Chapter 6
It was sight of the pistol that brought Phyllis down hard on the firm floor of reality. Until then, despite the nightmare actuality of poor Gerry Mann's body, she had been floating through a dream that had begun, retrospectively, with her first appraisal of Sal Carini's death in the Copper Kettle less than forty-eight hours before. Too many incredible events had happened too fast for either her intellect or her emotions to accept them.
Sight of Tim Buckley slapping the clip of that ugly automatic into its chamber made her realize sharply that the two men avowedly protecting her felt her to be in actual physical danger. The fact that she had never had real interest in or any real knowledge of the underworld with its gangs and gangsters gave the threat
Lem Weldon and Tim Buckley evidently sensed the added terror of a menacing unknown.
He came back into the living room moments later, looking amused, well bred, imperturbable. She still felt the layer of cool mockery behind the steadiness of his regard-but his first words were serious enough.
He said, "I thought I caught a glimpse of you in the bedroom mirror again just now. Did I?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "I-heard sounds."
"Then you must have seen me with the gun." And, when Phyllis nodded again, "I don't-didn't-wish to alarm you needlessly. But there is an element of danger involved in this business and it's just as well to be as prepared for it as possible."
"Danger?" she said. "To me?"
It was his turn to nod. "To you," he replied. "Mind you, Phyllis, it's only a possibility."
She said, "I suppose you mean there might be violence from some of Sal Carini's other heirs."
"Very possibly," he replied, "but unlikely-at least at present. In the first place, before they make a move, they'll want to know everything they can about you. This is probably what they're doing right now, and it should take a little time."
He paused to sip his drink, said, "When they do, they'll have to work out an avenue of approach. And when they've done that, they'll try to negotiate some sort of settlement. Mind you, their negotiations can be-well, rather rough, but it would hardly be to their interest to murder you."
"Then why...? " she said, puzzled.
"Why the gun?" he countered. A pause, then, when he had remarshaled his thoughts, "Have you forgotten the man or woman or whatever in the big dark car, the person who almost certainly murdered Gerry Mann in your driveway and damn near hit your car?"
"Oh..." Incredibly, she had put the ugly incident into the back of her mind in the rush of subsequent events that had brought her here, to Lem Weldon's Beacon Hill hideaway with this stranger who seemed to wear an aura of importance and competence. This man Lem Weldon obviously trusted, this man with a loaded gun who masturbated on his host's bed.
He put down his glass, nearly empty, and changed the subject, saying, "Phyllis, I don't wish to alarm you any more than I can help-but if-mind you, this is wholly hypothetical-if anything should happen to you, who would inherit your estate?"
It was another blank-spot bull's-eye. Before he flew to Vietnam, she and Pres had drawn up identical wills, each leaving everything to the other. When news of his fatal jungle crash had reached her, Phyllis had refused to accept it, hoping against hope that, somehow, eventually he would turn up safe and sound. By the time the word was final, and she had inherited the modest small estate and war widow's pension that were rightfully hers, she had still held out silent hope for his return.
She had never drawn up another will ... after all, there had been no reason to. Apart from Freddy the Freeloader, there had been no one close to her, at least not close enough to merit consideration after her death. And Freddy...
Phyllis said, "I suppose it would go to somebody in Pres's family ... if any of them are still alive. He had no brothers or sisters and his father and mother are dead. Some cousin or cousins, maybe. Why?"
"Just groping," said Tim Buckley, but his expression suggested his question had been asked for some far more explicit reason. "Still, it might be interesting to find out just who would inherit if it should happen."
"I hardly think it would be any member of Sal Carini's family." She uttered the words with a smile, hoping to lighten the conversation.
It didn't work. Tim Buckley said, "The first thing I'm going to ask Lem to do is to draw up a new will for you. You might be considering whom you would like to leave anything to in the meantime."
"Oh, dear!" she said. Then, noting that his glass, like hers, was empty. "How about another drink?"
