Strip Poker

by Lisa Lawrence

  Janet was flabbergasted. “How is that insulting to you?”

  Helena folded her arms and tried to summon patience.

  I knew what she was about to say and didn’t interfere. Janet Marshall had it coming.

  “It’s insulting because yes, I’m your friend, Janet, but I’m also running a business. And my business is a great hunk of beef like Neil and others like him. When you talk about him giving it up, you’re talking about the talent I have on call and what puts food on my table and pays for the villa outside Florence where you were a guest. And you’re completely oblivious to that. When Neil decides to quit, that’s up to him, but I don’t need you coaxing that along.”

  Janet stood there, stunned for a moment. “I…I never knew you felt like that.”

  “I do.”

  Janet looked from Helena to me, but the resentment aimed my way was replaced by a peculiar shame, the last thing I would have expected. Then I understood.

  In slowly getting more and more attached to Neil, she had lost sight of the rules of the game after the cards were packed up. She would never put up with another woman’s jealousy if she had won a fellow fair and square or he had won her. In this bizarre little world of adult play, it would be deemed bad taste. Poor manners.

  She excused herself and said she ought to get going. She had a function to go to.

  “I’m sorry,” I told Helena.

  Helena folded her arms, her eyes still fixed on the door that had closed behind Janet.

  “Don’t be,” she said. “She’s had that coming for a long time.”

  She marched into her secondary office, and after a second, I followed, trying to think of some last bit of progress I could report to make her feel better. Wendy was at her desk, eating her lunch, and I noticed that she had borrowed one of Helena’s DVDs, Gosford Park, and was playing it on the large computer monitor they used for surveillance of the poker games. It gave me an idea.

  I went over and held up the DVD case. “Helena, what’s on this?”

  Wendy was staring at me, justifiably puzzled because the movie was running right there on the screen.

  Helena shuffled papers, barely paying attention. “It’s on the box, darling.” She looked up. “Wendy, isn’t that it?”

  Wendy, mouth full of tuna salad sandwich, nodded agreement.

  I had seen Gosford Park. What was on screen now was only about forty minutes into the movie. “So knowing what’s on the box, and since you know what’s on the screen, you don’t bother to watch it, do you?”

  Helena’s voice had that singsong quality of when you’re baffled. “No…?”

  “Can I borrow your phone?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  I dialled a direct extension and waited. After a moment, the trademark sleepy voice answered hello.

  “Carl? Teresa. That video that was left on Lionel Young’s telly—did anyone bother to scan it all the way through?”

  As my idea sank in, I heard him curse.

  8

  Carl said, “Let me look into it,” but I knew what that meant, and I got into the Beamer and drove out to Lionel’s apartment.

  Carl was, of course, there and sighed in resignation when he spotted me waiting outside the yellow caution tape. Well, come on, I thought. It was the next logical step. If the cops weren’t interested in the DVD, it stood to reason they might not even bother to remove it from the machine—hence my friend making a sheepish errand run back to the flat. Carl nodded to the PC on guard duty, and I was waved on in.

  “One of my men said he reviewed the tape,” he explained, “but I think by ‘review’ he meant he watched five minutes, fast-forwarded the next ten and left it at that.”

  Understandable. The first fifteen minutes were pretty coarse stuff, at least to my eyes, but then I had never watched a gay porn movie in my life. Carl picked up the remote and hit the fast-forward for 4X speed, mercifully fast but still slow enough to catch anything that might be waiting.

  “Ewww,” I commented.

  “Your idea.”

  And then a sudden interruption—Lionel became the star of the video. And it wasn’t the producer’s idea.

  Carl was muttering what the hell, but I picked up the DVD case to be sure. Just as I thought, the movie wasn’t even straight-release porn but a bootleg copy, and the giveaway was the hilariously poor mock-up of the original cover art with bad spelling in the credits. Lionel had used this CD for his own home movie.

  It had hit me back in Helena’s house. Wendy watching Gosford Park on the computer screen normally reserved for the webcams.

