by Blair Howard
I shook my head. “Nothing, really. I just had a funny thought, that’s all.”
“Oh please, share it with us.”
“Nah! It wasn’t that funny, and probably not appropriate.” I could have bitten my tongue off. What a damned stupid thing to say.
“Not appropriate. That sounds intriguing.” And the look she gave me as she said it was intriguing, too. She tilted her head slightly to one side, lowered her chin slightly, and looked up at me through her eyelashes.
The drinks waiter came and took our order. Dad had a gin and tonic, Olivia had a Mimosa, and I had a Blue Moon beer, no orange slice.
We sat for several moments, making small talk. I couldn’t take my eyes off her pendant. Then I looked at my father and made a tiny gesture with my eyes; he got the message.
“I wonder if you two would mind if I left you alone for a moment or two,” he said as he rose from his seat. “I’m in the middle of an important case, and I need to make a couple of calls. It shouldn’t take too long. Do you mind?”
Good old dad. Ever the diplomat. We both shook our heads and watched him walk through the lounge and out into the foyer.
“So, Harry. What is it you do for a living? Something... manual, I would imagine, from the look of you.” It was said with a slight smile, but I wasn’t quite sure how to take it.
“Actually, Mrs. Hansen, I mean, Olivia. I’m a private investigator.”
“Oh how interesting.” Yes, she was a class act. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her chin rested on top of her hands. “I’ve never met one before, a private eye? Or is it a private dick?”
I had my drink up to my mouth, and I almost choked on it. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that worn out old tag, but this lady was a trip. I put the drink down, sat back in my chair, and I laughed. I mean I really laughed, and so did she, evidently very pleased with herself.
And that set the tone for the rest of the conversation.
“Tell me, Harry, are you married?”
“No. Are you?”
“Of course. Who around here isn’t? My husband is in transportation. Hansen Trucking. Have you heard of it?”
Who the hell hasn’t? Their trucks are everywhere.
“Of course. Hansen is a big outfit.”
“One of the biggest. It pays for my rather... shall we say, extravagant lifestyle.”
Okay, time to take the plunge. “Olivia, I noticed your pendant. It’s rather unusual.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
There was a twinkle in her eye as she said it, but that’s all she said.
“Yes. I have one just like it.”
That got her attention.
“You do?”
How can I put it? The way she said it was a question, but also a statement, and the question was, I had a feeling, double-barreled: two questions in one.
I nodded and fished it out of my pocket and held it up for her to see.
“May I see it?” She held out her hand. I gave it to her.
She turned it over in her fingers, rotated it, with a somewhat enigmatic smile on her lips.
“So you do. Why aren’t you wearing it?” She handed it back to me, leaned back in her chair, and smiled at me. No, it was more than a smile. An invitation, perhaps?
“I went swimming this morning, at the ‘Y.” Where the hell did that come from? I hadn’t been swimming in years. “I took it off and forgot to put it back on again.”
She had a funny sort of look on her face, as if she was expecting something. I was at a loss. I didn’t want to ask questions. I was trying hard not to give the game away. I didn’t want her to know that I didn’t know what the pendant was, so I waited, smiling at her. She continued to smile at me. I slipped the pendant back into my pocket, reached for my beer, and sipped on it, looking at her over the rim of the glass as I did so.
After a moment of silence between us, she reached into her purse and took out a pen and a business card. She turned the card over, wrote something on the back of it, rose to her feet, handed the card to me, and then, without saying a word, turned and walked away. I gazed after her. There’s something alluring about a shapely woman in tennis strip, and this one was no exception. She walked quickly, her hips rolling as she went; yes, alluring.
I looked down at the card, at what she’d written. I was stunned. It was an address: 19 Alderney Gardens, Apt 9. Three o’clock. Don’t be late.
I looked up, but she was gone. My father was walking back into the room, looking back over his shoulder as he came toward me.
“Did you learn anything?” He sat down, a half-smile on his face.
