o o o
We took the Packard down to hot sheet row on South La Brea. I drove, and Madeleine had the smarts not to talk until we passed a cinderblock auto court called the Red Arrow Inn. Then she said, “Here. It’s clean.”
I parked beside a line of pre-war jalopies; Madeleine went to the office and returned with the key to room eleven. She opened the door; I flicked on the wall light.
The flop was done up in dreary shades of brown and reeked of its previous inhabitants. I heard a dope sale being transacted in number twelve; Madeleine started to look like the caricature in her sister’s drawing. I reached for the light switch to blot it all out. She said, “No. Please, I want to see you.”
The narco sale burst into an argument. I saw a radio on the dresser and turned it on; an ad for Gorton’s Slenderline Shop ate up the angry words. Madeleine pulled off her sweater and removed her nylons standing up; she was down to her undergarments before I began fumbling at my clothes. I snagged the zipper stepping out of my trousers; I ripped a shirt seam unhitching my shoulder holster. Then Madeleine was naked on the bed–and the kid sister’s picture was obliterated.
I was nude inside of a second and joined with the brass girl inside of two. She muttered something like, “Don’t hate my family, they’re not bad,” and I silenced her with a hard kiss. She returned it; our lips and tongues played until we had to break for breath. I ran my hands down to her breasts, cupping and kneading; Madeleine gasped little words about making up for the other Spragues. The more I kissed and felt and tasted her and the more she loved it, the more she murmured about _them_–so I grabbed her hair and hissed, “Not them, _me_. Do _me_, be with _me_.”
Madeleine obeyed, going between my legs like a reverse of Martha’s drawing. Captured that way, I felt myself getting ready to burst. I pushed Madeleine away so as not to explode, whispering, “Me, not them,” stroking her hair, trying to concentrate on an inane radio jingle. Madeleine held me harder than any fight giveaway girl ever did; when I was cooled down and ready, I eased her onto her back and pushed myself inside her.
Now it was no common policeman and rich girl slut. It was us together, arching, shifting and moving, hard, but with all the time in the world. We moved together until the dance music and jingles ended and the radio dial tone came and went, the cinderblock rutting room silent except for us. Then we ended it–perfectly, together.
We held each other afterward, pockets of sweat binding us head to toe. I thought of going on duty in less than four hours and groaned; Madeleine broke our embrace and aped my trademark, flashing her perfect teeth. Laughing, I said, “Well, you kept your name out of the papers.”
“Until we announce the Bleichert-Sprague nuptials?”
I laughed harder. “Your mother would love that.”
“Mother’s a hypocrite. She takes pills that the doctor gives her, so she’s not a hophead. I fool around, so I’m a whore. She’s sanctioned, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. You’re my–” I couldn’t quite say, “whore.”
Madeleine tickled my ribs. “Say it. Don’t be a cop from squaresville. _Say it_.”
I grabbed her hand before the tickling made me helpless. “You’re my paramour, you’re my inamorata, you’re my sweetheart, you’re the woman I suppressed evidence for–”
Madeleine bit my shoulder and said, “I’m your whore.”
I laughed. “Okay, you’re my violator of 234-A PC.”
“What’s that?”
“The California penal code designation for prostitution.”
Madeleine waggled her eyebrows. “_Penal_ code?”
I put up my hands. “You got me there.”
The brass girl nuzzled me. “I like you, Bucky.”
“I like you, too.”
“You didn’t start out liking me. Tell true–at first you just wanted to screw me.”
“That’s true.”
“Then when did you start liking me?”
“The moment you took off your clothes.”
“Bastard! You want to know when I started liking you?”
“Tell true.”
“When I told Daddy I met this nice policeman Bucky Bleichert. Daddy’s jaw dropped. He was impressed, and Emmett McConville Sprague is a very hard man to impress.”