  Lionel and me in his office, getting naked and spotting the tiny camera on his monitor. If he had one in the office, it stood to reason he kept one at home. Boys with toys. And there it was, sitting on his home PC monitor just like its twin in his office at Buccaneer Cape Mining.

  Lionel’s performance on screen was far less vulgar than the opening feature. He sat with a young boy straddling him, light-skinned and mixed race, and the boy couldn’t have been more than nineteen. He had that kind of androgynous beauty young boys have. Their mouths crushed and slurped in French kisses, the sound quality too poor to make out Lionel’s sweet nothings, and Lionel was playing with the boy’s pale brown cock, smiling and looking into his eyes with what was obviously deep affection, if not more.

  “You told me he wasn’t gay,” Carl reminded me. But he saw from the shock on my face that this was a headline to me as well. Not gay to get technical, but certainly bi. Jesus.

  Shondi had said he was lousy in bed.

  Janet said he didn’t do anything for her.

  I wasn’t terribly impressed with him the first time.

  And maybe there was a reason for all that.

  Was that why he had made such a special effort for me? Because I was snooping around in his life and might have uncovered this? Or was he just conflicted? Or perhaps he simply swung both ways.

  Lionel gazed upward at the kid, smiling, and then they traded places in the chair so that he could sink to his knees. I watched as Lionel took the boy’s penis into his mouth and sucked him expertly. The boy’s lovely shallow chest flexed and tensed, his mouth gasping with pleasure.

  Haunting, the idea that these might have been the last images Lionel saw, the ones that inspired his final erection as he sat nude and pitifully sobbing before his sadistic killer blew his brains out. I had wondered how he could even get it up in that terrible moment, even if ordered by his killer to do so, but the boy…He had loved the boy.

  Carl punched the remote button for stop and eject. He slipped the disc into its box and declared, “That kid might know more than anybody right now.”

  No argument here, I thought. “Then you better find him.”

  I left Lionel’s apartment and once I was down the block, I made a panicked call to Helena. She was as stunned as I was by the revelation of Lionel’s hidden tastes, and she could understand my follow-up request. I spent an extremely nervous hour drinking coffee in a Pret à Manger, and then I was put out of my misery by Helena ringing me back on my mobile.

  “You are very, very lucky,” she said.

  “What?” I demanded impatiently. “What is it?”

  “The escorts submit to regular STD checks every month, but that’s doubled if they play in the games, and Lionel went to the clinic only Wednesday. He was clean as a whistle, at least as of then, negatives all around. Results came in yesterday afternoon. Wendy put them on my desk, but I hadn’t looked at them yet.” She dropped her voice to a whisper and added, “And in case you’re still worried, I shouldn’t tell you this, but you have nothing to worry about as far as any of the others are concerned.”

  Meaning him, too.

  “God, that’s good to know. You’d tell me, wouldn’t you, Helena? You would, right?”

  “Teresa!”

  “Sorry! Sorry, sorry. Bad nerves.”

  “It’s all right,” she replied smoothly. “It’s the age we live in. Look, you had a bad scar
e, but that’s all it was.” Now her voice was betraying anxiety. “Please tell me you’re not going to quit.”

  “Quit?” I echoed in surprise. “I’m not going to quit on you, Hel, but maybe I’d better cut back on my poker and work the case harder through regular leads.”

  “Whatever gets the results,” she said, and rang off.

  I went home to my flat in Earl’s Court. I hadn’t been back in days, spending nights at Neil’s when I wasn’t crashing at Helena’s house in Richmond. I dumped my accumulation of bills and junk mail on the kitchen table, and made a point of ignoring what could only be the latest rejection letter for my refugee girl detective story for kids. I stripped off and had a long hot shower. Then I raided my DVD collection for something mindless or at least soothing, and I threw on vintage Eddie Murphy in Boomerang. Good for a few chuckles, if only to see how skinny and young Chris Rock used to be, how they cast Halle Berry as the “nice” girl runner-up next to supposedly bombshell Robin Givens (who knew then how far Halle Berry would go?). Halfway through the film, I climbed into bed for an afternoon nap, feeling exhausted, but I tossed and turned like a dervish, forgetting I had fuelled myself up with three cappuccinos. My brain raced with cautionary messages and promises to be on good behaviour.

