It was hard as a hammer and soft as satin. She gloried in its touch, burrowing under his waistband. He groaned into her mouth and brought his own hands down to lightly trace the roundness of her breasts, her nipples. They got hard and soft as well. He put them softly through their paces.
It was very important to get out of their clothes. The best thing about clothes was dispensing with them. She went for his belt first, unbuckling it with blind grace. He brought his hands down to her waistband and eased it toward her ankles. She lifted her hips in clear cooperation, waited for her jogging pants to disassociate with her completely. Then she deftly unsnapped and unzipped him, began to echo the gesture. When she got to his knees, he kicked his boots off, and the rest of the process went entirely unimpeded.
Next came the shirts. No problem at all. Neither Mona nor Billy were wearing a bra, which speeded things up considerably. Both of them were beginning to sweat. Neither of them minded. It gave them some juice to work with.
Billy's lips worked their way from her lips to her chin, her chin to her throat, her throat to her shoulder to her armpit to her nipple on the left-hand side. She let out little oooing sounds. They intensified as he moved to the right side of her bosom.
And then down.
And down.
And down.
There was a brief stretch, between the time when his lips reached her hot and nether to the point of first coming, where the bad times flickered across the private screening room of her mind. It was like reading road signs at ninety miles per hour. They didn't mean anything. They had nothing to do with the fact that he was driving her crazy with his fingers and lips and tongue, that her highly-trained body was helpless now to do anything but shudder and grind, that all of reality was funneling down to fingers and tongue and fingers and tongue and the warm wet beast of sweet thunder and fire that was being lured now, lured up from the depths within her, climbing up to meet and mate with his tongue, flood his mouth with cries of liquid ecstasy . . .
. . . and then she was coming, and the bad times were gone, the bad times had never existed, nothing existed outside the orgasmic reality of her flesh and his sweetly relentless technique that plied and probed and stroked every last gleeful secret of desire from her lips . . .
. . . and then the riding was ending, the long graceful segue back to earth and the hardwood floor, the muscles uncoiling, the tension hissing silently out of her like steam from a safety valve. Mona found that she'd recovered the power of speech, did not choose to exercise it yet. Billy was still easing her down, and she felt like she had time.
All the time in the world.
Then he stopped, looked up, and grinned at her across the solid plateau of her belly, meeting her gaze between the twin peaks of her breasts. "Mmmm," he said.
"You, my dear, give the best head in the universe."
"Look who's talking."
"Do I have to prove it?"
"I dare ya. I double-dare ya!"
"Just let me catch my breath . . ."
"Hey, don't worry. I'll catch it for ya." He crawled up over her and sealed her with a kiss. She could taste herself. The beast within her reawakened, crying Billy's name.
"Oh, baby," she said, drawing her lips away softly. "I don't know how I could ever have let you go."
"You had a little help."
"Yeah, but—"
"Forget it. It's over." He kissed her once, quickly, then pulled back, smiling. "I believe we have a serious competition going on."
"Oh, yeah." She slid out from under him and rolled him onto his back. "We're going into the top of the first inning in today's double-header," she droned in her best Joe Garagiola voice. He started to laugh, and that was when she got her lips around him.
"Oh!" he gasped. She could feel him tensing. "You're not doing anything to strengthen your case, you realize."
But Mona opted to continue speaking in tongues. It was the best, the most beautiful way of telling him how much she loved him, how happy she was that he was back, how proud of his return from the land of the lost.
And for a brief, puzzling second, she could have sworn that she heard his voice, inside her mind, whisper Mona, I love you, too.
FIFTEEN
PLAYING TO WIN
Five forty-five on an overcast Tuesday afternoon, and Billy was smiling. It had been a good day, in every respect. His cash intake had been phenomenal. He was slated for another late-night rendezvous with Mona. His playing had opened in top form and gone straight uphill from there. The response of the crowds had followed suit.
