Man in the Middle

by Ken Morris

  “I don’t blame your mother,” Kate said. “But I do blame Father—he took advantage of a woman in need. I know what it’s like to be taken advantage of. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and my feelings for people never go away.”

  Peter said nothing and listened to Kate’s deep breaths. A few moments later, she began again: “There’s something else. My father’s confession had nothing to do with feelings of shame.”

  Peter gave a puzzled look.

  “Father told me these things because . . .”

  The bucket seats restricted him some, but Peter turned as much in her direction as he could. His right arm draped across the divide created by the stick shift. His hand rested on her left shoulder. He squeezed.

  “I need you to explain something to me,” she said.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Why did you rent your mother’s house to someone you didn’t know, for essentially nothing?”

  “That’s a strange question.”

  “Please. I need to know.”

  Peter paused in thought. “I had to—that’s the simple answer.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “A compulsion brought on by the spirit of my mother. She was compassionate and would have wanted her belongings to benefit someone in need.”

  “Is that how you feel?”

  Peter sighed and looked out the front window towards the lights of a nearby high-rise hotel. “I’ll try to explain, even if I don’t know why you’re asking.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I guess at first I felt sorry for the man—who wouldn’t? He’s an African-American father, with four kids, little formal education, and less than no money. He answered my rental ad. He expected a job to come through and planned to use his salary to move into a better neighborhood. He’d have paid his entire income to move his family out of Southeast San Diego. The drugs, the gangs, the violence. Clairemont isn’t exactly La Jolla or Del Mar, but as middle class neighborhoods go these days, it’s a hell of a lot better than where he was.”

  “He didn’t get the job?” Kate leaned into Peter.

  Peter shook his head. “It devastated him . . . No, I take that back. I think it humiliated him. And I had other reasons. I thought about Drew and his family. His father took off before Drew turned six. His mom went on welfare and hated it. If not for a football scholarship, he’d have been another victim of ‘no-thank-you.’ A black man with no hope of escaping the neighborhood. Now he’s in medical school. He’ll save lives and make a difference.” On a nearby street, a siren wailed. Peter waited until the sounds faded before continuing. “Then, when I couldn’t get a job, I would have been in deep trouble without your father’s help. I told Mr. Jefferson—that’s my tenant—he and his family could live there for free, but he’s a proud man. Said he’d pay me a hundred a month and work on improving the property. In the first two weeks, he’s already made good on his promise. In between looking for jobs, he spends his time fixing and sprucing . . .” Peter felt he had failed to explain himself. “This is a long-winded way of saying Mr. Jefferson is a good man and deserved a break.”

  “You are special, Peter.”

  “Not really, but thanks for the kind words. Mind if I ask you something?”

  The way she said “No, I don’t” came across as maybe, maybe not.

  “Why did you need to know these things?”

  “Something Father said. It doesn’t matter any more.”

  “What?”

  “He said you’d change. Turn into . . . never mind, Peter. Take me home.”

  Peter could see her head moving in the fractured light. He understood she was still upset. “Of course. We can be at your apartment in ten minutes.”

  “No. To your apartment.”

  “I . . . I don’t think we’re ready—”

  “I don’t care if you don’t love me,” she said. “And I won’t tell you I love you. Hold me. If you don’t feel like making love, don’t. Just hold me.”

  “I—”

  “Please.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at Peter’s apartment. When they entered, they had to weave their way around packed boxes.

  “I’m moving tomorrow—I already told you that, didn’t I?”

  She nodded.

  Just then, Henry came sauntering in. When he looked up and saw a stranger, he stopped and cocked his head.

  “That’s the infamous old man Henry,” Peter announced.

  “He doesn’t look so old. Come here, you handsome devil.”

  Kate bent down on one knee and put her hand out. Without hesitation, Henry strolled forward. Kate greeted him with a palm down his back. She then took a finger and began to scratch behind Henry’s ear. He purred and plopped on his side.

