Heather said, “I loved the disco, Rudy. It just about killed me when disco died.”
“I’m sorry I said anything.”
“You ever made love to disco music?”
Rudy thought: What is happening to my life?
“Do you have any Village People tapes?” Heather asked, giving him a quick saucy look over the shoulder. “There’s a song on their first album, I swear, I could fuck all night to it.”
Rudy Graveline was nothing if not resourceful. He found the Village People tape in the discount bin of an all-night record store across from the University of Miami campus in Coral Gables. He sped home, popped the cassette into the modular sound system, cranked up the woofers, and jogged up the spiral staircase to the bedroom.
Heather said, “Not here.” She took him by the hand and led him downstairs. “The fireplace,” she whispered.
“It’s seventy-eight degrees,” Rudy remarked, kicking off his underwear.
“It’s not the fire,” Heather said, “it’s the marble.”
One of the selling points of the big house was an oversized fireplace constructed of polished Italian marble. Fireplaces were considered a cozy novelty in South Florida, but Rudy had never used his, since he was afraid the expensive black marble would blister in the heat.
Heather crawled in and got on her back. She had the most amazing smile on her face. “Oh, Rudy, it’s so cold.” She lifted her buttocks off the marble and slapped them down; the squeak made her giggle.
Rudy stood there, naked and limp, staring like an idiot. “We could get hurt,” he said. He was thinking of what the marble would do to his elbows and kneecaps.
“Don’t be such a geezer,” Heather said, hoisting her hips and wiggling them in his face. She rolled over and pointed to
the twin smudges of condensation on the black stone. “Look,” she said. “Just like fingerprints.”
“Sort of,” Rudy Graveline mumbled.
She said, “I must be hot, huh?”
“I guess so,” Rudy said. His skull was ready to split; the voices of the Village People reverberated in the fireplace like mortar fire.
“Oh, God,” Heather moaned.
“What is it?” Rudy asked.
“The song. That’s my song.” She squeaked to her knees and seized him ferociously around the waist. “Come on down here,” she said. “Let’s dance.”
In order to prolong his tumescence, Dr. Rudy Graveline had trained himself to think of anything but sex while he was having sex. Most times he concentrated on his unit trusts and tax shelters, which were complicated enough to keep orgasm at bay for a good ten to fifteen minutes. Tonight, though, he concentrated on something different. Rudy Graveline was thinking of his daunting predicament—of Victoria Barletta and the upcoming television documentary about her death; of Mick Stranahan, still alive and menacing; of Maggie Gonzalez, spending his money somewhere in New York.
More often than not, Rudy found he could ruminate with startling clarity during the throes of sexual intercourse. He had arrived at many crucial life decisions in such moments—the clutter of the day and the pressure from his patients seemed to vanish in a crystal vacuum, a mystic physical void that permitted Rudy to concentrate on his problems in a new light and from a new angle.
And so it was that—even with Heather Chappell clawing his shoulders and screaming disco drivel into his ear, even with the flue vent clanging in the chimney above his head, and even with his knees grinding mercilessly on the cold Italian marble—Rudy was able to focus on the most important crisis of his life. Both pain and pleasure dissipated; it was as if he were alone, alert and sensitized, in a cool dark chamber. Rudy thought about everything that had happened so far, and then about what he must do now. It wasn’t a bad plan. There was, however, one loose end.
Rudy snapped out of his cognitive trance when Heather cried, “Enough already!”
“What?”
“I said you can stop now, okay? This isn’t a damn rodeo.” She was all out of breath. Her chest was slick with sweat.
Rudy quit moving.
“What were you thinking of?” Heather asked.
“Nothing.”
“Did you come?”
“Sure,” Rudy lied.
“You were thinking of some other girl, weren’t you?”