“It was okay; I did a little shopping.”
This was not the time to call her on her shopping addiction. “Dearest, I’m headed to a client meeting out of the office, and then I’m going to have to take him to dinner, so you’ll have to count me out for this evening. I’m sorry.”
There was a long, deadly silence. “Bernie,” she said, finally, “you’re fucking somebody.” It wasn’t a question.
“You’re absolutely right, dearest; I’m fucking the guy who’s suing my client. It’s what I do.”
“You’re out three or four nights a week, Bernie, and I know you too well not to think that you’re following your dick somewhere.”
“I’m just following the money, dearest, which is what keeps you in such style, isn’t it? If I were home for dinner every night, you’d have to close half a dozen charge accounts.” She thought in shopping terms; she’d understand that.
She sighed. “All right, but you remember that we have the theater tomorrow night. It’s a benefit performance for Beatrice’s charity, and there’s dinner to follow.
That means black tie and in the car at seven thirty.”
“I’ve already cleared the decks for that, dearest; I won’t disappoint you.” He certainly wouldn’t; that would create a marital nuclear event, whose shock wave would break windows in New Jersey. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come home.”
“You do that.” She hung up without saying good-bye.
He replaced the phone in its cradle, poured himself a short single-malt Scotch and tossed it down. He wanted his blood flowing freely by the time the elevator reached the penthouse and the lovely Marilyn.
16
Bob Cantor snapped to attention. He had been half dozing, but a movement on the terrace below had caught his eye.
One of the sliding glass doors had opened, and now a tall blonde, wearing a floor-length robe that appeared to be silk, swept onto the terrace. He recognized her immediately. It was Marilyn, the masseuse.
Marilyn set down a drink on a little table next to a double-width chaise longue, made a motion with her shoulders and the robe fell in a puddle at her feet, revealing a lithe, naked body with high-hung breasts. She pulled something from her hair and shook it loose.
Cantor grabbed the camera and sighted through the long lens. The low afternoon sunlight washed over her pale body, turning it gold, as he focused and fired off a couple of shots. He checked the screen on the back of the camera to be sure he had it right. He had it right. The girl was now rubbing some sort of lotion on her body, and Cantor was getting an erection.
Suddenly, Cantor’s erection wilted. Bernard Finger stepped out onto the terrace with a drink in his hand. He was stark naked, and it was not a pretty sight. Marilyn did not leap up to meet him but patted the other side of the chaise. Finger sat down, they clinked glasses and began to chat.
Marilyn was doing more than chatting. She had her hand in Finger’s lap and was kneading his genitals. Cantor clicked away. The lens was the perfect length; he might as well have been sitting next to them.
Marilyn rolled over and buried her face in Finger’s crotch, and his face took on an ecstatic grimace, which Cantor preserved in digital code. Then they changed positions, and Finger was doing the work in her lap. He was on his knees, his buttocks pointing to the sky. Cantor was almost as ecstatic as Finger. He continued photographing until both Marilyn and Finger had collapsed in a tangle of love.
Cantor took out a small laptop computer and the little portable color printer he traveled with, and, minutes later, he had a sheet of postage-stamp-sized prints, half a dozen enlargements and everything on a CD. He pulled out his cell phone and pressed a speed-dial number.
Up at the Post on the floor where the Page Six staff worked, a phone rang and a young man picked it up. “Page Six.”
“You know who this is, Henry?”
“Yeah, I know who it is.”
“I want you to do two things: I want you to go down to your cashier and draw ten grand in hundreds and fifties, then I want you to meet me at the bar across the street. You’ve got an hour, and if you don’t bring the money, I go elsewhere.”
“What could be that hot?”
“If you don’t think it’s hot enough, you don’t have to give me the ten grand. I’m not going to hit you over the head and take it.”
“Give me a hint.”
“How’s this for a hint: in flagrante delicto?”
“Who is?”
“Trust me, you’re going to love it.” The caller hung up.