CHAPTER 3.

Ididn't wake until late afternoon. No phone messages, only a hungry cat. I fed Hep, then decided that it was useless to wait around for a phone call that might be twenty-four hours away. Time for brunch at the Spread Eagle.

Ralph was a real pal. He set me up a three-course meal: peanuts, popcorn, and pretzels. After he served a few other customers, he came back to my corner of the bar.

"New gossip about Harry," he said.

"Yeah?" I asked.

"Shoot-out at the O.K. Corral last night. You heard about it?"

"No. I was teaching a hetero girl a new form of birth control."

Hearing about it and being there are two different things, I figured.

"Harry got his picture taken. Stands to lose a lot of money."

"Huh?" The queer smell came back.

"Harry's got a rich grandfather in very poor health. His will's got certain interesting clauses, so they say. Like any deviant behavior gets you disowned."

"Harry's got his picture all over the place," I replied. "Certainly every boy's bar in town. Why doesn't that get him disowned?" This was not good news to me. I was beginning to feel a trifle bit set up.

"His sister Karen already tried that. Showed Granddad one of those pictures. Harry denied it. Said the picture was doctored. And what upstanding Southern gentleman wants to believe his grandson is queer?"

"None I know of."

* 16 *

"So Granddad said he wouldn't believe any pictures without the negatives and Harry figured he was home free. Until," Ralph continued, "Karen hired some f.a.ggot goon to help her get to him." (Well, at least I hadn't been recognized.) "She snapped his picture. Now all she has to do is give the undeveloped roll to granddaddy to prove it's not a doctored photo, and she inherits the whole lot."

"That's real interesting." Boy, was it ever. "Any chance his sister's a knockout blond about so high?"

"Yep. A real mess for Harry."

A customer signaled for Ralph. We had a good relationship. He didn't ask me how I got my information and I didn't ask him about his.

So much for my luck changing. It was time for me to find out a few more things about the woman who called herself Karen Wentworth. I downed another shot of Scotch, then headed back to my office.

I made a few preliminary phone calls while munching on an oyster po-boy. Then I called Danny Clayton. She and I had gone to college together, two poor scholarship students huddled against the ma.s.s of children of the rich and powerful. I think we had been accepted so that that Northeastern sn.o.b school could claim that it had a black and a Cajun from the Bayou State. After that, we'd both come back South.

Danielle to honors at Tulane Law School and me to, well, dishonors on Bourbon Street. Danny now worked in the D.A.'s office and knew a lot of things. And we'd been lovers for one very long hot summer. We still liked each other enough to occasionally jump into the sack together.

Danny's latest this-one's-going-to-last-forever answered the phone. She told me that Danny was working late. I left my name, then called Danny's office.

"D.A.'s office, Danielle Clayton speaking," she said.

I told her my story. She raised an eyebrow (phone-etically speaking) at my front-seat adventures, but then, she always does. She had a few helpful suggestions.

"Get out of town and stay out until this thing blows over," was her first.

"Why?" I asked.

"Dixie mafia. Her name's not Wentworth, it's Holloway. Of the Holloways of One Hundred Oaks Plantation. That's a big estate upriver from here with very extensive and secluded access by water. Possibly * 17 *

some drug running going on. If the plantation doesn't go to either Harold or Karen, then it goes to the Daughters of the Confederacy Historical Society, and no drug runner in his right mind would tackle them."

"You mean Grandpa Holloway can't stand the idea of queer grandkids, but lets drug runners use his place?" I asked.

"Not quite that simple or we'd have them," she answered.

"Ignatious Holloway, as near as we can figure, is a perfectly straight-backed old Southern gentleman. But he's had a few mild heart attacks and a stroke, and he absolutely resists the idea that anything illegal might be going on on his land. So we can't stake it out or get a search warrant, because he's got too many friends."

"What about Karen and Harry? By the way, where are their parents?"

"Beau Holloway got divorced, married a Jewish woman, and hasn't been seen below the Mason-Dixon line since. Mother's being trendy somewhere in California. No evidence that Karen and Harry have any connections with the mob. But they're smart little cookies who know when to duck, not to mention when to make friends with a rich grandfather. Also, there's a third granddaughter, Cordelia, who's given up family squabbles for Lent."

