Alexandra was not getting there fast enough and Cassy thought of simply yanking her head—so slow was that marvelous mouth in making the descent—but then, finally, Alexandra was there, and all was forgiven—quite so, yes, very, very forgiven—as Alexandra started moving tides of gratification through her, pulling the nightgown down farther and farther in the effort to do so, and Cassy said something—anything, God, who knew—and she felt another surge from Alexandra’s lower body and Cassy’s urgency swung in direction and went plunging. Straight down. God. To there. She fumbled for Alexandra’s hand and pushed it down, pushed it over her stomach, pushed it over her hip—come on, Alexandra, this is no time to dawdle, God, no.
Alexandra’s leg slid away and Cassy shifted back, settled back, wondering whether—
The first touch cut her breath right out of the air.
But then, in a moment, it came back. Through her teeth. And then it caught again, struggled, and Cassy thought, This is impossible, this cannot be happening. Alexandra was exploring—no—playing with her, doing what to her oh who the hell cared what it was she was doing as long as she kept doing it—but no, yes, Alexandra was exploring, examining her, seeing which movement evoked a sound from her, and they all were damn it just listen to me can this be me? Alexandra’s hand was lingering now, right there, cautious, and then Cassy recognized the same slow style of—slowly, yes—God—Alexandra—was Alexandra really doing this? Was this Alexandra inside of her? Was this—
Everything stopped. “This is wonderful,” Alexandra sighed. And then everything gently resumed. In a few moments she could feel Alexandra sliding out, and then her fingers pulling up slowly, making a wide track as they went. And then the fingers slid down, proving just how easy this track was going to be, and then they pulled back up, and Cassy thought, No, I cannot be feeling this, and they moved back down, sliding to there, and they pulled back up, and Cassy said, “Yes, like that,” and immediately she thought, Please don’t let me think—please—please—I’ll start thinking I’m going to start thinking—damn it—no— I’m starting to lose it—damn it, I’m losing it—oh, please don’t let me lose it, Alexandra—stay with me, please, just stay with me—Alexandra, this is Alexandra, this is Alexandra doing this to me—God, is it really Alexandra doing this to me?
And she threw an arm around the back of Alexandra’s neck and pulled down on it, deciding she didn’t care whether Alexandra could breathe or not because Alexandra knew exactly what she was doing because Alexandra always knew what she was doing and she was doing it to her now and God how Alexandra knew—she knew—oh yes how she knew—God—how could she know so much? Oh God, Alexandra, are you ever right on it, are you ever on it—
Cassy couldn’t do anything but try and hold herself down when what she wanted to do was what she didn’t know what she wanted to do and—my God, it’s coming, oh, my God, it’s really going to happen—God, she could feel it and Alexandra was right with it—don’t stop, Alexandra, just don’t stop but of course you won’t because you know exactly what’s happening to me and you want this too, don’t you, and oh, my God, my God—and then everything was moving and it was pulling, pulling Cassy down and—oh, God—pushing her now, pushing her up, up—Up—Is it—Is it—Can I
Oh, my God, this is it, she thought, this is it, I’m having an orgasm with Alexandra—God, is this happening? Oh—Oh—Oh—GOD. GOD. GOD. But God is this good. God is this good. God is this good. God is it ever.
God this is unreal.
Oh, yes, yes.
Surely—no wait—
Oh, yes, yes. There. Oh, wait—
Oh, yes, yes.
There. Yes, that was the last.
Yes. For sure.
For sure.
Yes.
Good Lord, I should think so.
She felt a gentle kiss on her chest. Cassy let her arm fall away from around Alexandra’s neck, and Alexandra came up to see her.
Look at this wonderful girl.
She slipped a piece of hair from out of the comer of Alexandra’s mouth and then used both hands to sweep her hair back off her face—and held it there.
Alexandra was about to cry. No, wait.