  You’ve had a good scare, that’s how Helena put it, and she was so right. What did you think you were doing with the guy in that office? What the hell made you think the only way to crack this case was to literally go under covers? What are you trying to do? Screw up your life? You’ll watch it from now on. You have to. Squeaky clean. Nuns will blush when they see you coming.

  She said the tests were negative. Nothing to worry about. Not over Lionel. Not him either.

  I dozed but I didn’t exactly dream. It was more like a fantasy playing in my head. I was back in the nightclub, visualizing the scene between Lionel and Neil, and in my imagination, Neil unbuckled his belt, let down his trousers, and this time he went through with it. The crowd let out a cheer when they saw his long, thick cock released from his Jockeys, and I saw Shondi lying on the table, once again only in her little ankle socks and trainers like the first time I saw her.

  Neil fucking Shondi in front of the crowd, with Lionel looking on and doing nothing. And then Shondi was hugging me like she did after I booted that creep that was assaulting her, nude and hugging me, saying, “Thank you.”

  I kept feeling her hugging me in a quick embrace again, thanking me. I remembered the sweet odour of her perspiration. She had smelled good when she was close to me.

  I lay there in bed, and I was soaking between my legs.

  Shondi.

  You’re projecting, that’s all. It didn’t mean anything. I tried to pull my mind back to images of Neil making love to me, but they wouldn’t come. Reception was experiencing technical difficulties.

  I reached for the phone to call him.

  Don’t, I told myself. Don’t do it.

  No doubt Janet had belatedly rushed to “her” man’s side. Jeez, the last thing I needed was to have her pick up his phone when I called.

  Daniel Giradeau had left a text on my mobile, suggesting we link up again.

  I got out of bed and dialled his number. In response to his nonchalant hello, I simply asked: “Where?”

  It took him all of two seconds to recognise my voice, and then he replied, “Green Park.”

  It sunk in what he had in mind, but I recovered quickly. “Okay.”

  “ASAP?”

  “What else?” I scoffed. And then I went a little insane.

  I was the one who offered very precise directions to the exact spot, the exact bench, where I wanted us to meet, to make what was in my head become real. He was about ten minutes late, but I could forgive him for that, and when he saw me, he called my name in astonishment: “Teresa?” He was surprised at how brazen I was, how I could match him for shock value.

  I had stripped off my yellow tube top, my orange sarong and my sandals, standing completely naked in front of him with only the protective cover of bushes and trees. I dropped to my knees and unzipped his fly hastily. Before he could make another protest, I had pulled him out and put him in my mouth, making him hard in seconds.

  Dogging. The two of us.

  Fucking someone in public places, mostly parks, often with someone else watching. It was supposed to be a phenomenon in London and a few other major cities.

  Giradeau fucking me hard from behind, making me collapse to my hands and knees, and when the young mixed couple came along—kids in their teens, black boy and white girl—I panted, “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

  “Wasn’t going to,” he panted back.

  Eye contact with the boy, watching me naked right there in the park, and he could see everything. I swore I saw the white girl’s nipples harden through her cotton blouse. She looked at me, looked at Daniel and tried not to stare at the huge pink dick driving into me. They traded looks of disbelief, checked over their shoulder to see if anyone else had noticed, and it was the girl who actually led the boy closer. They knelt down a few yards away in front of a tree and watched us, the boy with his back against the rough bark, the girl leaning against him.

  We must have put on quite a show, because the boy’s arms slipped from around her waist to start fondling her breasts, and she didn’t stop him. After a while, he deftly unbuttoned her jeans and slipped his hand down her pants, and she still didn’t stop him. She was pretty, and she looked very pretty as she came with her eyes closed to tight slits, her small white teeth biting her bottom lip. The boy had managed to shrug her jeans down so that we could see a forest of fine brunette pubic hair.