“Oh yeah, but what the hell it all meant, I haven’t a clue. What do you know about her, Dad?”
“Not a whole lot. I’ve met her once or twice before. She’s married, though she’s rarely here with her husband. Nice sort, Hansen. Wealthy, very wealthy. She plays a lot of tennis. Not sure if it’s because she likes the game or the instructors. She’s here quite often. Lots of friends. All upscale. No scandal that I know of. That’s about it.”
I looked at my watch. It was already close to two o’clock, and I needed a shower and a change of clothes.
I got up from the table. “Gotta go, Dad. Places to go. People to see. Later, okay?”
He nodded. “Good luck, son.” He said it with a knowing smile.
I nodded and left him there, staring after me.
Chapter 21
It took me less than ten minutes to drive home, another thirty to shower and change, and twenty more to drive over to Alderney Gardens, a small gated community just off Brainerd Road. I gave the gate guard my name; he nodded, and opened the gates. It was five after three when I parked the car outside the one-story condo that was marked number nine in the nineteen block.
“You’re late,” she said, as she opened the door. “I told you not to be late.” She was smiling.
“Five minutes.” I grinned back at her. “Just five minutes.”
She had changed, too. She was wearing a loose-fitting white cotton dress, no shoes, and not much else. I could see the outline of her body in the backlight of the window behind her.
“Well,” she said, as she stepped aside for me to enter. “Don’t you look nice? That’s so much better than the nasty black outfit you were wearing.”
I wasn’t wearing a whole lot myself: tan slacks, a blue golf shirt, and loafers, no socks.
We entered what I assumed was the living room. It was nicely furnished, but not out of the ordinary, with a large picture window that overlooked the gardens.
“This is nice,” she said, as she turned to face me.
She put her hands on my forearms, came up onto her toes, and kissed me.
No, I wasn’t shocked, nor was I surprised. In fact, I’d expected it.
For several minutes, we stood together, arms around each other. She smelled faintly of lavender. I couldn’t believe what was happening, but I sure as hell was enjoying it.
Finally, she broke away, took my hand, and silently led me into the bedroom.
She pushed the door closed, walked over to the bed, turned to face me, and stood with her feet together, one knee slightly bent, like a model. She reached behind her, pulled something, and the dress slid to the floor: she was naked.
My throat went dry. I couldn’t help it, I licked my lips, for God’s sake, like a goddamn cat, and I could see that she was eyeing the bulge in my pants.
Everything, I mean everything, was exactly where it was supposed to be. She played tennis all right, and not just because of the instructors; she was fit. She had a six-pack that rivaled mine. She was tanned, and she was... waiting.
She was breathing quickly; her breasts were rising and falling.
“Oh please, come on. Forget the gloves, and the goddamn rules. I want you.” Gloves, Rules? What the hell was she talking about?
She took two steps toward me, stood up on tiptoe, and crushed her lips to mine. She grabbed my belt buckle, undid it, ripped the shirt o
ut of my pants, and over my head. I didn’t need any help with the pants, the boxers, or the shoes, and I am not one damned bit ashamed of what I did next. Put it down to research, if you like. I was on the job, in more ways than one, and this was a woman who didn’t take no for an answer.
So I suffered in silence... well, not really in silence, and I sure as hell didn’t suffer any, but you know what I mean. For almost an hour, we went at it... ah; okay, mostly it was her that went at it. Then we lay there, on the bed, on our backs, staring up at the ceiling, and my brain was in overtime. I had questions, and I needed answers. Gloves? Rules?
“What about your husband?”
“What about him?” She looked at me quizzically; her head tilted to one side so that she could see me.
“Isn’t he likely to walk in on us?”
“Hah.” She laughed. “No, of course not. This is my place. He never comes here, nor do I go to his.”
“You live separately?”
“No, silly. We have a home on the mountain. He has one, too, you know.”
“One what?”