  “You’ve made a friend for life,” Peter said.

  “Are you talking about you or the cat?” she asked, half-seriously.

  “I meant the cat. Us? We’re already buddies.”

  “I’m glad I got to see your apartment before your move. I like it.”

  Peter took her hand. “You won’t once I give you the tour. Excuse us, Henry.”

  “I may have been born an L. L. Beanite,” she said, “but I like modest digs. And this qualifies as modest.” In a surprise, she laughed.

  Peter felt relief. Messy apartments and lazy cats were good medicine, he decided.

  “Here,” he said, taking her hand. “Let me show you the most disgusting bathroom in the history of bathroomdom.” In a successful attempt to create an abstract nightmare, Peter’s landlord had selected orange floor tiles, a blue toilet seat, and bright yellow walls. In addition, all the fixtures were a third too-small, making them look as if they belonged in a nursery school. “This”—he opened the door to his rainbow-outrageous bathroom “—is a bad dream, disguised as a bathroom. It’s suitable only for color-blind midgets.”

  He flipped on the lights, illuminating the room and Kate’s face. “Oh my, God,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m having a hard time coming up with a word for this.”

  “Dreadful,” Peter deadpanned.

  “No. Wonderful. At least in a bizarre kind of way. Can two fit in that tiny bathtub?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Kate immediately stepped out of her shoes, dropped her shoulders, and gave a left-right shrug. Her jacket rolled off her back, piling at her heels. Before Peter could react, she unzipped her skirt and stepped out, displaying pantyhose and white cotton panties. She reached into the tub and turned on hot. Stretching her hose at the waist, she pulled them off in a smooth left leg, right leg march. Peter stared. She didn’t have former paramour Ellen Goodman’s perfectly sculpted legs, but they were smooth, white, and lovely. Kate also had narrower hips, with a less round backside. Maybe she wasn’t as beautiful as Ellen, but he found her infinitely more attractive. Without a word, Kate unbuttoned her white blouse. She clutched the garment in her hand and dropped it on top of her skirt. All that remained were her panties and plain white bra.

  “We have two options, Mr. Neil,” she said, sounding professorial. “Either you get out of here in the next five seconds, before I strip and step into this tub, or you stay, take off your clothes, and we see whether or not this sucker will actually hold two adult bodies.”

  Peter stayed.

  From a sedan that had tailed them from the moment they left Leeman, Johnston, and Ayers, a stranger took telephotos of the couple. He had pulled to the curb across the street from Peter’s apartment and parked. Good, but not great stuff, he thought as his defrost fought to keep his windows clear enough to take unencumbered close-ups.

  “Need to do better than this, George,” he had said to himself over the click-click of his camera. At under six feet, dressed in jeans, Adidas running shoes, and wood-cutter plaid shirt, he appeared intentionally unremarkable.

  Ten minutes after Peter closed and locked the front door of his apartment, George slithered from his car, careful to keep away from the orange glow spraying from a solitary st
reet light. The private detective approached the second-story apartment from an alley in the rear of the building, carrying a high-tech recording device—slung across a shoulder—as if it were an unused walking stick.

  Where he stood, looking up at Peter’s lit window, he appreciated the indigo nothingness. His current location had no overhead lighting, no moonlight, and a six-foot fence dividing this property from the next. “Very good logistics,” he said in a low voice.

  George twisted the five-foot pole, taking care not to bump the mounted microphone. He slid a link, extending the stick like a television antennae. He made this move one more time, producing a twelve-foot pole. He put a set of headphones over his ears, then positioned the mike at the window with billowing steam, escaping from a hot tub of water. He began to listen and tape-record just as the female voice said: “take off your clothes . . .”

  For the next hour, George enjoyed the voyeuristic aspects of his job. When the couple moved to the bedroom, he repositioned himself and, though he hadn’t thought it possible, the show got even better. He guessed he’d get a bonus for this work. Too bad Peter Neil didn’t have a first floor apartment. He’d have loved to have a set of those pictures.

