Chapter Twenty
“It's just a public domain data base in a snazzy wrapper? Is that what you're saying?” Shelly Burningbush asked Gantry.
“I think so. You'll have to ask Tom. I'm no programmer.”
She didn't need to ask. Tom explained, “It's based on SQL, a database invented by IBM. We use Ingres, a free version developed at Berkeley. There are some other free ones around, but we could hire guys familiar with Ingres, so that's what we use. The front end isn't so trivial that you could call it a wrapper, but you have the concept right.”
“What's to stop somebody from ripping off your idea?”
“Not much, except it would cost more to develop a clone that it would to buy our program. I believe we have some copyright protection, but I don't know much about the legal questions. How's the work coming?”
“It's great and I need the money. I want to go to Europe in the fall,” Shelly explained.
At one o'clock, Shelly broke for lunch and went outside. The neighborhood wasn't inviting, but it was safe and the weather was good. She waited until she was a block and a half from the warehouse to telephone her mentor.
“I think you could steal the whole thing, Tin Man. Use some students to reverse engineer the front end. Decompile the C++, switch a few cosmetics, and you could offer a competitive product.”
“You make it sound so easy. Did you have to sign a confidentiality agreement?
“No sweat, Tin Man. I'll be long gone before Tom or his people figure out what happened.”
“Shelly, will I see you tonight?”
“Sure, how about the afternoon. Around four? I want to get to sleep early.”
“I'd like it if you would call me Tindall instead of Tin Man.”
“Tin Doll? You think that's better? Did you get the vasectomy yet?” Shelly prodded, already knowing the answer was no.
Birth control was sore point with Tin Man. He couldn't come wearing a condom and Shelly hated the pill. It made her nauseous. IUDs gave her a rash. Some internal physical contour made a diaphragm unreliable. She wanted Tin man to get a vasectomy, but he got queasy at the thought of getting cut - queasy to the point of impotence whenever she brought up the subject; and it seemed that she brought it up a lot.
He also didn't like the spermicide that Shelly made him apply to her. More than once Shelly had insisted on oral sex after he had applied the spermicide. Eating that stuff gave him the feeling that he was killing his balls slowly, through his stomach. He had a dream in which his balls turned black and just fell off. When he told her, Shelly laughed and made fun of him. All she had to do was ask “Did you check your balls today? Are they black yet?” It was another way she had of killing his erection. Still, Tin Man couldn't resist her; her abuse only increased his need. He put up with the diaphragm, the gel, and the douche impedimenta she carried everywhere in an enormous purse.
It had started innocently enough, a straightforward transaction between practical people. He needed a fuck and Shelly needed an A. This year she was on her third course with him and expecting her third A. Three was all he taught; so they both knew this semester was the end of their arrangement. There was an edge of desperation in Tin Man's pursuit because with the relentless advance of age he was losing confidence in his appeal.
Shelly returned to her desk and Tom apologized to her. “I'm sorry about these etchings; I couldn't talk Brent out of doing them. Lisette has divided them up so we all get a share. Boring I know, but we need to plow through them.”
Shelly nodded and issued an indifferent “No problem.” So cute; so dumb, she thought. His hands are great looking, though. I'd rather feel him on me than Tin Man. She squeezed her legs together and felt a slight dampness. She laughed to herself. I'm leaky as a sieve. Yes, I'd let him even if he is a fag. I wonder if he'd want to … It wouldn't hurt to find out.
“Tom, what about this one? It's damaged. How do we note the condition?” As Tom bent over the description, she let her shoulders slump, which would allow him to look down her blouse, if he wanted to. He looked, looked away, and then looked back. Gotcha, Shelly thought.
Debbie was enjoying Al's attention. She usually liked very gentle sex, hints of touches, soft pressures, kisses here and there, no penetration, lots of emotion. Tonight, however, she felt a greater need and demonstrated her need to her partner.
“Wow!” Al sighed. “What's got into you tonight?”
“More like what got into me the other day?”
“Did you come when Mike …?” Al couldn't bring herself to complete the question.