“Pendant, of course.” Four! With her husband’s, that’s four of them.
“Pendant?” I raised myself up onto my elbows, twisted toward her, and took her pendant in my fingers. “You mean this?”
‘Yes, of course. What did you think I meant?”
I leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips. “I don’t know. I found mine. I was curious when I saw yours. What does it mean?”
“You found it? Oh my God.” Her laughter echoed off the ceiling. “Darling, when you found that pendant it was your lucky day, not to mention mine. That pendant will open up a whole new and very exciting world for you.”
She looked up at me, her eyes full of mischief, put her hand between my legs and said, “Come on, Harry. One more time, pleeease.”
Oh god, one more time. For another hour, we literally screwed our brains out. The woman was insatiable and, I hate to admit it, so was I.
“So, Olivia, tell me about the pendant. What does it mean?”
“Harry, when you hand your pendant to someone, like you handed yours to me at the club, or if someone simply shows their pendant to you, it’s an invitation.”
She looked at me through half-closed eyes.
“Go on.”
“Okay. It all started with OM. Have you heard of OM, Harry? No? Well OM is all about Orgasmic Meditation. It’s a business, perfectly legitimate, and they provide therapy, sex therapy, something for people who can’t get off, mostly women. It’s unique. Women, and men, so I’m told, buy into a fifteen-minute meditation session in which they take off their panties, or boxers, as the case may be. Then they lie down in a nest of pillows, and have their genitals stroked in very specific ways, usually by a man, but it could be a woman, wearing latex gloves. The stroker is called a research partner, a practitioner. But there are rules, no touching the research partner being the main one. Harry, I have to tell you, it was wonderful, at first. It did me a world of good, but then... well it is, after all, a business. The fifteen-minute sessions cost a fortune, and... Well, there was something missing; it doesn’t go quite far enough. Then some bright soul, to whom I shall ever be grateful, came up with a new version. It’s free. Yes, it has rules, but those are only guidelines pirated from OM. Touching... is optional. Are you with me so far?” She stroked my inner thigh. I nodded. Here we go again.
“So now we have Mystica, a version of kundalini, a club, if you will, which is represented by the pendant: two serpents. Kundalini is a Sanskrit word that means coiled like a snake. Kundalini is said to be spiritual energy, the energy of the consciousness, that the gurus believe resides within the sleeping body. Access to it can only be achieved either through spiritual discipline or by spontaneously bringing about a new state of enhanced consciousness. They say that kundalini opens new pathways in the nervous system, that it’s an awakening of a hidden treasure within. In our version, enhanced consciousness is achieved through, well... you know.... Now do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Oh I know you do,” she interrupted. “You sure as hell achieved advanced consciousness with me, at least three times, and I know I did, at least a half-dozen times.” She was laughing at me, and I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, too.
“So you found it, the pendant. I was wondering why you weren’t wearing it. It was a lie, wasn’t it? The swimming thing?”
I nodded.
“The pendant is an open invitation to an invitation. Had you been wearing it, I could have invited you... and I would have.” Her hand groped downward, but I was done, and I said so. She pouted, and then grinned, flopped back on the pillows and closed her eyes.
“Olivia. Tell me about the members. How many are there? Who are they? Is Congressman Harper a member?”
“Oh no. We’re not going there. You didn’t get your pendant legitimately. I’m not giving away secrets to a private dick.” At that, she giggled uncontrollably. “Besides,” she gasped. “I think I want to keep you all to myself.
“Why, thank you, I think. But tell me, how did you get yours?”
“Oh, come on, Harry. Don’t keep on.... Okay, I was given mine by a founding member. It’s the only way you can get one. Membership is restricted and includes some very important people.”
“Such as?”
She rolled over, slipped her hands between my legs, grabbed me, and said, “Not on your life, big boy.” Oh... what the hell.
I stayed with her until long after dark. We had a couple of drinks, and she tried to get me back into bed, but I was exhausted. Try as I might, I could not get another word about Mystica out of her, and try as she might, she could not get another rise out of me; and she did try. Oh, how she tried.
