Making Love

by Norman Bogner

  Jane wiped her eyes, gained some control, and he held up his Dupont lighter for her cigarette. She didn't notice it, had probably lost a dozen like it.

  “Would you like to see a magnificent view of the skyline—an important view—and have a cocktail with me?”

  She didn't want to remind him that it was ten-thirty and the cocktail hour was behind them, that a view was either good or not worth mentioning, and that she had hated the Rainbow Room for many years.

  “Where?”

  “Leave it to me. Bob, home. That's Bob, my chauffeur. You can call him Bob. Bob, before you start, I'd like you to meet Jane Teller Siddley.” An uncertain black hand in the position of a half nelson was extended over the glass partition. “You'll be at her disposal until further notice.”

  He opened a small Frigidaire and revealed half a dozen bottles of champagne and a pound jar of caviar.

  “I never know when someone's going to have a yen for some of this. So I'm prepared. Jane, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Well?”

  “Who did your eye?”

  “Just an old friend.”

  He pressed her arm, interlocked fingers (her protector), and sniffed at her earlobe to find out if her scent didn't repulse him. It didn't. In the business of girls and real estate, nobody fucked Luckmunn. The car pulled up at an apartment house on Fifth Avenue.

  “Bob, if there any calls for me, will you tell them I'm out. I've got a telephone in my car, Jane, which you may not have noticed. We can even get ships at sea. Sometimes Bob and I go for a ride in the country and listen to all the radio calls. Gale four et cetera.” Bob did not appear enthusiastic about Luckmunn's listening pleasures, and he opened the car door solemnly. “I'll be in touch with you, Bob.”

  The doorman flew to open the door for Luckmunn and said, “Evenin', Mr. Luckmunn.”

  “Good evening.”

  As they waited for the elevator, Luckmunn hummed to himself.

  “This is one of the few buildings the Irish haven't abandoned. Puerto Ricans have protested to the union, but we're solidly behind our old employees.” He'd lived there exactly a year.

  As she expected, he had the penthouse, a Chinese houseboy, a lot of mirrors, white marble floors, and had doubtless personally supervised the decorating. It exuded the warmth of a Hilton lobby.

  “When Nixon's apartment was up for grabs, I made an offer. I thought, why not, Charles? People of the caliber of Lindsay or Javits or Rockefeller might drop in, or a Dean Rusk. Unfortunately, my offer was not accepted. I think there was some concern about my last name, and I wasn't going to change it just to suit a tenant group. It held me in good stead at the Bronx High School of Science where I was awarded a Westinghouse scholarship. And if it was good enough for Westinghouse, then it was good enough for me. The apartment went for less than my offer so President Nixon was the loser. Maybe he didn't know about it.”

  “How'd you find out about it?”

  “Connections.”

  He accepted her fun fur coat and caressed it before handing it to the silent houseboy for incarceration in the sliding-mirrored wardrobe.

  “I've got my hand on the city's pulse.”

  She walked down two steps into a dropped living room, a study in violent contrasts. White sofas, black rugs on white marble. It made her dizzy.

  “Jane, I'd like to ask you something.” She was about to answer but he was already asking. “How long do you intend to wear your dark glasses?”

  “Until my eye's better.”

  “Good.” He seemed pleased. “I just wondered if it was a habit of yours to wear them at night.”

  He moved close to her on the sofa and lifted them off, averted his eyes when he saw fuchsia specks trying to break through the deep plum color.

  “I don't think I've seen an eye like that since Jerry Quarry's last fight. I was at the Garden, hosting an evening of a group of investors. Who did it, Jane?” He sounded genuinely concerned and she relaxed for a moment. “I'd like to introduce him to Lee, my houseboy, just to see how tough he really is. Lee is a Black Belt from Korea. And when you get one there, you really earn it.”

  Now that Lee's credentials had been firmly established, she wondered where this talking land mine would lead her next. The balcony, ending momentary suspense. His come-on seemed out of keeping with his performance on the tennis courts with her mother. As a bet collector, Luckmunn had proved to be reluctant, although finally diligent. From Nancy, it was evident, he had required introductions, not fellatio, but had settled gamely for the latter. Appeasement oozed from his pores like sweat.