  I moaned, and as my arms gave out, I lay there in the grass, smelling the earth; Daniel fell on top of me and grew even harder. Warm jets of spunk fired inside me, and my pussy contracted with a fresh orgasm. I craned my neck so that Daniel could kiss me, and then he rolled shyly off my back and with a slightly contrite look to the other couple, ducked into the trees to sort himself out. I sat up, still nude, feeling an amazing euphoria as I looked absently around for my handbag. I needed tissues.

  As I wiped myself, I saw that the boy by the tree was frantically getting out from under his girlfriend. She looked at him in both wide-eyed surprise and amusement, laughing and seeming to say what are you doing? What he was doing was opening his trousers and pulling down the hem of his Jockey shorts. He managed to pull out his enormous hard-on before he lost all control and a geyser of semen flew forward.

  The girlfriend first started in surprise, and then she moved in to try to help him. She grabbed his cock to jerk him a little, kissing him on his neck, his cheek, trying not to get in the way in case he shot this time all over her. She glanced over at me helplessly, the boy’s eyes still on me, and I could see his erection was still powerfully hard to the point of painful.

  I looked directly at him as I moved into a squat, my legs open, balancing on the small balls of my feet as I moved to cup my breasts.

  He fired a long stream of cum again, his girlfriend’s hand jerking him quickly to help him, and then she threw caution aside and kissed him deeply. When they finished and looked my way, I stood up and ducked backward into the bushes, smiling and waving goodbye. I would never see them again.

  Daniel was ready with my tube top and sarong, dangling my sandals. When we emerged from the bushes, we passed a pair of foot patrol officers and I burst into nervous giggles.

  We went to dinner, eating mostly in silence, and then he took me back to his flat, one of those apartment buildings out near Canary Wharf where corporations rent for long-stay foreign executives. I could hear distant foghorns for the shipping traffic.

  It was late by then, but Daniel never even bothered to turn the lights on. We groped in the light spilled from the hallway, stumbled in darkness to his bedroom and fucked once more. I could never call what I did with Daniel Giradeau “making love.” It was a satiating of appetites, not something animal or mechanical but a transaction of bodies. Foreplay with h
im was always a competitive sport. And when he came, it was a reminder that no matter how much we reveal ourselves in orgasm, it’s something we ultimately feel alone. I could feel him shooting inside me, but he was one of those guys who repressed every grunt of pleasure, every moan of release.

  He was gone by the time I woke up the next morning. Well, you don’t leave a woman in your flat unless you trust her and have nothing to hide.

  Or you simply don’t expect she’ll find anything.

  Me, big snoop that I am, figured there’s always something to find. And now in daylight, I could take a good look around.

  I showered, dressed, raided the fridge for breakfast, bolted the door and then got to work.

  Daniel’s flat, Daniel’s surroundings. Despite having his hands all over my body, he had quite deliberately kept himself emotionally closed-off and impersonal, I think. And so it was with his home, although he had at least confessed he didn’t think of it as such. Yes, the flat was on a long-term lease, he’d said, in his company’s name. His kitchen was full of sleek Bosch appliances, the living room all modular Sanyo consoles for the stereo, the flat-screen telly (baffling tastes in music—retro seventies funk, German techno-pop, Yo-Yo Ma and a collection of soundtrack albums).

  The pictures on the wall were neutral, generic prints of touristy London landscapes, the kind that get left behind by the owner and then ignored by a new resident—someone who didn’t expect to stick around. On the coffee table was a neat stack of old Economist issues and a couple of copies of The Telegraph. Jeez, not even an old dog-eared paperback for reading at night.

  Of course, some guys don’t really care about their environment, but you’d expect to see some artefact of personality, some remnant of home. Though he’d said he’d been in London for about a year, I found a suit bag but not even an unpacked box of clothes.

  His computer was empty. Nothing on it but the usual programmes for business execs, and he didn’t use Outlook. It took me a moment, but I realised there was something different about his office set-up—computer but no printer. Hey, lots of folks don’t need to spring for a printer, but he had one of the state-of-the-art Canon fax machines next to his tower hard drive, and if it could double as a printer, it wasn’t hooked up to be one. Instead, there was a stack of confirmation pages like you get with faxes.