And then Cassy smiled, thinking perhaps Alexandra’s expression did not indicate this at all—not the anguish in her eyes, not the tension at her mouth. It could be, she thought, it damn well could be that this was the expression of a young woman quite beside herself with desire.
Well, Cassy thought, pushing Alexandra onto her back, she could at least find out if she was right.
She was.
PART III
31
SAM FACES THE MUSIC
It was a long walk to Walter Brennan’s old office where the new acting president of Electronika was waiting to see him. Brennan and Canley had not even spent half a day with the authorities before they were released on bail. The three ICL executives who sat on Electronika’s board were under suspension until the Caswell Zander case came to trial.
Sam’s fate had yet to be made known to him.
It was funny how the press reports on Brennan and Canley had affected him. All along, ever since he had found out about the Pretoria plant, Sam had been outraged by their behavior. But then, after seeing and hearing and reading about the life that Walter Brennan had been leading, Sam’s outrage had turned to a feeling of sickness. Of feeling sick about what Brennan had nearly done to Sam’s family, and about what Brennan had done to his own.
As the president of Electronika, Brennan had made almost half a million dollars a year. It was obscene, Sam thought, that anyone bright enough, anyone who had worked hard enough to achieve a position like that, could sell out simply for—for money. President of Electronika International? A half of a million dollars a year? That wasn’t enough?
No. Apparently not. And based on what the press was finding out about the kind of money Brennan had been throwing around in recent years, it looked as though the money he had been “earning” had been up in the millions. But his family hadn’t known that. Certainly not. They lived very much like the family of a corporate president: a six-bedroom Tudor house in Westchester County, three nice cars, a summer retreat in Maine, private schools for the kids, an exclusive country club membership, slightly exotic vacations, and a kind of all—around sense of security that families less fortunate could yearn for.
Mrs. Brennan had never known about the Sutton Place apartment in Manhattan or the five-bedroom house in Palm Beach, Florida, much less about the women living in them. And, at first, she told the New York Post they were crazy, how could she own them if she never even knew they existed? (The Post was not crazy, and yes, they were indeed in Mrs. Brennan’s name.) And then thirteen-year-old Pete found out he owned a condo in Vegas and a yacht in New Jersey. And the trail of bills for jewelry and furs and wild jaunts was growing longer and longer.
As for Canley, it was a mystery where his money was. A cartoon in Conolly’s suggested that perhaps he had the same investment adviser as former President Marcos.
“Come in, Sam,” Matthew Wellman said. “Close the door.”
Under the old regime of Clyde Taylor, Wellman had been the financial controller of Electronika. Under Brennan he had been promptly reassigned to run a subsidiary in Peoria, Illinois, in hopes he would resign. He hadn’t, and now the board thanked God they still had him to throw in at the helm. If nothing else, they knew Wellman knew the company, and they knew everyone knew that Wellman was clean of this mess. More conservative than they would like, perhaps, but a decent, fiercely loyal company man of the old guard—the old guard that never got into messes like this.
After Sam sat down in the chair that was offered to him, Wellman sat down behind his desk. “Well,” he said, “that was some report, Sam. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
Sam nodded. Rather than waiting to be grilled by Electronika’s board about why Sam had volunteered to bring down its president and senior executive vice-president on his own initiative, Sam had written a report of ev
erything that had happened, Harriet had typed it, and he had hand-delivered it to Wellman the day he became acting president. At least now, Sam had thought at the time, he could live with himself. He was no good at secrets. He was no good at being afraid of what might happen. He just wanted this whole thing over, and he would take it from there.
“I destroyed it,” Wellman said. “And if you have a copy of it, I suggest you do the same.”
Sam just looked at him.
Wellman sat back in his chair and smoothed the sides of his gray hair with his hands. And then dropped forward, letting his hands fall onto the desk. “Look, as far as I’m concerned, all that matters is that we can go back to being the company we’re supposed to be.” He plunked himself on his elbows then, hands extending toward Sam. “It was that damn stock swap with ICL that started this trouble. I was against it from the first—” He let out a sigh, shaking his head, lowering his hands to the desk. He looked at Sam. “What’s gone on here since Brennan arrived has damn near killed Clyde. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive himself.”