  A fine view, even an important one, she agreed. A snowflake fell, then many, and Luckmunn appeared to be delighted. Winter and a time for small treasons, expensive gifts, poignant cruelty, sibilant winds, indifference. Her sorrow slammed against her like a rabbit punch. Sonny in his West Side apartment removed from the possibility of glory: crushed pebbles on a roadway waiting for the tar job. It would come, no doubt of that. Luckmunn, she noticed, became increasingly exultant with the snow on his face. She thought it touched upon some undetected latent romantic ideal he concealed perfectly from the eyes of strangers. He embraced her and she felt herself respond involuntarily. Then he explained. Tomorrow the snow, men out of work, Christ, he'd insured himself against such eventualities and stood to gain by his men not working on the tract he was taming in the vicinity of Monmouth. Luckmunn, with land grants dating from Queen Isabella, was destined to bring civilization to New Jersey.

  She pulled away and he spoke of affairs of the heart and high premiums, worth every cent. Which? Emotions or insurance rates? She couldn't be sure. She went inside and he cautiously sprayed his breath with Binaca. Nice breath was essential in the cause of passion. How many curtains had been peremptorily rung down on gorgeous secretaries, stock brokers with a get-rich tip, bus drivers fired, manicurists poorly tipped, their destiny slipping through their fingers because of acidic stomach, too many Marlboros, or unsightly underarm wetness. Luckmunn would have none of it. Snowflakes in his hair, no crown of thorns but an olive wreath, he came in off the balcony smelling as sweet as the freshly powdered crease of a whore's ass. In his treatment of women, Luckmunn deserved three stars, a mention in Michelin's Guide, Jane thought.

  Champagne and delectable tidbits, even a side of Peking duck, were set on the table by the evanescent Lee—whose skill with Chinks, Luckmunn assured her, was exceeded only by the power of his headlock. He'd just watch her, he had dieting on the brain. His bathroom scale had brought the bad news early that same morning: two pounds overweight. He'd dry out for a day to make the weight.

  “How much time do you spend here?” she asked. It was like living in the lobby of a Miami hotel, transient, good for pickups, all the junk owned by some finance company.

  “I'm in and out. Here, the hotel, Connecticut every weekend I can. That's where I unwind.” Did she give him a funny look or was he imagining it? “I bought the place from a gentleman who was in a hurry to reach Costa Rica. His business demanded it.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No, three million dollars in back taxes. The Internal Revenue couldn't put a jeopardy lien on what he didn't own. He specialized in going bankrupt. You know, getting credit, then not paying bills and taxes. It's a good way to build capital if you don't mind spending your life in Puntarenas with elderly Nazis or going into the Mato Grosso.” He laughed to himself. “Imagine shopping for your trip at Abercrombie's and ordering a dozen machetes. I prefer to lease. My car, offices, apartment. You see, Jane, I have a theory—apart from the tax deductions I get—that this body belongs to God. He's the landlord and I'm only a tenant. So since I'm here on a leasing agreement, it's obvious that those are God's wishes.”

  “I don't understand you. Why'd you buy the house, then?”

  She knew he was a conniver, but this seemed craziness. She closed her eyes to try to recapture the scene he'd played with Nancy, but saw only darkness and a yellow sliver of light. In retrospect, it va
nished, belonging to some perverse fantasy she'd imagined. In the flesh, Luckmunn was pleasant, socially helpless, motivated by the desire to turn a buck. How had she made him the personification of evil?

  “The house was business. I had green which I couldn't account for and this man wanted to do a Houdini. Leasing is God's will.”

  “God's will?” She knew it worked in mysterious ways, but this was positively visionary. Few had been privileged by such a conference between Maker and tenant.

  “Peking duck is one of Lee's specialities.”

  She licked her fingers approvingly. He contented himself with overseeing; ounces were slipping from his body invisibly, self-denial seldom a public act.

  “Is there any reason why you're taking such pains to be nice?” she felt compelled to ask.

  The question obviously perplexed him, and he moodily broke his fast with a barbecued chicken wing. Aggravated, he ate, dipping freely into the duck sauce, and also grudgingly gave himself some champagne. Tomorrow he wouldn't weigh himself.