  When the couple fell asleep around three, the private investigator left. On the way home, he replayed his audio tapes, fast-forwarding to the good parts.

  For three weeks, Oliver Dawson and Angela Newman worked separately, and left the office separately, then met for dinner. If happiness were an earthquake, Dawson measured a ten on the Richter scale.

  Intimacy, once it came, nearly overwhelmed him. In orchestrating that bold next step, he had trembled, afraid that Angela’s love wouldn’t manifest itself in the same achy physical way his did. When they entered his apartment that night, it was different from the handful of earlier visits. Relaxing classical music hung in the background, while muted light veiled the living room. He had spread a thick blanket across the floor and piled pillows against his sofa.

  “I feel like an adolescent,” he had said. “I love you, Angela. How could we have been so afraid to tell each other for over a year?”

  “People like us lose their courage. If others could see through our eyes, Oliver, they would understand beauty more fully.”

  Every time she spoke, Dawson felt as if he were a student, learning lessons about life.

  He took her hand and led her to the sofa. A smile spread across her face, giving him additional resolve. When guided to the floor, she had put a hand through his thinning hair and combed his scalp with her slim fingers. He closed his eyes, amazed at how wonderful the gesture felt. She leaned over and kissed his ear. He turned and looked at her through moist eyes.

  It had begun slowly—like a ballet, he imagined. An hour later, she engulfed him and he felt only contentment. He had never imagined he might bring pleasure to another person. From that moment, they spent every night together.

  Now, Saturday morning, a week into their new lovers’ routine, Angela’s head rested on Dawson’s slim chest. “You aren’t angry I went ahead with the transfer, are you?” she said.

  At first Dawson had tried to talk her out of changing departments. Now he was glad he had failed. While nobody would care if two ugly duckling co-workers dated one another, it was easier this way. On the one hand, she was still in the building, so they could see each other on an intermittent basis during the day. On the other hand, their relationship was not the subject of lewd speculation.

  “No,” he said. “I agree. It’s better this way.”

  “Monday, I start my new job. I’ll miss being outside your office, but I’d trade that for seeing you, touching you, having you in this way, any day of the week.”

  Her words aroused Dawson. As if she sensed his need, she reached under the sheets and touched him. “Oh my. I do believe you like me, Agent Dawson.”

  Oliver Dawson spent the next hour proving her correct.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  PETER AND KATE AWOKE, STILL ENTWINED. THEY TOUCHED, KISSED, THEN gave in to their passions all over again. Afterwards, Kate pushed herself from the bed. Peter watched her float towards the bathroom, naked and wonderful. Henry, grateful for the restored peace, reclaimed his spot at the foot of Peter’s bed. For Peter, a tinge of guilt lingered. When Kate gave him the option to hold her all night and not make love, he had intended to do just that.

  “This is a problem, and I’m an idiot,” he said to himself as Kate disappeared around the corner.

  Peter sank into his down pillow, fingers laced behind his head, sheets pulled mid-chest. What the hell had he gotten himself into? If it had just been a casual acquaintance, like that salesperson from Gordon, Ashe, the uneasiness might quickly pass. But this was different, and he felt the guilt leaking from his brain to his heart. He cared for Kate. Did he want this relationship to progress? Peter suspected the question wasn’t easily answered. Something intimidated him—the C-word. Commitment. She’d want that. So would he, in time.

  Was he ready? No, he didn’t think so. The timing was bad. His career had just taken off. For the first time in his life, he was making significant money. He had freedoms he never imagined. He could travel and eat at the best restaurants any time he wanted. Later today, he would move into a new, expensive co-op with an ocean view. He drove a fancy new car. He knew famous people in the investment world. One day he might do multimillion dollar trades, even take part in some esoteric billion-dollar transaction—similar to cornering a Treasury auction like Stenman had done a few years earlier, after which Kate’s father deflected the SEC’s investigation. A serious relationship now could steal hours from his work, cause him to get soft, make him lose the edge he had. He wanted badly to win at this game of making more money than anyone else. He’d try not to hurt her, but he might need to distance himself from her for awhile.

