Way of a Wanton (16 page)

“Why not?”
 

She hesitated only a moment, then shrugged, and her amazing breasts got restless under the sweater. “Why not?” she said. Her eyes sparkled and there was laughter in the turned-up corners of her mouth.
 

I cleared my throat, wondering what my next line was.
 

She pointed. “That thing's a greeble, I think.”
 

“Doesn't look very agreeable.”
 

She laughed happily. “I mean greeble.” She spelled it. “The thing with the legs. Up on Mars or somewhere.”
 

“Oh.” I had at my drink again, then watched Sherry while she took a long swallow of hers. We flipped through the pulps and the slicks. No clues. I picked up the bundle of letters.
 

“What are these, Sherry?”
 

“Some of Zoe's, but I never looked at them before. I hadn't even thought about them since—since it happened.”
 

I examined the top one. In the upper left-hand corner it said simply, “Swallow,” with a local address. “I think we'd better look at them now,” I said.
 

There were an even dozen letters, and we both read them all while we sipped on our drinks. The letters were all from Swallow to Zoe, but I couldn't find anything wrong with them. They were mushy in spots, but hardly incriminating; no breach of promise, no passionate avowals of love undying. Mainly Swallow had referred to places they'd been together or plans they'd made for an outing. A careful boy, this Oscar. But all the letters were signed, “Love, Oscar.” I wasn't sure whether or not that would mean anything in a court of law.
 

Finally we finished, stacked the letters again in the bookcase, and got up off the floor. It didn't seem that we'd accomplished anything. We went through a writing desk Zoe had used and I picked up a bulky book of mimeographed pages bound in a green paper cover. The name “Jungle Girl” was on the cover.
 

“This the movie?” I asked Sherry.
 

She took it from my hands and flipped through it. “It's a copy of the shooting script on ‘Girl.'”
 

“What would Zoe want with the thing?”
 

She shrugged. “I don't know, Shell. Sometimes she brought work home with her.”
 

“I don't know the score, but there wouldn't be any work on this, would there? I understand they've been shooting for two weeks or so already, so this must have been finished weeks ago.”
 

“Maybe she wanted to study it; she did a little writing herself. I don't know.” She shrugged again. I almost spoke to her about that shrugging. Then she added, “But, Shell, whoever was in here wouldn't be looking for this. There are lots of them around the studio.”
 

“Yeah. Only there doesn't seem to be anything else here anybody would want. Hey, maybe he wanted
you.
”
 

She laughed and walked away from me. We spent twenty minutes more looking over the house, then went into the kitchen, where Sherry mixed more drinks.
 

“I still don't know any more,” I said, “except that the guy was after something. Of course, maybe he got it.”
 

There was only a little gin left in the bottom of the bottle, so Sherry turned the bottle upside down and split the remaining drops between our two glasses. “That's all she wrote,” she said brightly. “No more.” She smiled at me, her lips curving in that rainbow look I'd first noticed about her.
 

“Think it's enough,” I said.
 

Somehow we wound up back in the bedroom. I got into my uncomfortable chair and Sherry sat opposite me on the bed again. “Shell,” she said slowly, not looking at me, “do you think ... anything else will happen tonight? I mean, like that man coming back. I never had anything like that happen to me before.”
 

It was odd, but the thought hadn't even occurred to me until now. We'd been busy looking around and talking and I just hadn't thought about it. I knew it would have occurred to me eventually, though.
 

“I don't know,” I said. “There's a chance.” I thought about it. “Yes. Yes, indeed. Look, Sherry, what say I stay here tonight? I could ... sleep on the couch. Or on the lawn or something, ha.”
 

She looked straight at me. Funny thing, she didn't appear frightened. “I'd feel lots safer,” she said. Her face was solemn at first, but then a slight curve appeared at the corners of her soft mouth. The curve widened perceptibly and soon she was smiling. “You wouldn't mind, would you, Shell?”
 

I had a gulp of my drink. “No, no. Sure not.” She drank the last of her highball and put the glass on the floor. She straightened up and started to yawn, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. Then, deliberately, she put her arms above her head and stretched.
 

I sat right there and stared, remembering everything all over again. Old frustrated Shell Scott, that was me. I was an ambulatory emotional shambles, and at the rate I was going, pretty soon I'd be gone. My nerves were about to peel open like artichokes at a free banquet. One more frustration and there'd be no more tomorrow; I'd just die right here, stewed in my own juice. I was glad I'd had that last drink; right now no gin could even trickle down my throat.
 

Sherry sighed and I echoed her. She stood up. “Then it's all settled?” she asked me softly.
 

I nodded. She walked over to the door of the closet in the wall I was facing, opened it, and reached overhead for some sheets and blankets on a shelf. She carried them into the lighted front room and I saw her drop them on the couch. She came back into the bedroom.
 

“Sleepy?” she asked me.
 

I'd never been so unsleepy in my life. “Not exactly,” I said hoarsely.
 

“Talk to me a little before we go to bed?” She laughed and said, “I mean before we say good night. Maybe we can forget all this trouble for a little while.”
 

“Love to.” I finished my drink and placed the empty glass beside hers on the floor. I said, “If I can talk, that is. I think I already mentioned something about your making conversation difficult.”
 

She stood in front of me and looked at me for a long time. Finally she took my hand and pulled me up out of the chair. “Turn around,” she said.
 

I was confused. What was going on here? Turn
around?
I turned and Sherry pushed me back toward the bed till my knees hit it and I sat down, more confused than ever, but not minding a bit.
 

“Now you sit there, Shell,” she said. “And don't look around. I'll try to make conversation less difficult.”
 