  “Fried in Crisco,” he explained.

  “You still didn't answer my question.”

  He located a hot scented napkin, smoking in a covered dish, and removed all traces of disgrace from his mouth and fingers.

  Troubled deep-set cocoa eyes peered remotely at her kneecaps as Lee tiptoed through to remove the plates. A splendid baritone on WQXR announced that Sir Thomas Beecham would lead the London Philharmonic in the Jupiter. Now that Mr. Sulzberger, Sr., the station's most important listener, was no longer around, Mozart could be played with impunity. Jane saw electronic buttons on an innocent-looking side table, accounting for the magic of sound.

  “Frankly, Jane, my behavior's inexplicable.”

  “This whole thing isn't simply to lay me?”

  The word offended him.

  “No, it isn't.”

  “You could have had any of the Brownies at the hotel.”

  “I'm aware of that. I explained that sometimes I arrange these things to entertain people who've been helpful to me. But personally, it's not my style.”

  Speechless, he rose, waved a hand, and told her a tour of the environs was now on the itinerary. The guest bedroom, guest bathroom; closet space enough for Korvette's men's boutique; a sauna with two entrances (a first in Jane's life); a study with real books, dustless, seldom perused, Lee and his Electrolux everywhere (the tip-off that the room was merely for show); the master's suite done in bamboo wall covering; the other sauna entrance; his suits, sixty-five of them on unstealable headless hangers; Meladandri labels; forty-one pairs of shoes polished so highly that a lady didn't need a mirror for her lipstick. Everywhere she turned she saw the initials C.B.L., even inside the shoes, a reproduction process speedier than binary fission. Did he frequent public skating rinks or bowling alleys where shoe checking was a risky business? Would he forget who he was, how his name was spelled?

  “Very impressive,” she said.

  Her tone worried him. Had he gone too far?

  “I keep another wardrobe in the country,” he continued blandly, but without making an impression. She had that magic quality his mother always raved about: background. Nothing daunted her. Self-taught, he had nervous suspicions that he occasionally acted in a gauche manner, but instantly forgave himself; an unfortunate, a first-generation American, the last son of elderly parents with a long history of sexual activity. His father into his seventies, his mother still a vessel in her sixtieth year. She'd given birth to her last after turning forty-three. Who could he learn from? He wandered into the bathroom and Jane heard a whirring sound as he made the Jacuzzi whirlpool operational. The lecture tour had culminated at his bed, which was electronically equipped by a German firm at a cost of thousands. Everything present except radar. Lee appeared on a closed-circuit television scouring a pot with a Brillo soap pad, always an interesting program before bedtime. For the masses, Merv and “Here's Johnny,” but Luckmunn preferred Lee in charade. A new age dawning, the era of silent TV. Luckmunn had it. On the bedside table was a book with a place mark. So he did read! She picked it up: Human Sexual Response, a little hot mustard before retiring. A number of passages, she saw, were underlined, all relating to size. If a girl tried to give him an inferiority complex and pulled a ruler out of her bag, Luckmunn was prepared with his Standard and Poore reports on penises. Quality, not quantity. Longevity, not load—the true facts about fucking. Read them and weep. He'd open the book, recite a passage from his personal Screwtape Letters, then go into action while quoting insurance rates and the Dow Jones closing averages. Lee finished washing and mixed himself a malted in the blender. East met West at a meridian called Sunbeam. He tossed in an egg yolk, greedy little gook. No wonder Luckmunn watched. The bills for milk, Bosco, and eggs must have been astronomical. Luckmunn called to her. The Jacuzzi was on full blast, creating dizzying eddies of water in his private Gulf Stream. What an existence; a man who didn't have to worry about trade winds had everything.

  “Where do you go when you want to fish for salmon?” The blades churned like the Q. 2 rudder. No Chinook would ever make that leap.

  “I don't fish, as it happens.”

  He removed his shoes and socks and stuck his feet in.