That did the trick. By the time he returned with the fresh glasses, the topic was closed. He said, "I took a look in Lem's fridge and freezer just now. He's got a damned good-looking turkey breast. How about we have it for dinner?"
"I'm a perfectly lousy cook," she confessed. "Eggs and bacon are about my limit."
"Who said anything about you cooking it? I'll take care of it. I have it soaking in hot water in the sink to speed the thawing-out process. For some reason, you can cook frozen meat, but not frozen poultry."
She recalled the breakfast Lem Weldon had prepared that morning, said, "Lem's a marvelous cook, too."
"I'm not in his class," said Tim Buckley. "Lem could show Julia Child and the Galloping Gourmet a few tricks they never heard of."
"How come so many men are doing the cooking?" she mused.
"Self-defense against women's cooking and the ever ready frozen TV dinner," he replied. Then, switching subjects again, "Let's just take it easy and talk and get acquainted. Me, I'm thirty-six, was born and raised in Manhattan, graduated from Williams College and did a hitch as a Marine fighter pilot in early Vietnam."
"Oh!" Phyllis was startled. "Did you by any chance--? "
He shook his homely-attractive head, said, "No, I didn't run into your late husband. In fact, I never knew either of you existed until..."
It was his turn to let an expressed thought hang unfinished. Phyllis said, "Until when?"
"Until quite recently," He had, she decided, a most annoying way of closing subjects with the finality of a man slamming a door.
He said, looking at the expensive watch on his left wrist, "It's getting close to five o'clock. Let's see if we can pick up some news on TV."
Evidently, Phyllis decided, as he turned in the set to the NBT program, Tim Buckley had made himself as well acquainted to her as he intended to, at least at the moment. There was mention of her early in the program. From somewhere they had dug up a frightful snapshot of her, taken years before at a party, which was displayed on the screen. The announcer cited her again as a "mystery heiress to a great gang fortune," then went on to say that she was in seclusion under the aegis of Lem Weldon. There was almost as much said about Lem and his distinguished record as about the late Boston gang leader and the impact of his death upon the underworld of the city.
The murder of Gerry Mann got the big play, however, and there was open speculation as to what, if any, connections existed between the late Kitteridge restaurant owner and the local Mafia-if any.
"Good lord!" said Phyllis when he switched it off. "You don't suppose Gerry..."
"At this point, I'm supposing nothing," said Tim Buckley. "However, I must say such a connection seems damned unlikely. I only wish it turned out to be for real."
"Why?"
"Because it might give us a clue to whom we're dealing with, and why," he replied. "Oh, to hell with that. Tell me something about yourself. Judging from that picture they just showed, you must have been an ugly duckling as a girl who had to grow up into a swan."
"I was not!" she replied with a vehemence that surprised her. Everyone had always told her she was a most attractive young girl. It had been a thing taken for granted by her parents, teachers, and friends. So why, she wondered, should she get so hot about it.
Before she realized that Tim Buckley had punctured the hide of her ego with the question, she found herself talking to him far more freely than she had intended. Although she was aware of the fact, she could not stop herself once she got started. She told him a great deal about her childhood, her schooling, her brief attempt to launch a career as an actress, her meeting with Pres and her marriage.
Especially her marriage. For some reason, Tim-she no longer thought of him by his full name under the pressure of their enforced intimacy-was apparently interested in Pres. He kept leading her back to discussion of his personality, his behavior patterns under all sorts of conditions. He did it subtly, letting the conversation wander at times for as long as twenty minutes.
But somehow it always got back to Pres. Phyllis realized what he was doing although she had not the slightest understanding of why. But she could not help talking, talking, talking. Perhaps, she thought a trifle wildly, her loquacity was the result of her having kept such subjects under verbal lock and key for so long. Under the pressure of recent sudden events, plus Tim's astute drawing out, she felt helpless.