  He heard the toilet gurgle, water splash against the porcelain sink, and then her footsteps leading away from the bedroom, in the direction of the kitchen. When Kate re-entered the bedroom several minutes later, she was dressed and casually sipping from a cup of steaming tea. Peter felt disappointment. He sought to look through her clothes and imagine the body that had so energized him last night and this morning. Her dark brown nipples and small white breasts. The long, delicate ribcage that stretched when they made love. The intimate spot on her neck—just below the left ear lobe—that elicited a groan when he kissed it. All of this held his imagination. With a will of their own, his eyes moved to her hips and those legs that had wrapped around his waist and hugged him deeper, refusing to let go, even when overcome with physical exhaustion.

  “I’ll be leaving.” She put her mug on a copy of a Sports Illustrated lying on his dresser.

  Peter refocused on the rumpled suit shielding her flesh. The starch in her white blouse was limp. She hadn’t bothered to put on pantyhose—but her legs, he thought, looked better for the oversight. Had he known she intended to come back clothed, he would have followed and watched, enjoying the reverse strip-tease and memorizing every detail.

  “I’ll shower when I get home,” she said. “I’ve already called a taxi. It’ll be here shortly.”

  “We could shower together—or take another bath,” he said, not certain whether he wanted her to say yes or say no. “I’d rather not.” Peter jerked himself upright. “Don’t you want breakfast? I’ll get dressed. We’ll go out.”

  “You’re so old-fashioned, Peter. Somebody must have told you that after sex, the boy has to buy the girl breakfast.” Peter tried to sound jocular: “You mean we don’t? Heavens, all that breakfast money wasted?”

  Kate sort of smiled. “Good for the service economy.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “You forget, Peter. I know that’s just a line guys use—especially the morning after. I’m glad we got to talk last night about . . . about your tenant and our parents. Thanks for caring enough to ask why I was sad.”

  Peter nodded, but he was thrown aback. She acted like she didn’t expect anything mor
e—not even another date. Her flippancy made him a little uncomfortable, like he had no control over what was happening.

  “You leave on Wednesday?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’ll be working on the textbook and studying for the bar. If I pass the first time—and I’d better—I’ll become a full-fledged attorney by yearend. If you turn to a life of crime, give me that call you alluded to.”

  “I’d like to take you to dinner, before you go.”

  I’m begging, Peter thought. Why? I’ve been plotting to distance myself from her. Now she’s handing me an opportunity on a solid gold platter.

  “We’ll see,” she said, smoothing her jacket with her flattened palms.

  He squinted with an unspoken question.

  “I needed this closeness,” she explained. “I took advantage of you. I know that. And thank you.”

  “For what?” Peter asked.

  “You’ll think I’m perverted—maybe I am . . . I shouldn’t say this, but I’ve never had an orgasm before.” Her candor dumbfounded Peter. He couldn’t even nod his head. “I don’t mean I haven’t been with a man,” she continued, “only that I’d never felt the earth move before, so to speak. And though it’s not for me, I guess I now understand why some people have sex just for the fun of it. And relax, Peter, I don’t expect you to feel the same way I do. In fact, I’m not sure how I feel. I’m confused about everything.”

  Numbed, Peter watched her take several rapid steps toward the bed. She kissed his cheek, then gave a gentle brush across Henry’s flank. Inhaling, she said, “I can still smell our lovemaking. Sorry about your sheets . . . we made quite a mess.” She laughed lightly. “See you, lover.” She began to pad away from the bed.

  Henry stretched, sprang to his feet, hopped down, and followed.