  “It's very relaxing,” he advised her, inviting her in. She returned to the bedroom, lowered her stockings and stuffed them into her handbag, watching Lee furtively gulping his malted. She wondered if she could ask him if he wanted to do a little washing. She adjusted her bikini panties to belly-button level, sought help from Luckmunn's sexual New Testament by the tried-and-true formula of closing her eyes, flipping the pages, and pointing her finger at a passage for guidance. No luck, the subject was orgasms. She returned to the bathroom, where Luckmunn commented on her absence of bunions and corns. He himself was a sufferer, having done many stints during his youth as a waiter in Catskill resorts when money was tight. He opened a cabinet above the bath, revealing a complete line of Dr. Scholl's products. She lowered her feet in the water.

  “Do you show everybody your toilet or only people you really care about?”

  “Jane, you know nobody puts me on. Why is it that I really enjoy it when you do?”

  As their toes touched she had a wounded chest-clutching pain for Sonny. What a place for the reunification of intimacy! It would have been different with Sonny, no question of that. Her ailing athlete would have put epsom salts into the whirlpool rather than the Vita-D body food favored by the realtor. It smelt good though, despite the water's change from see-through to the murky green of an Amsterdam canal. Luckmunn oohed and aahed in the soft water, but made no reprehensible suggestions to Jane.

  “I do this whenever I have an opportunity. It's a good place to think.”

  She couldn't quibble with him, as she had an image of her mother, cocktail glass in hand, toe soaking with Luckmunn before a bang. Actually his ferocious performance on the tennis court, loping and leaping awkwardly, had little relationship to the soft-soaping she was now receiving. His manhood threatened, he became a savage. If he couldn't beat a drunken woman at a game (with rules), then he might just as well resign from life.

  Two switches on the wall with clock attachments and time settings up to fifteen minutes were pointed out by her host.

  “I wonder if heat or sunray would help your eye.”

  “Ice, just ice.”

  The crenelated pocket of skin under the eye drifting under the lens of her glasses had the implications of a birthmark for Luckmunn and made him unhappy. He'd never made it with anyone wearing dark glasses and wondered if the experience might be subtly different, more sensual, than the usual dazed eyes he encountered most frequently. A former shade-wearer he once dated under the assumption that he would be boffing a career girl had been a drug addict, and when Luckmunn disrobed her and removed the glasses, he had been confronted by pupils the size of microdots and track marks running crazily along her arms—which could lead only to derailment. The girl had offered Luckmunn her works and invited him to ski
n-pop if he couldn't find a vein, even offering to locate one for him. In the lost-erection event he had established a speed record, crushing the backs of his shoes getting into them, and moving like a man in a fire drill determined to save himself and not his credit cards.

  Jane, however, didn't appear to be drugged, just peculiarly individual. She got to him through his fishnet defenses, a supersub which crawled on the bottom of the sea and shot torpedoes before he could get a sonar beep.

  She had reversed their roles. By what sleight of hand, he could not imagine—and now he was fighting a defensive battle, retreating under her glare. A fleeting reference to Nancy's health earlier in the evening had elicited a vague response from Jane before disappearing back into the genie bottle of bad memories. Obviously Jane knew nothing of what had happened between them. Nancy, now confined, was neutralized. No one stood in the way of the future that had dropped into his lap. No one except Jane, an unfair obstacle. A strange first date, toe soaking, he had to admit to himself. His friendly business pimping hadn't upset her. She took that in her stride. Nothing could really shock Nancy's daughter. What those innocent eyes must have seen, before his arrival, in the way of gigolos and drunks had no doubt prepared her for all modes of perversions. Nothing left unsaid. His heart went out to her, prematurely toughened against her will. He'd sold himself on her. The easiest sale he'd ever made in a long career of high pressure.

  Her feet didn't excite him terrifically, since toes or ankles were for fetishists and Luckmunn knew with certainty that he belonged to the meat-and-potatoes class. Moving upward along the hypotenuse from knee to neck was more his territory, an area worth contesting, the hills, vales, and slopes of female topography. Definitely a land parcel to be surveyed and, if the report proved good, invested in. Her breasts, he could not get over. Short of girly magazines—in which they appeared hygienically cordoned off, and of such mammoth size as to reduce their functionality to such discredited practices as the Schaeffer method of artificial respiration—he'd never encountered a pair like Jane's, a marine color guard unflinchingly at attention under all weather conditions.