But the bottom line on his smile was control, pure and simple. For once, he mused, I feel like I've really got a handle on this. For once.
It had started around five-thirty this morning, just as the first faint tendrils of dawn were inching themselves across the sky. Billy had left Mona's, and their torrid reconciliation, with the promise of later and greater ground to be covered tonight. The walk down from Chelsea had been inspiring rather than tiring; something about the flavor of Manhattan at dawn filled him with a sense of imminent purpose. He felt like he'd gotten the drop on the town.
He'd hit Stanton Street, taken Bubba for a walk, and grabbed his gear. Then he'd hopped a cab down to South Ferry, grabbed a large coffee and an egg on a roll, and grabbed a prime spot on the Staten Island ferryboat of his choice for the rush-hour shift.
It was a great way to start the day: a solid three hours of cruising back and forth in the harbor, playing and singing to boatload after boatload of captive listeners. It was also a very lucrative route, and it had been a long time since Billy'd gotten up the gumption to drag-ass out of bed and do it.
But today was different.
Everything was different.
After rush hour, six round trips, and $47.50 later, he had ambled up to Liberty Plaza and scored a choice spot catercorner to the jutting twin shadows of the World Trade Center. By eleven-thirty he was happily serenading the endless streaming hordes of the financial district as they fled their cloistered air-conditioned cubicles for a half hour of lunchtime release. Billy competed for sonic primacy with a half-dozen other acts: jazz trios, hip white funksters, comedians, and magic shows.
But there had been no competition. Not really. Billy played and sang like an angel, garnering the lion's share of the crowds.
And the money.
By two o'clock, Billy had it in the bag. He broke as the last of the lunch crowd trickled by, pausing to accept compliments and cash from a bevy of receptionists. "We're twenty minutes late, our boss is gonna kill us, and it's all your fault!" one particularly well-rounded redhead informed him. He resisted the urge to take phone numbers first and ask questions later.
Three o'clock had found him back on Stanton Street. A couple of slices from Original Ray's pizza, a leisurely shower, a change of clothes, and a half hour of play with his fur-covered buddy had left him just enough time to hit Washington Square Park for the fun-filled evening set.
As he set up, he couldn't stop thinking about how beautifully the circuit worked. It was a good routine, the struggling artist's equivalent of a regular job. He'd first envisioned it last summer with Junior, the black sax-playing friend of his. Junior had readily agreed that it was a great idea.
Today was the first time that he'd actually pulled it off.
And, God, does it ever feel good, he thought. It feels so good to be in control of the situation. Man, if I keep this up, I'll be able to pay off Albert and score some new goods for my act.
Like the man says: I can do anything.
He set up on the eastern perimeter of the basin that was the hub of the park, his amp surreptitiously camouflaged by his jacket in response to a recent edict regarding noise pollution. The law was rather selectively enforced, according to the officer's convenience: one never knew when terror might strike. His effects were on the pavement before him; a battered "silver bullet" microphone balanced precariously on a wobbly stand before him. It wasn't much, but it was all he had left after the crip
pling rip-off last year.
Not to worry, he reminded himself. Better things are a-comin' soon.
Still, a parade of expensive pro-audio gear danced through his mind as he began his first set: a carefully-selected amalgam of Beatles, Jackson Browne, and Steely Dan guaranteed to generate maximum crowd consciousness. He felt good tonight. He'd play anything.
Hell, he said to himself. I'd even play "Stairway to Heaven."
The music swelled. A crowd started to form.
And Billy smiled.
By seven-fifteen Billy was in a state of complete and utter awe. He'd expected the crowd. He'd expected the enthusiasm, and the high that came from riding the fixed point of a group awareness. After everything else, he'd even expected the money that came piling into his guitar case, mesmerizing Bubba with the clinking and jingling of coin on coin on bill on coin.
He had not expected the kid.
And the kid was fucking hot.
