be packaged in an inhaler. I took the elevator up to their enormous lab and asked one of the chemists, Tony Siddons, if I could have any empty plastic inhalers.

He gave me three of them.

I returned to my own lab and spent the remainder of the afternoon carefully packing one of the inhalers with sterile cotton batting that had been saturated with synthetic oxytocin.

Finished, I plugged the inhaler into my nose, once in each nostril, and inhaled deeply. I had an almost instantaneous physical reaction. I was flooded with warmth, a condition somewhat akin to a hot flash. And I felt a mild tingling in my extremities. But these symptoms lasted no more than a minute or two. Then I went down to the garage to drive Greg Barrow back to Rustling Palms Estates.

We were almost home, chatting of inconsequential things, when Greg said,

"Would you drop me at the Seven-Eleven, please, Marleen. Mabel phoned and wants me to pick up a quart of milk.

I'll walk home from there."

"Of course, darling," I said. "But there's no need for you to walk home, I'll wait for you, sweetheart."

He turned slowly to look at me. "There's really no need for you to wait," he said. "I'm sure you're anxious to get home."

"No problem, " I said gaily. "Herman is taking a client to dinner tonight, and Tania and I are just having a salad. No cooking to do, so I'll be delighted to wait for you, dear."

He said nothing more until I pulled into our driveway.

Before he could get out of the car, I grabbed his arm, yanked him close and kissed his cheek.

"Have a wonderful, wonderful evening," I said. "And sleep well. I love you, Greg."

"Thank you," he said faintly, and hastened away.

Tania was downstairs, setting the table in the dining nook.

"Hello, you beautiful thing!" I caroled. "You look so charming in your jeans and T-shirt. Give Mother a great big kiss."

She complied but then drew away to stare at me. "You okay?" she asked.

"Never felt better in my life," I said, laughing. "Give me another hug," Herman came downstairs, showered, shaved, and dressed for his dinner.

Well, don't you look handsome!" I cried, embracing him. "I married a movie star!"

He pulled away to inspect me. "If I didn't know better," he said, "I'd say you had a few."

"Love your jokes!" I said. "Just love them! Oh, honey, hurry home as soon as you can." I looked around to make certain Tania couldn't hear.

"Sweetie," I whispered, "you and I are going to have such fun tonight.

It's been a long, long time, but tonight we'll make up for it. I love you, Herm."

"Yeah," he said. "Sure." And he left hastily.

I heard myself chattering nonstop during dinner. But before it was finished, I became so sleepy I knew I had to get to bed before I collapsed into the salad bowl.

"Mommy is going to take a nap," I said brightly to Tania. "Now you finish your dinner like the angel you are, and I'll come down later and clean up. I love you, sweetheart. Love you, love you, love you!"

I managed to get upstairs but I was too sleepy to undress.

I fell atop the bed fully clothed and was instantly asleep. I never did go downstairs to clean up the kitchen, and I wasn't aware of my husband coming home. I slept for twelve hours.

All my dreams were colored mauve.

I got maybe ten phone calls a month, at the most, and three or four of them were usually wrong numbers, Late in May my phone rang one evening, and I couldn't imagine who it might be unless the cops were calling to tell me my nutsy brother was in the hoosegow and needed bail.

But it turned out to be my niece, Tania, and I laughed.

"Hiya, honey," I said. "It's good to hear from you.

Behaving yourself?"

"Of course I am," she said, very primly. "I called to thank you for that book you gave me which you autographed."

"My pleasure," I said.

"Did you read it?"

"Yes, I did. I liked Tommy Termite-he was funny-and I think you should write another book about him."

"I'm happy you said that, Tania, because that's exactly what I'm doing.

In the new book Tommy meets a girl termite and falls in love." , III "That's very nice," she said approvingly, and then she was silent.

I began to get a little uneasy.

"Everything all right?" I asked.

"Uncle Chas," she said finally, "will you do me a favor? A big favor?"

"Of course I will, honey. What is it?"

"Could you send me some money?"

I was startled. I was sure the kid got an allowance, and I wasn't certain if Marleen would approve of my giving cash to her daughter.

"How much do you want, Tania?"

"A lot."

"How much is a lot?"

A hundred dollars?" she said hopefully. "I really need it."

That was a stun. "Can you tell me what you need it for? "

"It's a secret," she said.