“No, of course not. It was nice, though. Maybe it was the novelty. The naughtiness. He was very gentle and quick about it.”
“Did he remind you of your husband?”
“Oh, God, no. That's like asking if he raped me. Mike did what he needed to do; he knew I wasn't into the sex part. But I think he would enjoy a girl if he met the right one.”
“Did he use his cock to stroke you like this?” Al licked Debbie's blossoming labia. “I gotta say, I liked it when guys did that. Just rubbed against me, rubbed it in a little. So few ever did, though.” Al resumed her teasing licks and soon Debbie came the first time.
“Mike was nothing like that,” Debbie sighed. “But it worked, Al. I'm pregnant. I don't know if it was the first time or the second, but it worked. We're going to have a baby,” Debbie said, scarcely believing it herself.
“I can't wait,” Al said. “I swear your breasts are already fuller. You'll be a great mother. It's just … I'm not so sure about myself.”
Debbie turned to action and drove Al to a wracking orgasm with her hands. “You get so wet. Your amazing, Al. You are going to be a great mother, too. No doubt about it. I've seen you with kids.”
“Debbie, the thing is … You and Mike actually did it - twice. You created a baby the good old fashioned way. I'm feeling a little left out. It's psychological, I guess, but still ...”
“Think about this. There was no second time. Mike wasn't there. He left a vial of sperm for me. It could have been the turkey baster after all.”
“Turkey baster! You didn't really ...”
“No, of course not. I used a syringe. The only thing Mike had to do with it was supply the fluid and the bed. I thought about you when I did it. Actually Matt was there, sitting right outside the bedroom in the kitchen. That took any possible romance out of it.”
“But I thought Mike insisted on doing it the normal way?”
“After the first time, when he saw how clinical it was, he agreed to masturbate for the follow-up. The funny part was Matt really hated seeing his brother's sperm in the refrigerator. He said it creeped him out. Guys are so strange. And we're supposed to be drama queens.”
“No second time. Why didn't you tell me then?”
“I'm telling you now. Isn't that good enough?”
Al thought it over and hugged Debbie. “Yes, it's good enough. And you're right. Guys are sooooooo strange. And Ann is still determined to marry one ... after all you've told her.”
It was 4:09 P.M. and Tin Man was grinding away on top of Shelly without much result. Distracted, he wondered how such a young girl could have such a voluminous vagina. It seemed to have no bottom and no sides. There was no perceivable friction, just a kind of slurping noise. For the first time in his life, he gave up.
“Are you done? Because I need to do my nails,” Shelly explained as she dashed for her douche bag. She waved the douche gear at him. “Don’t want any Little Tin Men surviving.”
“Shelly, my name is Tindall. Please?”
“Don’t want any Little Tin Dolls surviving,” Shelly called musically as the toilet flushed.
“Shelly, you use three kinds of birth control. Killing the sperm now is almost sadistic.” Tindall reflected that there weren’t any sperm to kill. It was his erection she was killing. After the internal cleansing, she took a shower and dried her hair with something that sounded like a jet engine. Tindall concentrated on his first wife and was barely able to finish jacking off before she emerged from the bathroom looking refreshed and relaxed.
“Tin Doll, you look like shit,” she exclaimed. It may have been the first time since she was a sophomore that she paid any visual attention to the sweating man who was still breathing heavily and wondering where to wipe off his hand. “Have you seen a doctor recently? No? Maybe you should.”
When Tindall returned from the bathroom, she was sitting buffing her nails and admiring the luster. “So, Tin Doll, as I told you, I want a contract.” She glanced sharply at him. “I’m serious. I want it in writing – what I get out of the software deal. It was my idea. I took the risk copying the program. All you have to do is give some comp sci students an A in their humanity course to convert the program to the new BAS format.”
“BAS?” Tindall was lost.
“Burningbush Arnstein Software. I thought that had a nice sound.” She began applying a fresh coat of lacquer to her right thumbnail. “I want a garanteed minimum, a cut of the gross, and stock, Tin Doll. A lot of stock.”