As Wellman slid back into his chair, gripping the arms of it, looking off somewhere, Sam realized that Matthew Wellman was a very angry man and was doing his best to control himself.
“What about the board?” Sam asked.
“If the board knew what it was doing,” Wellman said, eyes returning to Sam, “they never would have allowed those thieves from ICL onto it.”
Sam started to smile, inside. He was beginning to see the advantages of having a boss who had been kicked around and then exiled by Brennan and Canley.
“So,” Wellman said, rising from his chair—Sam rose also—”what’s most important to me right now is that the ZT 5000 be launched properly.” He walked around the desk. “And I expect you to do it. I want a report from you on my desk Monday morning with your recommendations on how we should handle the PR.”
Sam looked at him. “That’s it?”
Wellman crossed his arms over his chest and held his chin in one hand, considering this question. Sam had seen him take the same pose in meetings for eighteen years—it meant he was about to say something important. “You should know, Sam, that if it hadn’t been for your report it never would have crossed my mind that you were in any way involved.”
Sam frowned. “But the authorities, someone must have...”
Wellman dropped his arms and slid a hand into his pocket. “Your name hasn’t even come up. Not from the SEC, not from the FBI, not from the press—no one.”
Sam stepped back, swinging his head around as if he had been hit. Then he came back around to stand as before. He swallowed. “You’re kidding.”
Wellman slowly shook his head, smiling.
“But Brennan will—”
“Brennan will what? Rot in hell, I hope,” Wellman added, jamming his other hand into a pants pocket.
“He’ll, he’ll—” Sam’s hand wavered in the air. He dropped it. “I don’t know, but he knows I made that call. His people were listening—”
Wellman withdrew both hands from his pockets and held them up to talk with. “Sam, what Brennan and Canley did in Pretoria is perfectly legal. No crime has been committed at Electronika. Ethics have been violated, yes, but no crime has been committed. The crime is that Brennan and Canley have been on the Caswell Zander payroll—for years, Sam, for years— supplying them with inside information to defraud the stock market with.”
Sam sighed, not quite believing this.
“It has nothing to do with you, Sam. Unless, of course,” Wellman said, leading him toward the door, “Brennan wants to add wiretapping and God knows what else to the charges against him.” He stopped and turned to face Sam. “You could sue him, you know. And you’d win.” He paused, glancing down at the floor and then back up. “You could sue me—Electronika. For crying out loud, Sam, your report is the best grounds for a class action suit I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m not going to sue anyone,” Sam said.
“And I’m going to ask you to help me pull this company back together again,” Wellman said. He stuck out his hand.
“Thanks, Matthew,” Sam said, shaking his hand. Then he looked up to the ceiling. “And thank You,” he added, making Wellman laugh.
32
THE NEIGHBORS STAND
UP TO BE COUNTED
“Kitty-cats like to be stroked,” Rosanne explained to Jason. “You can’t pet them like a doggy. Here, like this.” She showed him how to stroke Missy, a movement Jason studied with a great degree of seriousness.
Amanda, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter, was smiling.
“See how much she likes that? Okay, Jason, you can hold her now.” Rosanne gently lowered the cat into his arms.
“Why doesn’t he take her into the writing room?” Amanda suggested. “He’ll be all right in there, won’t he?”
“Oh, sure,” Rosanne said, smoothing Jason’s hair back off his forehead. “Go on, Jason. Mommy’ll be right here, talking to Amanda.”
Jason nodded, clutching his new friend. By the time he reached the door, the lower half of Missy was dangling down his front, but she did not seem to mind.
“Mommy?” he said, turning around.
“What, Jason?”
“Can I have this?”
“The cat?”
He nodded, his cheek rubbing the fur on Missy’s head.
“She belongs to Mrs. G, sweetie.”
“Oh,” he said, wandering out.