Uninvited accompaniment was a fact of life for a street player. There was always someone who would inevitably come up and want to join in. Sometimes they brought an instrument. Sometimes they just wanted to sing along. Trouble was, most of them had the musical finesse of a tractor-trailer full of pigs, locking up at eighty miles per hour; and they invariably hung around until the end of the set, scaring off the audience and suggesting that you oughtta form a team. Sometimes you felt lucky if all they wanted was half of the money.
So when the kid wandered up, a battered flute in his hand, Billy simultaneously winced and thanked God that it wasn't something louder. If worse came to worst, he could always turn up and drive the intruder away by outblasting him.
But the kid was HOT. He couldn't be more than fifteen, and he looked like an outtake from Menudo, but he followed every nuance and subtle shade of color that Billy threw out. He laid back when Billy sang and screamed through the breaks; he followed chord changes without even having to look. He just hunkered down over that tarnished tube of silver and blew like Ian Anderson from Jethro Tull, rocking back and forth in boneless tandem with Billy's driving steel pulse.
After a while, Billy stopped playing songs. He just played: sliding from key to key, mood to mood, with no warning and no clear idea himself of what the next direction would be. It was musical barnstorming, and it was pure magic. The kid followed him every step of the way.
The crowd loved it.
Billy stepped away from the microphone and let the kid take the helm. The music soared. The crowd swelled. They were completely surrounded by now, nestled inside one of the little niches formed by the abutments, with people before, behind, above and below them. All rapt. All ears. The basin of the park was turning into a benign maelstrom of swaying flesh.
Then Billy looked up, hands on automatic, and saw a park ranger whizzing toward them on a modified golf cart. He got a sudden flash of good ol' Max Fogel, stomping out of the wings at the TMI event; and it occurred to him that, once again, he was presiding over something bigger than all of them. There was energy here, in amazing proportion; and if it ended badly, things could turn very, very ugly.
The kid turned to him, dark eyes large and rueful. He kept playing, but the words "Oh, shit" came clearly through the flute. Billy laughed, still playing as well, and mouthed the words I'll take care of it.
He knew what he had to do.
The ranger was babbling into his walkie-talkie at the edge of the crowd. They could see a police cruiser pull off Fifth Avenue and ominously onto the path, on an intercept course.
The crowd swayed. The ranger pushed his way into its periphery, sending little waves of nastiness rippling in his wake. Billy felt the crescendo building, building. He dug into the guitar with a flurry of furious handwork, strumming up and up the neck while the kid blew wild, arcing trills around the changes, growing in intensity by fractions of a second . . .
. . . and at precisely the right moment, with only a cursory nod of confirmation, ended ensemble: Billy letting ring a cascade of delicate harmonics; the kid, a breathy trill.
Sealed with a kiss.
The crowd went apeshit.
It sounded like Madison Square Garden. The applause was deafening. People started milling around, tossing money and shaking hands and patting backs and saying you guys are great, how long have you been together, why haven't you played here before, my god, that was incredible . . .
. . . and then the ranger was there, puffing himself up authoritatively, getting ready to deliver his ultimaxim. Billy stared into his eyes and pushed, just a little.
The ranger's eyes went blank.
You put up one hell of a fight, there, officer, Billy thought, stifling the urge to giggle. Then he sent a little message to the ranger's brain, and listened to the playback from the ranger's lips.
"Excuse me," the ranger said. "I just wanted to tell you that you guys are really great."
"Well, thank you," Billy gushed. The kid was stunned. Most of the crowd reacted the same.
"No problem," the ranger continued, still blank-eyed. "You can jam all night, as far as I'm concerned. You're great."
The cop cruiser, seeing everything under control, went on its merry way.
"Thanks again," Billy said, letting go of the control. The ranger looked ill for a moment, then grinned weakly and staggered back to his golf cart.
"What happened?" the kid wondered out loud. Billy turned, saw the glaze in those dark eyes, and understood r the first time since the jam began.