Tindall finished dressing and watched Shelly waving her hands to dry them. She is pretty, he thought, in a youthful way. It won’t last, but, for now, the fetching Ms. Burningbush is hot. “I hope this is as easy as you predict, Shelly. I have a lot more to lose than you.”
“Aw, I can help. Do you want a blow job?” Careful of the new polish, she ran a finger down his zipper.
“Now? Now?” Tindall backed away. “I have class in a half hour.”
Shelly looked hurt at the refusal, but she knew his schedule by heart.
Lucky met Miriam in the parking lot of the garage. He carried the beer up the outside stairs and she helped with the strawberry pie. “You got this at the Watergate Pastry? Wow! I’ve heard so much about it. Lucky us!”
“No, I’m Lucky. You’re Miriam.”
“No, I mean …”
“I know what you meant. My name is Lucky. Actually, my name is Leighton Leavitt. But call me …”
“I’m Miriam; you’re cute,” Miriam joked back.
I’m not cute; I’m charmed,” Lucky answered, looking into her sparkling brown eyes.
“You two are off on the right foot. Let me help with the beer,” Al said, effortlessly taking the top case of the two Lucky was carrying.
“Lucky,” Tom called out. “You remember everybody? Ann. Debbie. Matt and Rawson. Mike, our most excellent chef.”
After hellos, Tom moved things along. “Miri, maybe Lucky should see the apartment before it gets too dark.”
Lucky left the choice up to Miriam, kidding Tom, “You can tell he works on a deadline.”
Tom shrugged his agreement but Miriam agreed. Ann said she was curious and asked to come along. The thought that the baby would crowd Apartment D had crossed her mind; and C, next door, might be just the place for her.
Miriam who had the key led the small procession up the stairs and opened C. They all trooped into the dark room. The only light came from the edges of the shades that effectively covered the windows. “Maybe there is a overhead light,” Miriam proposed as she looked along the wall near the door. “Here it is.” Click.
“Oh my GOD!” came from Miriam. “Vroom, vroom!,” was Tom’s comment. Ann was silent.
“It’s breathtaking. It’s absolutely … The colors. The dynamics. I’m calling Brent right now. He’s got to see it.” Lucky fumbled with his phone and dropped it in his excitement.
Every inch of the walls was covered with painting that must have required years of effort.. The entire room was a mural, a panorama of human motivations. Whether you chose to see virtues or vices depended on individual reactions; and they varied.
“It’s terrifying,” Ann finally said.
“What about the other rooms, do you think?” Miriam walked into a bedroom. “It’s here too.”
“Charles, it’s Lucky. Is Brent there? Damn. Does he have his phone with him? Damn. Why doesn’t he carry a phone? Tell him to call me please. I’m at Tom’s … For dinner! What else! … I’ve found something Brent’s got to see. What? Wait.” Lucky asked, “Could Charles and Brent come to dinner? Charles has already made a salad and he can bring some shrimp.”
Tom said, “Why not? Sure.” Ann nodded her agreement.
“Yes, bring it. Bring anything. Bring your cute ass, Charles. Just hurry before the sun goes down.” Lucky stuffed the phone in his pocket and was enthralled with the apartment. “Even the bathroom is awesome. Look at this. It’s obscene, I guess, but my God …”
Miriam was on her phone, too. “Hello, Mrs. Merridell? This is Miriam, with Continental Management. I’m at the Macomb Street house. We’ve opened Apartment C in the garage and it’s all murals. Quite amazing. Yes? Yes? I see… Yes. The prospective tenant is from the Smithsonian and he’s very interested. Ok. Yes. Thank you.” Miriam found Lucky in a second bedroom marveling at its ceiling. “Lucky, I’m afraid the owner thinks we shouldn’t rent the apartment.”
“No, no, of course not. These rooms should be a museum.” He thought of James Whistler's Peacock Room, moved into the Freer piece by piece. “Or maybe IN a museum.”
“Mrs. Merridell said that her family - who own it … there was a brother, a crazy brother, I guess, who lived in the garage and did the painting. I shouldn’t call him crazy. Mrs. Merridell called him ‘difficult and hard to manage’. Her father sealed the apartment and refused to discuss it. That’s all Mrs. Merridell knows.”
