Scott Turow - The Burden of Proof

"Well, look who's gettin lucky," Margy said.

Stern turned off the lamp behind him. Moving across the room to meet her, Stern kicked through.two or three piles of records. She was much smaller than she appeared, an inch or two shorter than he, but solid in his arms. Her mouth was raw and smoky.

How strange and friendly this all seemed. She even drew back at one point to laugh. He swept aside her shirt, touched her breast, and then bent gallantly to kiss the small dark button where his years with Clara had taught him to expect more. Drunk as he was, this was awkward, and they rolled almost at once onto the bed. Body to body, there was in the small details-the texture of flesh, the precise location of elbows and knees-the exciting news of contact with a different female structure, but over him swam, surprisingly, the sensation of something familiar; he was more relaxed at this than he would ever have imagined. It was this old mysterious human thing relived, man and woman, nothing larger than that. She worked off his tie, opened his shirt. Her leg was up over him as she embarked on this enterprise, and almost casually his hand came up to the warm slick arena at her bottom. She had washed there and his fingertips slid in a bit, and this, this ancient sweet warm feel, this! sent a spectacular surge through him so that he suddenly .groaned.

In a few minutes they were joined. Margy for her part slid into a transport of her own. Her eyes were closed, and as Stern rolled, she made a peculiar internal hum, pulling herself down into him with every stroke. There was something oddly practiced and isolated about it;

Margy knew how to look after herself. Near the end, she put one hand on his butt and held him where she wanted him, dove onto him a final time and then approached the peak and reached it with a terrible tremolo whinny, setting both hands and their long red nails groping in his back.

The thought of those crimson-tipped hands pressed into the loose pale flesh of his own back-the image reached him as something remarkably tantalizing, and that, as much as Margy's agitation, the rising pace of her breath, set him off finally, so that he momentarily losi'track of her, still struggling against him, and then waked to her, this soft, sweet-smelling woman beneath him going still at almost the same second as he did. She pulled him to her in a kind of gratified, comradely hug. ,Terrific," she said, a remark which Stern heard as praise of the process really, rather than him. Her eyes were still closed and she smiled faintly; her makeup was messed. Her familiarity with all this, her comfort in a strange man's arms, was a phenomenon. Somewhere long ago she had vowed to take whatever was to be had for herself.

She kissed him beside the ear and rolled away, grabbing the pillows on her.side of the bed. Familiar as any man's wife, she arranged her rump solidly, so that it found some part of his flank, and then she disappeared into sleep, so quickly that Stern somehow recognized that, more than anything which had gone before, it was this moment of refuge which had been the goal for Margy. To her, he was a man she could calmly sleep beside. In her drowse, she murmured. The light, Stern supposed. He leaned closer to the strange, intimate smell of her, to catch her whisper.

"Oh, God," he said when he heard her, and then embraced her, fit himself to her, and, once the lights were out, slept.

Don't bill us, she had whispered. Don't bill us for the time.

Sometime he woke. He bolted upright, staring blindly in the dark. He had no idea, no inkling where he was, until he recognized a chair where his suit hung and remembered the hotel, Chicago, Margy. He could still feel the weight of her form beside him, but he dared not. reach for her. There was a distinct line of pain boring inward from his temple.

He groped for his watch on the bedside table, then realized he could read the hieroglyphics of the blue digital numbers on the clock radio: 3:45. That was not what struck him, though. It was the calendar, also there in smaller figures.

He sat at the edge of the bed, calculating as Margy's heavy sounds came to him in the dark.

Forty, he thought. Since the day he came home to find her.

Forty days, exactly.

When he woke, she was sitting on the bratified, comradely hug. ,Terrific," she said, a remark which Stern heard as praise of the process really, rather than him. Her eyes were still closed and she smiled faintly; her makeup was messed. Her familiarity with all this, her comfort in a strange man's arms, was a phenomenon. Somewhere long ago she had vowed to take whatever was to be had for herself.

She kissed him beside the ear and rolled away, grabbing the pillows on her.side of the bed. Familiar as any man's wife, she arranged her rump solidly, so that it found some part of his flank, and then she disappeared into sleep, so quickly that Stern somehow recognized that, more than anything which had gone before, it was this moment of refuge which had been the goal for Margy. To her, he was a man she could calmly sleep beside. In her drowse, she murmured. The light, Stern supposed. He leaned closer to the strange, intimate smell of her, to catch her whisper.

"Oh, God," he said when he heard her, and then embraced her, fit himself to her, and, once the lights were out, slept.

Don't bill us, she had whispered. Don't bill us for the time.

Sometime he woke. He bolted upright, staring blindly in the dark. He had no idea, no inkling where he was, until he recognized a chair where his suit hung and remembered the hotel, Chicago, Margy. He could still feel the weight of her form beside him, but he dared not. reach for her. There was a distinct line of pain boring inward from his temple.

He groped for his watch on the bedside table, then realized he could read the hieroglyphics of the blue digital numbers on the clock radio: 3:45. That was not what struck him, though. It was the calendar, also there in smaller figures.

He sat at the edge of the bed, calculating as Margy's heavy sounds came to him in the dark.

Forty, he thought. Since the day he came home to find her.

Forty days, exactly.

When he woke, she was sitting on the bed, legs crossed, wearing his shin. Pillars of photocopied records had, slid into a slatternly mess before her.

Margy s head was on one hand.

"Well, I figured it out," she said. "He's a peckerhead, okay."

Stern, naked, found his shorts beside the bed, and narrowly parted the drapes. The sun had only begun to rise in an overcast sky. He went briefly to the bathroom. There was a woolen feeling in his mouth and head. A hangover?

He groped in his jacket pocket for his reading glasses.

"Now, what is this?"

"House error account doesn't look very good." Margy flopped over onto her belly. Her bottom was bare and her position on the bed pressed up an.appealing d6colletage. Stern for a second tried to take account of events. He was a widower, in his underwear, engaged in a business conference, and his penis was already growing firm. She picked up a copy of the subpoena and penciled check marks beside four trades, large positions, four different dates. "Now, these guys are gonna move the market, right?"

Perhaps because of the distraction, he was momentarily confused. Then he recalled Dixon's explanation last month: large orders, a thousand contracts at a time, would cause a sharp movement in the price of the future.

"Supply and demand," said Stern.

"Right," she said. "Now, suppose you got a customer's gonna be comin into the pit with a huge buy order that'll run up prices through the roof. And you're a big peckerhead and wanna make a buck or two. What'd you do?"

Stern thought. "Purebase what the customer intends to 'buy?"

"Dang right."

"Prior to the customer?"

"Dang right."