I made it happen. Not a matter of pride. Just a matter of fact. That kid never played so well in his whole goddam life. I made it happen!
But that wasn't all. The kid's eyes were glazed, oh yes but they hadn't been Vacu-formed like the ranger's. There was new light behind them, bright with quantum realization. He may never have played that well before, but he would again. That much was radiantly clear.
"Oh, nothing," Billy replied, winking and jerking his thumb in the ranger's direction. "That was just one of our biggest fans."
The kid nodded like a man getting street directions in a foreign language: too embarrassed to admit that he didn't understand.
He'll have to live with that, Billy mused. And I wish him all the best.
They're great, she told herself.
Christine Brackett stood watching the two musicians as they milled about in the aftermath of whatever had just transpired. Whatever it was, she knew, it was significant. It had been a long time since she'd seen or heard anyone on the streets who was worth following up on; ages more since she'd been to Washington Square Park. It was such a burnout haven: a mecca for those determined to live in the barefooted past.
Or those who came of age too late, she thought. It was difficult to avoid noticing that a lot of the hippies and free spirits lounging on the grass and smoking it couldn't have been much past Captain Kangaroo when The Movement was in full bloom.
Still, she made it a point to cruise through from time to time. You never knew what might pop up. And it's good to see where you've been, she added. It helps you see where you're going. . .
Christine was going to hit the nearest pay phone in about ten minutes and inform Roger that today was his lucky day. Roger was her boss, her lover-of-sorts, and the major rock around her neck in the business.
And Roger was in trouble. Good ol' boy-wonder-cando-no-wrong Roger Ferris was in deep, deep trouble. Roger did first-string A&R for Polynote Records, and his last three surefire big-time discoveries had burned a trail straight to the bottom of the cut-out bins in record time (but not before sucking thousands of Polynote dollars right up their collective noses). The Powers That Be were not currently pleased with ol' Rog; rumor had it that his ass was literally on the firing line.
All of which suited Christine just fine, except. . .
Except that Roger was her boss.
Except that Roger was her lover. Of sorts.
And except, most of all, that Roger could be and usually was a relentless, petulant son of a bitch; and if he went, he just might try to
take anyone within reach along for the ride.
Her, first and foremost.
So Christine Brackett, a sleek and intelligent woman of thirty-four, flipped back her shimmering and tastefully-streaked blonde hair, clipped a five-dollar bill to her business card, and approached the two musicians with the silly-looking dog tied to the guitar case. Smiled her best winning smile. And prepared herself to plant some hooks in their unsuspecting psyches with a grade-A schmooz.
With the right producer, and a solid backup band, they might just be the next wave in a turbulent business. They might just save Roger's quivering butt. And hers, in the bargain.
Besides: if anyone deserved to be heard, they did.
They were great.
SIXTEEN
BEDROOM-EYE VIEW
Beep-beep.
Mona's clock dutifully announced the time. 2 A.M.
Beep-beep.
Duty done, it resumed its measured tracking of microseconds, face aglow as it stared up at the ceiling fan from its place on the nightstand in the darkness of her room. Nobody paid it the slightest bit of attention. It ignored them right back.
In the bed, time was standing still.
Billy was on his back, holding on for dear life to the headboard rails of her big brass bed. His eyes slid shut, but he could still see with excruciating clarity: willow-arms wrapped around her head's black mane, small breasts tight against her sleek and straining body as she rose and fell, rose and fell, Rotoscoped in Technicolor across the insides of his eyelids. She set the pace, controlling both horizontal and vertical; the best he could do was aid and abet as she thrust him deep into rubyfruit Heaven, again and again and again. The air was alive with animal ecstasy, funky sound, and scent colliding. He white-knuckled the rails, hooting and grinding and fighting like hell to forestall the inevitable uncoiling in his balls, the lunatic game-show host in his brain that said ladies and gentlemen, it's that time again!
The Cleanup Page 11