At first I thought she might want to buy her mother or father an expensive birthday present, but then I recalled both their birthdays were in November.

"A secret?" I said. "Well, you can tell me. I promise not to repeat it."

"Not to anyone?"

"Not to a soul. Scout's honor."

"Well, " she said slowly, "I want to give it to a friend."

"Oh?" I said. "Boy or girl?"

A long silence, then, "Boy."

"What boy?"

"Just a boy," she said.

Now I was really concerned. If she had said she wanted to buy a birthday present for a boy, that would have been okay I guess. But I didn't like the idea of her giving a hundred bucks to some nameless boy.

I had visions of some kiddie extortion racket going on here.

"I'm not asking you to give me the money, Uncle Chas," she said earnestly. "I want to borrow it. I'll pay you back, really I will."

"You don't want to ask your mother or father for it?

"I can't," she said miserably. "You're the only one I can ask."

I hate dilemmas like that. I mean I loved Tania and thought she loved me. More important, I thought she trusted me. I couldn't betray her secret, not even to her parents. Especially not to her parents. That would, I knew, be the end of my niece's love and trust.

"Tell you what, honey," I said, "I'll give you the money but-"

"Lend," she repeated. "Lend me the money."

"Okay, I'll lend you the money, but I don't want to mail it because it might get lost or your parents might open the envelope.

Why don't you tell your mother I phoned and invited you to have lunch with me on Saturday. Tell her it will be like a party, just you and me.

She can drive you out here and then go shopping or something, and then pick you up later. And while she's gone, I'll give you the money personally. How does that sound?"

"I don't know," she said doubtfully. "Maybe she'll want to stay for lunch, too."

"Nothing doing," I said. "This party is just for the two of us. If she gives you a hard time, have her phone me. Okay?"

"All right, Uncle Chas," she said. "I'll call you back and tell you if I can come."

I hung up, not certain I was doing the right thing. But I had the definite feeling that something was troubling Tania, and I didn't want to risk compounding the problem with no questions asked and her parents kept in the dark.

I used to be a man of action-a brainless man of action. I loved track and swimming, fancied myself a world-class miler, and didn't do too badly in the freestyle. I was a real jock and even had dreams of the Olympics. But, of course, all that was when I had legs.

While I was in the hospital and after I got out, I acquired the habit of thinking-something I had never done much before.

And this may sound screwy to you, but I discovered thinking can be as addictive as alcohol or nicotine. You can just surrender to pondering, and time passes before you know it and you lose all sense of where you are and what's happening around you. Talk about reverie!

Thinking can be very seductive. You can dream, fantasize, create all sorts of wild and wonderful scenarios. A lot of my thinking had no relation to reality or-according to Cherry-to what I perceived as reality. But I found it pleasurable. It was still a new world for me, and I never ceased to wonder at the depths of thought. I hadn't yet gotten to the bottom.

Now I spent at least a half hour thinking about Tania's request for a hundred dollars and envisioning a dozen different plots that might account for it. You may say I was wasting time, but I didn't think so.

I believed there was a crisis of sorts in that kid's, life, and my actions might help solve it or make it worse.

I'm not such a heavy thinker that I don't recognize my own limitations, after all, I came to the habit of reasoning late in life. So I phoned Dr. Noble, hoping for reassurance that I was acting sensibly.

She was home, and after some small talk I told her about Tania's call, her request for money, and the Saturday luncheon I planned so I could have a heart-to heart with the kid.

"What do you think, Cherry?" I asked.

"She's how old?"

"Chas, I don't like the sound of it. It could be something completely innocent, but I doubt it. I don't know how eight-year-olds feel about money these days, but when I was that age a hundred dollars seemed to me an unimaginable fortune. I think the child may have a serious problem."

"That's my reaction."

"But I'm not sure you should have promised to give her the money. You did promise, didn't you?"

"Yes, but I figured it was the only way I could get her to come to lunch. If I had said to her, Let's talk about it,' I think she would take that as a rejection and drop me. Listen, Tania is no dummy, she's not going to tell me in advance why she wants the money because she's afraid if she tells me I won't give it to her."

"You're probably right. I'd like to know what it's all about, Chas. I hope you'll tell me."

"I will. I'll phone you after I talk to her."

"Can't I come out and visit you? You can tell me then.

I hesitated longer than I should have. "All right, Cherry."

"See you then," she said lightly.