"How does one do that?" I'd never been able to manage it.

"She told her grandfather that she didn't want any of his money.

Informed him in no uncertain terms that she was living with another woman, just to make sure. Aptly named, too. She visits him a couple of times a week. Karen and Harry could pa.s.s for Goneril and Regan."

Danny liked to use literary references. I recognized King Lear, but let it pa.s.s. Then she added, "Stay away from her. She's a good kid."

I also let that pa.s.s. Danny has an exaggerated opinion of my decadence.

"What about Karen? Does her granddad know what she likes to do with women? Dismissing, of course, the possibility that she was telling the truth about me being the first."

"Karen really is engaged to some society wimp. She might even marry him before granddad kicks off, but you can bet that she'll already have hired a divorce lawyer. Not a pleasant lady on a bad day. Get out of this one, Micky, it's dangerous."

"I will, after I make reparations," I answered.

* 18 *

"What does that...Yes, sir...No, sir," to someone off in the background. "I'll call you back later. Be there." She hung up.

My plan was simple. As I figured it, the drug runners and the Daughters of the Confederacy were best suited for each other. Since Harry had just been struck out due to my unwitting interference, it was time to even the score.

I started rearranging the furniture in my office and cleaning up.

Hepplewhite looked amazed, but I ignored her. Then I set up my two cameras, the mini on the bookshelf and the Nikon in the closet aimed through the hole that I hadn't fixed in antic.i.p.ation of just this sort of situation. Karen, I was betting, was interested in at least another good f.u.c.k or two out of me. And I had every intention of f.u.c.king her better than she thought possible.

* 19 *

CHAPTER 4.

Karen called the next morning. I talked her into coming to the office, saying I was waiting for some important phone calls and had some work to catch up on. She agreed to come by in the late afternoon. I tried out my cameras and got a few frank, uncensored pictures of Hepplewhite shedding on the couch.

I almost considered getting gumbo and garlic bread for lunch, but I restrained myself. Danny called twice, but I let her talk to my machine.

She would call back later, hopefully at an appropriate time. I even had a slug of Scotch. I didn't like the things Karen had done, but neither did I like what I was going to do to her. I've had s.e.x for a lot of reasons, some of them less than n.o.ble, but never before only for revenge (with a side order of justice, I consoled myself).

Karen was about twenty minutes late. She was nowhere near as good-looking as I had thought before. Of course, I knew she hadn't changed, that I had. I remembered just in time that I was supposed to be happy to see her, with l.u.s.t afire in my loins.

"Hi, it's good to see you again," I lied.

"Yeah, same here," she smiled. "How about business first? What do I owe you?" She whipped out her checkbook.

"No charge," I answered, trying to look n.o.ble.

"I insist," she countered, playing the same game.

"I could say you already paid." I could say I don't take money from people like you.

"That was later," she said as she wrote out a check anyway. It was fairly generous, but she signed it Karen Wentworth and there was no name or address printed in the corner. I doubted it would clear. I put it * 20 *

in my desk drawer. Then I walked around the desk to where she was sitting, pulled her up so she was facing me and kissed her. Hard. She kissed back. I started to unb.u.t.ton her shirt.

"Lock the door," she said. I did. She sat down on the couch. The couch that had been cleared of all debris and noticeable cat hair. The perfectly positioned couch.

I put some music on, loud enough to cover any camera noise, and hit the trip switch on my way back to the couch. One picture every thirty seconds with thirty-six exposures. Eighteen minutes of down-and-dirty f.u.c.king. I started kissing her t.i.ts. Her nipples got hard. I put my hand between her legs for one picture, then slowly unzipped her zipper. Thirty seconds at each place, I figured. She pulled my sweater off. Good, I thought, definite proof that Karen Holloway was with a woman. Besides, all my lovers have said I have nice t.i.ts. She played with them. I put my mind in neutral and let my body take over. Bodies are amazing things; they like the touching and stroking. I might as well let mine get its cheap thrills. At least everything from the neck down was having a good time. I could feel the first wetness between my legs.