It was after eight when I left her condo. I drove out of the gates, turned left onto Brainerd, and spotted the silver Honda SUV as it pulled away from the curb behind me. I slowed to give it a chance to catch up with me, but it turned away and disappeared at high speed.
Mystica? It’s a damned sex club. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. And then I thought of something else: Kate. Oh hell.... Research, that's what it was, research.
Chapter 22
The next morning, I called Kate. It wasn’t a call I was looking forward to but it had to be done. Over the phone? Whew, I didn’t like to, but I didn’t trust myself to tell her face-to-face about my encounter with the inimitable Olivia Hansen.
“Hey, Kate.”
“Hi, Harry. What’s up?”
“I have some news, about the pendant. My father found the woman at the club, the one he thought was wearing a copy. She was. I did some research. Research... sheesh!
I went to see her last night. Seems it’s a key that unlocks entry into some kind of weird, mystical society. Membership is by invitation only. I didn’t get much out of her, other than that, and that sex could be involved. The membership includes some very powerful people. More than that, she wouldn’t say. Did you go to the gym?” That’s the way to do it; change the subject.
“I did. It’s just that, a gym. A very fancy one that seems to cater only to Chattanooga’s beautiful people; there were plenty of them there. I didn’t join or work out, didn’t have time. Sex? What does that mean?” Damn!
“I think the club is a vehicle for discreet encounters between members. She told me that the pendant is a device they use to introduce themselves to each other. Weird, huh?”
“Very. Are we still on for tonight?”
“Dinner at Ducat? You bet. In fact, I’ll give them a call and see if I need to make a reservation. Eight o’clock good for you?”
“Yes. Pick me up?”
“Sure. I’ll be there at seven-thirty.”
She cut the connection, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I felt like shit.
Chapter 23
I picked Kate up at seven-thirty. She looked delicious. She wore a simple, form-fitting gray woolen dress, black high heels, and a knee-length woolen overc
oat.
Me? As always, I had kept it simple: white shirt, dark blue tie, navy blue blazer, and dark gray slacks.
We arrived at La Maison Ducat right at eight o’clock. Only a few of the tables were occupied, but that was not surprising; it was, after all, Tuesday.
Now I have to tell you, I’ve been in some fancy eateries in my time, and this one was right up there with the best of them.
It wasn’t a big restaurant. There were perhaps fifteen or sixteen tables, all of them set for two, although they could all seat up to four people. The tables were covered with white linen, and the silverware was set for those who had been schooled by Emily Post: two knives and a spoon to the right, three forks to the left, a spoon and a fork at the head, a side plate with a butter knife, and three wine glasses. Three, for God’s sake. Thank the Lord for Mother Starke’s tuition.
There was a small bar just to the right, but no stools. Obviously, it was for use only by the wine waiters, one of whom arrived almost as soon as we sat down.
“The wine list, sir.”
He handed it to me. It was a two-page list with perhaps twenty offerings; no prices. I smiled and ordered a bottle of Louis Latour Pinot Noir 2009.
“Good choice, sir. Excellent, in fact.”
Kate grinned at me.
The wine arrived. I tasted it. He was right. It was good. I nodded. He poured, and then left us alone.
Five minutes later, the waiter arrived with the menu. It was table d’hôte, a choice of one of two set meals; again, no prices. We both settled for the rack of lamb with a bouquetière of mixed fresh vegetables. This was preceded by mock turtle soup, and the entre was followed by crème caramel dessert and, of course, coffee.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“The restaurant?” She looked around, frowned, and said, “Very nice, but you’re right. It is a bit out of place for the area. I don’t think there’s anything quite like it anywhere else in the city.”
“Well, you would know. So what the hell is a lowlife like Shady Tree doing owning a place like this?”
“I’d say he doesn’t. He’s probably fronting for someone else.”