We hung up, and I went back to thinking. I told you it was addictive.

But this time I wasn't thinking about Tania's problem, the subject, as usual, was my problem and the solution so kindly offered by Dr. Cherry Noble. I don't mean to put her down with a smartass remark like that.

Believe me, I had nothing but gratitude and admiration for that brainy lady.

But she wanted something from me I wasn't ready to give. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I told you that when I was young and had a whole body, I was a pretty fair swimmer.

But I never had the nerve to go off the high board.

LAURAGUNTHER obby Gurk was the biggest man I've ever known-and I've known a mob. He said he weighed two-fifty, but I figured he was closer to two-eighty, maybe more. It wasn't all fat, he was just a tall, wide, humongous man. I'm no petite but he made me feel like Mrs. Tom Thumb.

Big guys like that can be fun, if you know what I mean.

What wasn't fun was the guy's stinginess. I mean he was in the rackets and probably pulling down zillions. But he drove a ten-year-old clunker, lived in a fleabag motel, and dressed like Bozo the Clown. He took me out to dinner once-just once. It was a cheapie joint, but he almost fainted when the check came. He left a whole dollar for a tip.

I told him never to eat there again or the waiter would spit in his soup.

Finally I got sick and tired trying to pry some decent funds out of Gurk. So I started looking around for a new fish who didn't carry his roll with Scotch tape around it. I thought I found one at the club, a heavy drinker named Herman who was in the insurance business and seemed to be well-heeled.

I gave him a freebie, just as a come-on, you know, to prove my talent.

But the second time I met him at the club I laid it on him straight, and he got sore.

"Listen, kiddo," he said, "the day I have to start paying for it is the day I take up shuffleboard."

What a jerk! I mean he was probably taking women to ritzy restaurants and buying them clothes and expensive gifts, but he didn't consider that payment. A lot of guys are like that.

They'll buy a digger a mink coat but handing over cash offends them.

Go figure it.

So there I was, stuck with Big Bobby Gurk, a worldclass tightwad. I was getting a mingy alimony check every month and with what I was making (and boosting) at Hashbeam's Bo-teek, I was getting by. But my bank account was so flimsy I couldn't even afford to get sick. So I kept cruising and hoping.

Now take my girlfriend Jessica Fiddler. She has to take care of a rich geezer a couple of times a week, and for that she got her own home, a weekly salary, and lots of perfumes and cosmetics.

I'd be okay if I could find a mark like that.

Then something happened that turned my whole life around.

Bobby Gurk came over one night, but it wasn't for fun and games.

"I got a job for you, babe," he said.

"Great," I said. "How much does it pay?"

"Hey," he said, "don't you want to know what it is first? "

"I didn't figure you'd want me to rob a bank." , "Nah, it's nothing like that. This is something right up your alley."

"I've got a big alley," I said. "Okay, what is it?"

"There's this hustler I know who's got an in at a place that invents all kinds of medicines and stuff. An inside guy, on the take, sneaks the hustler new things they come up with. Then my pal peddles the new things to other people who rip them off and make a mint. Get the picture? Right now they're working on a pill that a guy takes and it puts lead in his pencil."

"You don't need it, Bobby," I told him, and that was the truth.

"It ain't for me, dummy," he said. "But if I can get hold of this pill I can have it copied, bootleg it, and make a nice couple of bucks."

I stared at him. "So? " I said. "Buy the pill from your hustler pal."

"He's going to hold me up," Gurk said. "I know he is."

"Oh-ho," I said. "Now I get it. You want to cut the hustler out of the deal."

"That's right. But to do that, I got to know who the inside guy is who's going to sneak him a sample pill. You follow?"

"Way ahead of you," I said. "You want me to cozy up to this hustler and pump him. You want me to ball him?"

"I don't care how you do it."

"Okay," I said. "A grand in advance."

"A grand?" he cried. "You nuts or something? A hundred now.

Another five hundred when you get me what I want."

"A thousand now," I insisted. "Another thousand when I get the stuff.

Or no deal."

Well, we went back and forth with a lot of yelling and screaming.

Finally, he gave me five yards in advance and promised another grand when and if I found out who the hustler's inside man was.

"It's called the ZAP pill," Gurk said. "And it's being made at a place called Mcwhortle Laboratory."

"I'll remember," I said. "Now how do I get to meet his pal you're going to shaft?"

