William Lashner - Falls The Shadow

Yes, the damn tie.

It was her idea. We were rolling around, trying to rev up the moteur de passion, but there was something missing. Maybe my French wasn’t good enough, or maybe it was that I was trying to speak French in the first place, but somehow it wasn’t quite working. And then she made the suggestion. Who was I to say non ? And she reacted with such gratifying enthusiasm to the very act of my tying it; she curled to every twist, moaned to every swish, stretched to her full naked length as I tightened the knot. Finally, when I crawled again atop her, she grabbed the yellow silk and pulled me close, and as we kissed, she tightened the tie until my throat constricted and I loudly gagged.

And away we went.

And was I into it? Hell yes. Well, just look at her. Who wouldn’t be? I kissed her jaw, her shoulder, her breast. One hand was rubbing her hip, the other gripping her thigh. You know, I’ve done this before. My fingers were tapping out mystical rhythms on her skin, I was riffing like a jazz master, I was into it. But when I tried to loosen my tie just a bit so I could, like, breathe, she stopped me. And when I caressed her shoulder, she pushed my hand to her breast. And when I bent down to kiss the ridge of her hip, she pushed my head to her belly.

“Try this,” she said. “Yes, harder. No, not too hard. Just like that. Faster. Slower. Shift over. Watch your knee.”

I was into it, yes I was, really into it, and then my arm started to get tired from this one repetitive movement that she seemed to like, and when I stopped, she said, “Don’t stop,” and when I slowed down, she said, “Keep going,” and my arm started cramping, and next thing I knew, I was in the chair, watching. And let me tell you, all you Internet-porn jockeys riding your mice like the joystick of an F-16, watching is nowhere near as good.

But there is one advantage to being in the chair; you have time to think. In the middle of the Sturm und Drang, your mind switches onto autopilot, but in the chair you can ponder the great questions of the day. Like, if French is the language of having sex and German is the language of watching sex, does that explain that last thousand years of European history? Or, if that’s not deep enough, then why is someone who looks like Carol Kingsly at this very moment having sex with someone who looks like me? And what was that wink Dr. Bob threw at me all about? Did he know I was going to get lucky before I did?

Things are just going too fast, things seem just too peculiar. Dr. Bob had pulled my tooth, he was building me a bridge, and now he is getting me laid. On the whole, pretty damn good service, but still. And does any of this have any relation to the murder trial of François Dubé? I have a new suspect, a new theory, I am ready to try the sucker without a single reference to dentistry, yet still Dr. Bob is working mightily to curry my favor. All his little stories, his repeatedly saying that he just wanted to help, his gratis treatment of Daniel Rose, and now his setting me up in a relationship with Carol Kingsly that was almost fulfilling and had certainly turned sexual, all of it seems part of some message. And that message seems somehow connected to François. But how? Why? What is he trying to tell me?

Uh-oh, something is happening on the bed. Ah, yes, it’s unmistakable. Look at the way her legs are stretching out, her toes are curling. Look at the way her jaw has tightened up. And my own face, I’m working so hard it’s a wonder my heart doesn’t give out right there. Things are coming to the proverbial head. But wait. She’s grabbing at my tie. The thin piece with one hand. The knot with the other. I’m working so hard there’s nothing I can do about it. And she has this twisted little smile. And suddenly she jerks the knot tight.

Aaaaack.

I’m back.

“That was so nice,” she said after, stroking the yellow silk, now wrapped loosely about my neck.

“It was, wasn’t it.”

“This is going so well.”

“It is, isn’t it.”

“Dr. Pfeffer will be thrilled.”

“Can’t we keep him out of it?”

“Oh, no, Victor, I couldn’t do that. I tell him everything. He’s my dentist. Did Mr. Takahashi hire you yet?”

“He tried, but I had to turn him down.”

She hit me, hard.

“Ouch.”

“It wasn’t easy for me to get you that job.”

“I had no choice,” I said. “I had a conflict. The guy he wanted me to send into bankruptcy court is a witness in my murder case.”

“And you couldn’t finesse it.”

“No.”

“If you want to succeed in business, Victor, you need to become a little more unscrupulous.”

“I lose any more scruples, I’ll end up in the Senate.”

“I told him you were the best lawyer in the city.”

“You told your client a lie?”

“That’s what I do. Public relations.”

“Maybe I should put you on retainer.”

“I’ll write you up a proposal in the morning.”

“I’m kidding.”

“I’m not. I don’t kid about business. You know what we should do next?”

“No, what?”

“Something I’ve been wanting to do with you from the first moment I saw you.”

“Throw me on the ground and suck on my neck?”

“No, don’t be silly. I want to help you pick out a new pair of shoes.”

Tommy’s High Ball, midday.

I stepped inside from the bright sun, squinted into the smoky, neon-tinged dusk, made my way to the bar. It was busy for that time of day. Two men were shooting darts, a card game was going on, Motown was playing softly. A couple of old-timers were talking baseball at the bar. I wasn’t thirsty, but I ordered a beer. I wasn’t hungry, but I grabbed a handful of peanuts and rattled them in my fist. Wearing a suit as I was, I didn’t exactly blend, but it didn’t take long for interest in my presence to subside.

“Is Tommy around?” I said to the barkeep with the white hair when I ordered a refill. He was way tall and way thin, and his frame was curved like a question mark, as if from a lifetime of trying to avoid hitting his head on low-hanging fixtures.

“Tommy who?” he said.

“Tommy from Tommy’s High Ball.”

“Mister, that Tommy’s been dead for twenty years.”

“Then why don’t you change the sign outside?”

“They call me Whitey.”

“I guess that explains it. Rumor is, a man who might be interested in finding a chess game could do worse than coming here.”

His eyebrows rose. “You any good?”

“Not really.”

“Then you’re out of your league.”

“Still, it might be fun, don’t you think?”

“No, no fun at all, unless you think sitting in the dunk tank at the fair is fun. You bring any money?”

“Some.”

“That might be enough.” He lifted his head to call over my shoulder. “Hey, Pork Chop, you got time to teach this fellow a lesson?”

I turned around. Alone in the booth closest to the door, a chessboard with its pieces arrayed in front of him, a thick green paperback in his hand, sat Horace T. Grant.

“I don’t got time for fools,” said Horace T. Grant, staring at the board. “Tell him the grade school down the block has got a chess club first Tuesday of every month. That might be more his level.”

“He says he got some money,” said the bartender.

“With that suit? He don’t have enough.”

“But the tie is nice,” I said. “Don’t you think?”

“How much?” said Horace.

“Let’s say five a game?”

“Get your skinny ass over here to my office,” said Horace T. Grant. “And make sure you bring me a cold one, too. Whipping white boys sure builds a thirst.”

I bought the beer, slid into the booth, watched as Horace set up the board for a game. A few men ambled over to watch.