Meanwhile, they had another couple of drinks, though much more slowly, and from time to time he adjourned to the kitchen, where his preparation of their dinner took its course. From the aroma, it was going to be delicious and she felt hunger signals in the hollow of her stomach. Tim Buckley, whoever he was she decided, was quite a fellow...
He had roasted the five-pound half breast of turkey in soy sauce and wine and larded it with extra-thick bacon, garnishing it with whole mushrooms. With it went tiny baked Bermuda potatoes in their skins, light as puffballs and a lot more succulent, plush thick frozen asparagus in melted unsalted butter-also a fine bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon rustled from Lem Weldon's wine locker.
"You know-you're something else," she confessed when they were finished. "There's one thing that mystifies me."
"Which is...? " His eyes were wary.
"Surely a man like you has no trouble finding women. So why should you do what I saw you doing in the bedroom this afternoon?"
There-it was out, the question that had been furrowing the back of her mind like a disk harrow. She looked at him defiantly, more than half expecting him to explode in anger at her temerity. But he did nothing of the sort.
Instead, with a dry smile, he said, "I presume you're speaking of what I was doing the first time you saw me in the mirror, not the second." And, at her nod, "Phyllis, I'm not going to deny that I'm embarrassed, but I'm damned if I know why I should be. And I'm not going to regale you with the story of my thousands of conquests of your superior sex, or vice versa. I mean, who wants conquest when cooperation is the goal?"
"You're beating around the bush," said Phyllis, appalled at her own temerity.
"It's very simple. I'm a man who loves sex and women. I need both and, dammit, I usually manage to find both available. But I've been plane-hopping for the past eight days, living in hotels and motels where I'm not known, and besides there hasn't been time. I needed relief, and when I found myself alone here, I took it in the quickest and simplest way. I had not the slightest idea you were going to wander in unannounced. Does that satisfy you?"
"All but one thing..." Where, she wondered, was she finding the nerve to question him like this? "Why should it be so difficult for you to get women in a strange town when all you have to do is ask a hotel desk clerk or a bell captain?"
"Because I don't enjoy whores," he replied. "No, it's not a moral scruple but an ego trip. I've always figured that if no woman-likes me well enough to grant me her affection, I simply don't rate it. And I do without."
"But not for long, I'll bet," she replied.
"That," he told her, "is neither here nor there nor any of your business."
It was impasse time, broken by the ring of the telephone, which Tim Buckley answered. Lem Weldon was on the line. Tim chatted with him laconically, told him about the will, then handed Phyllis the phone, saying, "He wants to talk to you about something."
After an exchange of greetings, the attorney said, "I want you to tell me if you ever heard of a woman named Gina de Brett?"
"The answer is no, Lem," she replied. "Why? Should I have?"
"No special reason. I just wondered if you ever heard your husband mention her. But Phyllis..." his tone grew deeper, more serious..."I want you and Tim to stay buttoned down tight. I've already told him. I expect you to cooperate. I know it's a great deal to ask of you, but believe me it's imperative. I'll be by tomorrow morning with your stuff. I wanted to make it today, but it proved impossible. Do you realize your life is incredibly complicated, young woman?"
"I'm beginning to think so," said Phyllis.
That was that ... and all at once she felt unbearably sleepy. The fine food and drink, coming on top of two days and a night without sleep, had done her in. She told Tim she was going to take a hot bath and turn in. He said he'd get his suitcase out of the bedroom and bring it in here. He was going to sleep on the sofa.
When she came out of the bath, wearing one of Lem Weldon's much too big for her robes, she discovered the bed had been opened and a large masculine pajama top laid out on it. Phyllis was touched. She called her thanks and said good night to Tim, who replied with a simple, "Sweet dreams." She was asleep almost before she could close her eyes . ...