We talked about several ways to arrange a meet so the guy wouldn't suspect a setup. But none of the scams we dreamed up seemed even halfway legit.

"Look," I said finally to Gurk, "honesty is the best policy.

What's this guy's name?"

"Willie Brevoort."

"Well, you tell Willie you know this roundheel who puts out at a moment's notice just for kicks. If he's interested, bring him around, introduce him, and then you take off."

"But what if he ain't inarrested?"

"Then the whole deal is dead, isn't it? If I can't be nice to him, how am I going to squeeze him?"

"Yeah," Bobby, the great brain, said slowly, "I see what you mean.

Okay, we'll do it. If it doesn't work, I'll try another way."

But it worked out just fine. Two nights later Gurk showed up with the hustler in tow. This Willie Brevoort was a slim, elegant guy with a long, pointy face. And dressed? Right out of GQ. I made his suit for a black-label Armani, and his suede loafers had those little tassels on them. What a dude he was!

The three of us had a drink, traded a few jokes, and, then Bobby said he had to get back to his office and took off. I poured Willie and me another drink-if you can call club soda a drink.

That's all he was having. I stuck to something with more vitamins, Absolut on the rocks.

"You got wheels, Willie?" I asked him. "Or did Bobby drive you here in that bucket of his?"

"No," he said, "I drove my own car."

"Smart," I said. "What do you drive?"

"A silver Infiniti."

"Love it," I said. "Listen, why don't we both get more comfortable."

"Suits me."

"I got a waterbed," I said. "I hope that suits you."

He didn't answer that, but he asked a question of his own.

"Are you a lady of leisure, Laura?"

"Hell, no," I said. "Wish I was. I'm the manager of a boutique." I wasn't, of course, just a salesclerk. But what's the dif?"

"A boutique?" he said, and he seemed to come alive, smiling and leaning forward. "That must be a fascinating job. I suppose you're getting advance info on the fall fashions."

"Some," I said. "Skirts are down and prices are up. But with me, prices are down and skirts are up."

He laughed, and we both started undressing. He was wearing aqua silk briefs. That figured. I stripped down and went to my walk-in closet.

Willie followed and looked over my shoulder.

"You have a lovely wardrobe, Laura," he said. "Unless I'm mistaken, there's a lot of Donna Karan. You like her designs?"

"Love them," I said. "They make me look smaller."

"Yes," he said, "you are a rather large lady. I imagine you and I might wear the same size."

"Wouldn't doubt it," I said.

We were both needle-naked. I yanked a plumcolored chiffon robe off a hanger, and Willie grabbed it.

"What a gorgeous peignoir," he said. He looked at me. "Do you mind if I try it on?"

I wasn't shocked. Listen, if you've been in the game like I have, nothing men do surprises you. I once had a john who liked to play a ukulele while I was blowing him.

"Go ahead," I said to Willie Brevoort. "Slip it on." it fitted him perfectly.

I've been in the manufacture and marketing of phari'maceuticals most of my adult life, and I knew from the git-go that the ZAP Project was a no-brainer. It wasn't that a testosterone pill couldn't be developed gregory Barrow was a dynamite research chemist, and he might just do it-it was the public reaction that would condemn it to become just a chemical curiosity.

Listen, I served in the Quartermaster Corps in World War II, and the rumor got around that we were putting saltpeter in the GIS' food to reduce their sexual desire. It was all bullshit, of course, but it caused a big flap, and the brass had to assure the mothers and fathers of America that their boys weren't being drugged by Uncle Sam.

So despite what I had told Colonel Knacker and Greg Barrow, I knew damn well the ZAP Project would never get off the ground.

Even if the pill did what it was supposed to do, there'd be no way to keep it secret, and there'd be such a public stink that no amount of slick PR would convince John Q. Public that the armed forces weren't force-feeding a dangerous drug to the troops to make them into snarling killers.

But what the hell, it was a juicy contract, and I wasn't about to say no to the Pentagon. If they wanted a ZAP pill, I'd do my best to provide it. The resulting brannigan with the public and the media was a problem for the Department of Defense, not for Mcwhortle Laboratory.

I think it was about the middle of June when Greg Barrow phoned me one morning and asked if I could come down to his lab, he had something to show me. I wanted to know how long it would take, and he said no more than an hour. That was okay. I had alerted Jessica Fiddler to expect me at noon, and I wasn't about to postpone it. I needed some of her