I had a vague idea what she meant and there was a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach, like a sickness. Like sleeping sickness. “Oh?” I said. “Ha. Ho. O.K.”
 

She walked around the bed to the closet, which was now at my back. I heard her open the door again, then she said, “And don't look around, Shell. Please, I mean it. Promise?”
 

“Sure.” Hell, I'd have promised to jump over the house.
 

I heard her moving around, things rustling, and that I didn't look is a tribute to my will power that will never fade. She said lightly, “A thick, lumpy old bathrobe, I think you said. There's an old one around here somewhere. If I can find it.”
 

I didn't really care if she never found it. She said, “Oh, here it is. It's certainly old enough.” Then came some more rustling, and finally she said, “There. Now it's safe.”
 

I took that to mean I could look. At least that would be my excuse. I turned my head and Sherry was walking around the foot of the bed. She was wearing a heavy blue robe that she held together at the waist with her hands. Though the material was thick, I could see the mounds of her breasts moving under the cloth, and I knew she wore nothing underneath it. That cloth was as thick as my tongue.
 

She stopped six feet away from me. “Is this what you wanted, Shell?” She was smiling easily, and if she was as wound up as I was, she didn't show it. She looked as though she had everything under control. She sure as hell had me under control.
 

I said, “That's exactly what I had in mind, Sherry, but I've got a feeling it won't help conversation.”
 

She laughed, throwing back her head, still standing a few feet away and holding the robe loosely, with one hand now. The robe gaped slightly open above her curled fingers and the swell of one heavy breast gleamed whitely from underneath the blue cloth. She looked at me again with her lips parted and her even white teeth pressed together in a tight smile.
 

“I'll tell you the truth,” she said. “I didn't think it would. But you like it?”
 

“You need an answer?” I still sat on the edge of the bed, but after several seconds I raised my hands and held them toward her. “Come here, Sherry.”
 

She didn't move for a moment. Then very softly she said, “I don't want you to leave me tonight, Shell.” She looked down at the hand that held the robe together. “Isn't it silly?” she said in an almost amused tone. “I couldn't find the belt for this.”
 

Then she let go of the robe, held her hands toward mine, and walked toward me. The cloth fell apart and first one smooth leg and then the other slid out of the robe as she stepped toward me. There was nothing underneath it. She was smiling still, her teeth pressed together. She suddenly looked hot, wild.
 

I took her hands as she stopped in front of me, held them tightly, then slid my hands inside the robe against the velvety skin of her hips and pulled her toward me.
 

She resisted, pulling back away from me, teasing me. She laughed softly, and it was obvious that she was enjoying herself. I was enjoying myself right along with her. It was out in the open now and we both knew it.
 

“All right,” she said. “Wait.”
 

She shrugged, dropped the robe from her white shoulders to the floor, then shrugged again. For effect, I guess.
 

No matter why she did it, she got an effect. Never in all my life had I seen an effect like that. I pulled her closer to me again, and this time she flowed smoothly toward me and moved her shoulders slowly from side to side.
 

It was damn near spontaneous combustion.
 

As a kid I'd made fire by rubbing two sticks together; I'd never be caught with two sticks in my hands again. I was in the jungle and the savages had me. I was tied to the stake and the flames were licking all over me.
 

Then Sherry put one hand on each side of my face and bent toward me as I slid one hand up her back to her neck and pulled her head down to mine. I pulled her gently and she moved around me and I felt the bed sink down at my side. I turned toward her, feeling her lips against my mouth, lips that were amazingly soft and smooth, warm and gentle against mine. Our mouths were pressed together as we slid farther onto the bed until our bodies were pressed together too. She pulled slightly away from me, her eyes half opened as were mine, and she looked at me for a moment, then said in a near whisper, “Kiss me, Shell, kiss me. Hold me and touch me.” Her voice wasn't light now, but thick and warm. “Kiss me, Shell. Hold me close. Closer, Shell ... tighter.”
 

After a minute I left her, turned out the lights, and came back to the bed as she pulled down the bedclothes. In a moment I slipped in next to her, held her tightly and warmly against me, her mouth barely touching my lips as she said again, “Closer, Shell. Hold me...”
 

Then her words stopped as my mouth found hers again, and her lips and body moved hungrily again with mine, and there was no need for words.
 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Twelve

 

I AWAKENED with yellow sunlight soaking through the window shade and falling on my face. For a moment I was confused, looking around the room and at the gray rug that should have been the black one in my bedroom.
 

I felt Sherry stirring beside me, warm and soft, the lush, curved length of her yielding against my back. And then I remembered. I turned toward her, raised myself on one elbow, and slipped my arm around her slim waist as she moved restlessly and then slowly opened her eyes. She looked at me blankly for a moment, then she smiled.
 

“Hello,” she said. She blinked her clear blue eyes a few times. “Why, I know you,” she said. “You're Shell something.” Then she laughed. “Yes, you're something.”
 

This little lovely felt a lot better than I do in the morning. I said, “If I'm not mistaken, we've met. Morning, Sherry. How do you feel?”
 

She stretched under the sheet. “Lovely,” she said. “Perfectly lovely.” She put her arm around my bare back and hugged me. “You tell me,” she said. “How do I feel?”
 

I grinned at her. “Perfectly lovely.”
 

Later I lit a cigarette, thinking I was unfrustrated enough to last me quite a while. Sherry put her hand on the side of my face. “You need a shave,” she said.
 

“Imagine I do. You sound domestic.”
 

“Shell.”
 

“Yeah?”
 

“I'm not ... just another woman, am I? Or am I?”
 

I kissed her lightly on the lips. “No, Sherry. You're not. You're something pretty special”