When she woke up, it was as a result of a highly curious dream, one that seemed to cut through her sleep-cushioned fatigue like a laser beam. It was a dream of a man who looked very much like a blend of Lem Weldon and Tim Buckley. The faces seemed to waver and vary, now more closely resembling one man, then resembling the other, then blurring into an amalgam of them both. This dual personality created out of her subconscious was lying on its back in a strange four-poster bed whose posts were composed of huge pistol barrels, whose rollers were shaped like immense sets of masculine testicles.
As she watched, the pajamas covering the Weldon-Buckley figure seemed to shred away as if eaten by acid-and when they had vanished, she was looking at Tim's body and no mistake about it. She could tell by the stiff, thick prick that rose upward from Its loins, large as the pistol-posts of the bed.
Its owner looked up at her as she hovered over him and said, "It hasn't had a nice juicy cunt in mine whole nights and it's starving to death."
Phyllis heard, or thought herself hear, her own voice saying, "But it doesn't look hungry."
"But it is," was Tim's reply. "Try it and see for yourself."
She did not hesitate but put it to the proof, setting herself atop his loins and sliding Tim's sex-starved phallus into a receptacle that proved unexpectedly ready and moist.
That was when she woke up-to find herself actually riding the cock of an astonished Tim Buckley on the living room sofa of Lem Wel-don's Beacon Hill hideout.
For a few confused seconds, Phyllis was neither asleep nor awake-and before she emerged from that half world, her body had taken charge and her powers of control were utterly lost. There was one moment, as she came fully aware of what was happening, when Phyllis might have reclaimed some shreds of her sense of propriety and put a stop to the wanton proceedings ... she managed to halt the rotations of her pelvis and remain perfectly still while she struggled with the rapidly rising voluptuous sensations that were rapidly taking over her body and brain.
But at that moment, Tim Buckley, who was apparently at least as caught off guard as she, came fully awake and took charge. His strong hands slid up her thighs under the too big pa-jama top that was her sole garment, caressed the curves of her buttocks with an intimate understanding that caused her to tremble all over.
Then, pulling them wide apart, he thrust upward, impaling her to the very heart of her shuddering body with a fine, full, thick, above all rigid, male organ, whose like she had not enjoyed since her last bout with Pres. Maintaining his grip on her bottom, he put it into a series of up and down motions with which she was forced to cooperate, adding slight circular corkscrew motions with which his body complied.
"Oh, my God ... I" she gasped as her control flew to the winds and the sweet madness she had not happily fallen prey to for so many years took full possession of her.
Where being fucked by Freddy the Freeloader was a sparse, pathetically thin experience, an experience that left her unfulfilled and unsatisfied from the first entrance of his medium-length, needle-thick prick to the wee spurt of diluted sperm into her passage that concluded it-being fucked by Tim Buckley was being fucked by a man not only well equipped for the task but one who loved the work passionately and who possessed the experience and lack of inhibitions to make the most of it.
It took him less than a single minute to send her spinning off into sweet outer space with his rigid pillar plunging in and out of her soft re-ceptiveness with a steady, irresistible driving beat that was varied at irregular intervals by something unexpected, whose surprise sufficed to maintain her at a seemingly permanent high plateau between the ever narrowing peaks of rapture that turned the whole world to gold.
Phyllis had virtually forgotten how wonderful being fucked could be and her thirst for renewal of this most delicious and fulfilling of human acts was such that she seemed unable to get enough of it. She felt the explosive eruption of his puree-thick semen inside her and put her bottom into even higher gear, desperately seeking to avoid the ensuing subsidence of virility that invariably followed Freddy's comings, as it had those of Pres.
But this-this literally dream lover become heavenly reality, merely laughed low in his throat, a laugh of delight that was close to an animal growl, and proceeded to continue plumbing her innermost depths with an unflagging probe until she realized that here was a man who could maintain his prowess through two orgasms without a break.
As if from afar off, she heard herself cry softly, "Thank heaven ... Oh, thank heaven!"