“Phew,” Rosanne said, sitting down at the table. “Am I ever beat. What time’s Mrs. W coming? I have to get Jason back to Brooklyn by seven.”
“Any minute,” Amanda said. “So, Rosanne, we’re in agreement now, yes?”
Rosanne did not look happy. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”
“Rosanne—you persist in making it sound as though it was your fault. And it wasn’t. It was our fault. We were supposed to pay Social Security—” The doorbell rang. “There she is,” Amanda said, jumping down from the counter.
It was Harriet Wyatt, and Cassy Cochran was with her. Amanda led them back to the kitchen, where Harriet kissed Rosanne hello and Cassy dropped her briefcase to hug her, whispering, “Don’t you worry. We’re not going to let anyone come between you and Jason.”
“If I’m still alive,” Rosanne said. “You’re strangling me.”
Cassy and Harriet sat at the table and extracted papers from their briefcases, while Amanda poured them glasses of cold seltzer water.
“We liked Mr. Thatcher a great deal,” Harriet said, opening a large folder on the table. “He went through everything with Sam and me and our lawyer—”
“I sat in too,” Cassy said, slipping on her glasses.
“And everything seems fine,” Harriet finished. “Thank you.” She took a sip of seltzer and then thumbed through the papers. “Everything’s signed and ready to go—the Social Security papers and our check. And our statement about Rosanne is here too.”
“Great,” Amanda said, lifting herself back up on the counter. “I signed mine,” she said, tapping a manila envelope, “and I’ve got Mrs. Goldblum’s as well.”
“And I’ve got Howard’s,” Harriet said, opening another folder. “He gave it to me at work this afternoon.”
“Howie doesn’t have the money for this,” Rosanne protested. “Can’t we just leave him out of it?”
Amanda visibly paled.
“Rosanne,” Harriet said gently, “it’s all been taken care of. Howard’s as anxious as we are to help.”
“I must confess—” Cassy said, handing a folder to Amanda, “this is ours —I was rather relieved that we didn’t have to deal with Melissa.”
Amanda averted her eyes. “Why didn’t we have to deal with Melissa?” she asked matter-of-factly. Cassy hesitated and then looked over at Rosanne, who was making a frantic motion for her to shut up—which Amanda saw. “I repeat,” Amanda said, looking at Rosanne, “why didn’t we have to deal with Melissa?”
Rosanne sighed
, sending a now-you’ve-done-it look at Cassy. “Howie moved out. He doesn’t want anyone to know—yet.”
“He told—” Harriet started to say, but stopped when she felt Cassy kick her under the table.
“Really,” Amanda said faintly, avoiding all of their eyes.
“He’s up on 95th Street,” Rosanne added.
Silence.
“Amanda,” Harriet said, “Howard tells me you’re the same Amanda Miller that Patricia MacMannis wants to sign up—a novel about Catherine the Great.”
“The one and the same,” Rosanne said, grinning.
“They were talking about you in editorial meeting last week,” Harriet continued, trying to figure out what it was that Cassy was mouthing to her from across the table. “It sounds wonderful. Patricia and Howard”—Cassy kicked her again and Harriet’s eyes grew wider—”were raving about it.”
“Good!” Rosanne said.
“Rosanne’s my agent,” Amanda explained.
“I’m sorry,” Harriet said, still squinting at Cassy, “what did you say, Amanda?” “Rosanne’s my agent. She was the one who told Howard about my book.”
“But Patricia’s going to be the editor,” Harriet said, looking slightly confused. DON’T TALK ABOUT HOWARD—oh—that was what Cassy was mouthing across the table.
“Well,” Amanda said quietly, “Patricia and I seem to work rather well together. “
“That’s great,” Harriet said, rubbing her shin. “I look forward to reading it.”
“I had no idea you were a writer,” Cassy said, turning around in her chair to look at Amanda. “And this second vocation of yours, my dear,” she said to Rosanne, “is one of the better-kept secrets on the block.”
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