Lucky was beside himself. “This is amazing … unbelievable …” He kept walking nervously from room to room unable to look at anything very long. “This mimics every painting style I know and I don’t know them all. And the artist does it so well … He’s like a master of everything!”
“Glad you came?” Tom asked and was astonished to get a hug in return.
“Glad? This is what every curator dreams of. It’s like opening King Tut’s Tomb! Finding the Rosetta Stone! Making love in the moonlight!” Lucky lay on the floor of the bedroom and contemplated the ceiling again from a new angle. He sighed, “Ok, maybe not that last one. But amazing … nothing like anything I’ve ever done before. Or seen before.”
Tom joined him on the floor. “You two are going to get filthy. There must be twenty years of dust in here,” Miriam cautioned.
The ceiling scene was in vivid colors and looked somehow familiar. “It’s like the Sistine Chapel. But more earthy,” Lucky opined.
“Look at those two,” Tom pointed to a corner of the room. “You think …?”
“Oh, yes, they are!” Lucky laughed. “The one with the big dick looks like you.”
“Lucky! Jeez …” Tom was red-faced and shot a glance at Miriam who was pretending she hadn’t heard anything.
Lucky counted a dozen couples on the ceiling demonstrating a dozen different ways to enjoy a comfortable bedroom. “It’s not pornographic. It’s joyful, saying that great sex is a human right. Yes?” Lucky looked at Tom and then at Miriam.
“I’m no judge,” said Miriam.
Tom said nothing at first; he just looked from couple to couple. “You’re right. Great sex should be in the Bill of Rights.” Tom added, “I just cataloged a drawing of the Bill of Rights.”
Lucky laughed again. “That warehouse is full of crap.”
“It’s funny you said that guy looks like me. I can see lots of my friends in these people. They don’t actually look like my friends, but they look like the spirit of my friends.”
“Yes, I get that. To the right of center, that rapturous woman, she reminds me of Gantry. Not that I ever made her look that way … I usually produce that result.” Lucky pointed to a laughing woman looking at a proud man showing off his moderately small genitals.
“That couple … I think the artist was in love with both of them.”
“A ménage a tois? I’ve never believed that was really possible. Sex with three, ok; but not love with three,” Lucky said.
“It’s possible,” Tom said. “It just doesn’t last very long.”
Lucky was struck by Tom’s comment and sensed immediately that Tom spoke from experience. He looked at Tom lying on the floor with dust balls stuck in his hair, seeing his smiling face caught in the odd light from the ceiling fixture, seeing at once the little boy Tom had been, the man he was, and the hurt he had experienced along the way.
“What?” Tom asked turning to Lucky, breaking the spell.
“No wonder Alistair drew that picture of you,” was what Lucky wanted to say. “Nothing,” was what he said. “I wonder if Brent’s on his way yet.” He got up and redialed Brent’ number. There was no answer.
Tom got up and brushed off the dirt of the floor. Lucky turned away and said, “I’m going to wait for Brent in the parking lot.”
At the bottom of the steps Lucky met the rest of the party about to enter for their own look at the paintings. He took some deep breaths of the fresh outside air; the atmosphere of the apartment had been almost smothering. His vision of Tom competed with his vision of the vast painting.
Charles was driving and parked Brent’s car a distance away from the garage. Lucky hurried over to them and opened the door for Brent.
“Brent, you won’t believe what I’ve found. It’s an entire apartment of murals that defy description. Well, that’s not true. Defy easy description, I mean, although it might take a book to cover the whole …”
“Lucky, I’ve never seen you so excited.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been this excited. I’ll shut up and let you see for yourself.”
“Bring my cute ass?” Charles queried, breaking the silence.
“What would you call it?” Lucky answered genially.
“He thinks you don’t like him,” Brent commented.
“He’s right here listening,” Charles reminded.
“He’s wrong,” Lucky announced with finality.
They climbed the stairs and Brent became as excited as Lucky had been.
