She got one arm out of the sleeve and tried to pull her dress back up, but as she did so I pulled the other arm free, then caught both wrists in one hand, put the other around her waist, and lifted her off the floor. When I shook her a little, still chuckling, the dress and bra slid off her and fell to the floor, and I swung her in the air and caught her, an arm around her shoulders, the other under her knees, and chuckling inanely, toted her over to the bed. She had begun a silent battle, in deadly earnest, to retain the little yellow matching panties, and finally I took pity on her and groaned as hollowly as I could and toppled heavily across her, my chest across her sturdy agitated thighs.
She was breathing hard. She pushed at me. “Hey! Wake up!” I did not move. She caught a fold of flesh on the side of my throat under the ear and gave a painful, twisting pinch. Then she pulled my hand toward her and put her fingertips on my pulse. Satisfied, she pushed at me and wormed her legs out from under me. She grunted with the effort. I kept my eyes closed. The bed shifted as she got off it. In a few moments I heard the little clicking snap of the bra catch and soon the almost inaudible purr of the nylon zipper, the rezipping divided into three segments, as it was hard to reach. Then a faint thudding of her footsteps became audible and I knew she had put her shoes back on.
She picked up the phone on the bedside stand and dialed for an outside line. She dialed a number. She waited a few moments, then said, “Okay,” and hung up. Clack of her lighter. Huff of exhalation. Smell of cigarette. I identified the next move as her unlatching the door, probably to leave it ajar for whoever had the word that things were now okay in 109. The edge of the bed had caught me across the lower belly. My toes rested on the rug.
“Come on!” she whispered. “Come on, Rick darling.”
Make it six or seven minutes from phone call to arrival. Male voice, after the door was gently closed. “Everything okay, honey?”
“No problems.” ,
“Nice work. I hated the idea of you coming to his room. I was afraid maybe he’d decide he didn’t want a drink, and then he’s such a big, rough-looking son of a bitch, I was afraid–”
“Just like I hate the idea of your sleeping with your dear wife Janice every damned night, darling?” Her voice was bitter.
“And you know why it has to be that way.”
“Do I?”
“No time to open the same damned old can of worms, Penny. Let’s see if we’re going to do any good.”
He took me by the belt and pulled me back off the bed. I let myself tumble, completely slack. I ended up on my side, knees bent, cheek against the bristle of the rug. He pulled at my shoulder and I rolled slowly onto my back. He rolled me another half turn, face down, and I felt him work the wallet out of my hip pocket, heard the distinctive sound as he sat on the bed. Sizable, I guessed. Young voice. Physically powerful.
“Anything?” she asked.
“Not in this. Pockets of his jacket?”
“Just this stuff. Nothing.”
“I better check the side pockets of his pants.”
“Would there be anything in… in the lining of anything, or in his shoes?”
“I don’t know. I’ll check it if we draw a blank. The thing that bothers me is that this son of a bitch doesn’t have enough on him.”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“The average guy has pieces of paper on him. Notebook, notes, addresses, letters, junk like that. McGee here has got car rental papers, a plane ticket to Lauderdale, keys, drivers license, and a half dozen credit cards and… a little over eight hundred in cash. Here. Take these two fifties.”
“I don’t want the money!”
“We want him to think he had a ball. Here, dammit!”