I had her pants unzipped and my hand in her panties, teasing her open.

She was wet. I took my hand out and wiped it playfully across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. (Playfully, my a.s.s, I just didn't want my couch to smell of Karen Holloway juices forever. No, no, get that brain back in neutral).

Then I started working my way down. I pulled her pants down around her ankles and made sure her shirt was open and that those erect nipples were smiling for the camera. She was centered on the couch, face full-front for the Nikon and in profile for the mini. I put my head between her legs and started going to work. It was work. She gasped, short little intakes of breath. I wanted to get at least a couple of shots of her in this position.

"Up, up on me. Put your finger in me," was her response. d.a.m.n, I should have used a tape recorder. So I obliged. When I put my tongue back right on her c.l.i.t, she started thrusting her hips around. I grabbed her with my free arm and pulled her down and held her. No blurry pictures. I glanced up to catch sight of two heavy b.r.e.a.s.t.s on a heaving chest. I had been here long enough. I started sucking and tonguing right where she wanted me to. She was making noise now. Then I knew she was about to come. (My mind got in first gear long enough to suggest faking an asthma attack at just this moment. But I didn't.) She came * 21 *

with no interference on my part. Then I kissed her a few more times down there, not so much because I wanted to, but because I was trying to think of something to say when I surfaced.

"Okay, I can't take anymore. You can come up now," she said.

"You mean, once is enough?" I answered. I'm so witty with c.u.n.t juice dribbling down my face. I got a couple of Kleenex out of a box that had been bought for the occasion.

"Your turn," she said as she finally regained her breath.

The phone rang. The nice thing about Danny is that she's persistent.

I gave Karen a "this'll-be-quick" look and answered it.

"Where the f.u.c.k have you been?" greeted Danny.

"That's it precisely," I answered. Then I continued, "No, I can't right now. I'm very busy. But I..."

"What are you talking about?"

"No, you can't see me, it's out of the question...Ten minutes, forget it."

"All right, I'm on my way, but it had better be good." Danny hung up. I didn't.

"But, Aunt Agatha, I don't care what Uncle Ernie...okay, ex-Uncle Ernie...I know you want to get him in this divorce case, but..."

Karen was lolling provocatively on the couch, her legs spread, trying to tease me while I was still on the telephone. I talked to "Aunt Agatha" a while longer to give Danny time to get over here. I finally put down the phone, having run out of nasty things to say about "Uncle Ernie." Karen had been striking obscene poses the whole time. The cameras had been taking pictures.

"C'mon, tiger," she said, "put your troubles behind you." She pulled me on top of her. "You were talking so long I'm almost ready for another one. I certainly will be by the time you're done."

That was what I wanted to avoid. Pictures of me naked with my legs spread, trying for an o.r.g.a.s.m that would probably never come, so to speak. Her hand was on my zipper, slowly pulling it down.

There was a pounding on the door in the nick of time.

"Open up. D.A.'s office," Danny said in her most official voice. I jumped up like it hadn't been planned.

"Don't open that..." Karen hissed, but she was interrupted by the door being slammed open. Even I wasn't sure whether Danny had used her key and faked it or had really broken my lock. The former, I hoped.

* 22 *

She came straight for me and had me spread-eagle against the wall. She seemed to be ignoring the naked woman in the middle of the room.

"Michele Knight, P.I., that you? A minor problem with your license." She made it sound like the minor iceberg that sank the t.i.tanic.

"Ms. Holloway, you'd better get dressed, you're on the wrong side of town," Danny finished without even looking at Karen struggling into her clothes.

"How'd you know my name?" Karen gasped.

"It's my business to know things," was Danny's reply.

"Holloway?" I acted. "Her name's Wentworth."

The next time I managed to look around, she was gone. Danny continued her "you're busted" act long enough to make sure Karen was long gone.

"Having fun?" she said with heavy sarcasm as I turned around to face her. She reached out and tweaked one of my still exposed nipples.

I checked my watch. Twenty-three minutes since the cameras started rolling. Good. That meant the last five minutes weren't recorded for posterity and Grandpa Holloway. "Want to tell me what was going on here? Other than the obvious?"