Phil awoke in a strange bed in a strange room. He sat up startled and bewildered, looking around in the dim light for anything recognizable. He saw the outline of a lamp on the table next to the bed and groped for the switch. The sudden light was momentarily blinding and then an austerely furnished room came into focus.
“You awake?” Serge asked. His voice came from the twin bed a few feet away.
“Where are we? I don’t remember anything. The last thing I remember was …”
“Take it easy. You’re fine. If you're groggy … I gave you a pill.”
“Wait. I remember …” Phil’s eyes widened. He pulled the sheet up to his chin and moved to the corner of the bed, leaning against the wall. “It was when we tried … The blades … hooks… my God, what was it!” Phil’s terror grew with his recollection.
Serge quickly moved to Phil’s bed and forcibly, at first, comforted him. “It’s ok. You’re safe. It’s over.” The terror never left Phil’s eyes.
“This is my room. Nothing can hurt you here.” Serge felt Phil tremble in his arms. He kissed the special spot on his left cheek; but still Phil shook.
“Serge…”
Serge held him tighter and kissed him again, soothing as best he could. “Where to start? My name is Alexander Sergeyevitch Markov. Alex, if you want. Sasha, if you want.”
“You’re a Russian spy. I know. I followed you …”
“I’m Russian, but I’m not a spy. I’m sort of a policeman. And I let you follow me.” Sasha kissed that spot again. “You’re in my room on the embassy compound.”
“Serge … that … that thing.”
“Alexander, you mean. That thing was something, huh?” The kiss was on Phil’s lips this time.
“We almost … it would have …”
“Yes, if it didn’t kill us, it sure would have made hamburger out of us.”
“Ser … Sasha, your English, it’s like 99% perfect. How ...”
“My father was posted in Chicago for five years when I was a kid and I’m pretty good at languages anyway.” Another kiss, sexless but comforting.
“We almost … You were about to …”
“Stuff a bomb up my ass?”
“Not funny. Yes.”
“A little adventure, Phil. We rob an apartment a couple of times. Almost get caught …”
“I saved your ass when you slipped on the stairs! You’re a terrible spy.”
Sasha laughed, relieved that Phil's panic had passed. “I’m NOT a spy. They don’t even live in this building. I’m a special agent of the Russian customs office.”
“Customs? How would they…?”
“Art, Artem Kos, if you want his real name, was suspected of stealing miniature transceivers and selling them to Iran via some Russian intermediaries. I was getting to know Art when you came along.”
“So my guitar triggered …that thing … ”
“Your D minor chord triggered the
dildo to extend the blades and the hooks – they were just fish hooks; and …”
“God, don’t talk about it so casually. It would have, it could have killed you.”
“I shouldn’t have involved you. I could have done it alone.” Sasha kissed Phil again, with more passion this time.
“No, you couldn’t have. There were a couple things you needed me for. Like figuring out how the bench worked. And then there was that double-ended friend of ours. And …and you have a hard on.” Phil confirmed by touching of Sasha’s underwear. “You’re straight, you said. You better tell me about that, Alexander Sergeyevitch Mar- what?”
“Markov. I don't know what to tell you. I've never had a lover before.”
“We've only made love a couple times.”
“More than that. Like right now. I'm holding you, I can kiss you if I want, I can kiss that special spot you like. We can talk about anything. I think this is making love.”
“It's not a special spot. I made that up.”
“Now it is. It's special to me.” Alexander kissed him again on his left cheek. They stayed close, touching cheeks. Phil initiated the passionate kiss and Alexander responded.
“Wait!” Phil stopped as Alexander reached into his underwear. “This is your room. Are we being monitored?”
“Maybe. Probably.”
“Monitored?!? Voice? Video?”
“You get used to it. No secrets is liberating in its own way. Now let's make love the way you think of it, Philip Son-of-John Scott.”
"You know my father's name?"
"And your mother's. And your dog's. And your College Board scores."
"I don't know anything about you, Alexander."
"Let me show you why the kids called me Speedy. Spread your legs a little more."
