John Abbott - Scimitar

Elita was waiting for him in the corridor. He glanced over the railing, said, “That elevator line looks long,” and suggested that they walk up to the pedestal.

It turned out there was no way they could walk all the way up. But the steps at the far end of the corridor went up to a landing and then another flight of stairs, ten steps in each flight, and then to a level with some kind of telephone exhibit that was out of order at the moment...

Out of order, he thought. Yes. Good.

... and then two shorter flights of steps leading up to three pairs of exit doors fashioned of thick plate glass framed in bronze — real bronze this time. Deadbolts on all of them, inside and out. He pushed open one of the doors in the middle set, and allowed Elita to precede him outside, where he took a picture of her standing beside a stanchioned sign that read STAIRS TO GROUND LEVEL, with an arrow pointing toward the doors they’d just come through.

They walked all around the star-shaped level; this was where the old fort had stood. Actually the shape was less a star than a square with a series of angular bastions protruding from it, two on each side except for the one facing the harbor channel, where a larger bastion jutted out. Standing at the point of this larger abutment, looking up directly into the statue’s face some hundred or more feet above, it was easy to see why the sculptor had oriented the front of his statue in this direction, at the mouth of the Hudson, and visible to any vessel passing through the Narrows.

It was also easy to determine that here was where the President would give his Independence Day speech. Here where the television cameras could pan up and away from Bush’s solemn, sincere, candidate’s face to the great impassive face of the lady in the bay. Whether they set up the speaker’s stand and microphones on this level... or the level above... or the one above that...

“Let’s see if there are any more stairs going up,” Sonny suggested.

“This is fun, isn’t it?” Elita said, and squeezed his hand.

She stood virtually naked in her mother’s bedroom, the room cool and dim now that sunshine had abandoned the Park Avenue side of the building, Sonny standing behind her, his hands on her breasts as they faced the vanity mirror. She could feel him stiff against her, erect between her cheeks, watching herself in the mirror, watching them both in her mother’s mirror.

She was wearing a white garter belt she’d taken from her mother’s lingerie drawer, sheer white nylon stockings, red patent-leather, ankle-strapped, outrageously high-heeled pumps, also her mother’s. She looked like a recklessly disheveled nurse wearing chorus-girl shoes designed by the devil. The shoes lifted her buttocks, raised them to his probing cock. She hoped he wouldn’t try to...

“Bend over,” he said.

“Listen, I don’t want you to...”

“Hands flat against the mirror.”

She leaned into the mirror, obeying him, palms flat against it, face turned, cheek against the reflecting glass. She was truly frightened now, there was something about him that was sometimes terrifying.

“Lift it to me,” he said.

“Please don’t,” she said.

And felt him probing her nether lips, felt him sliding familiarly into her wetness below, and lifted herself to him in gratitude and relief. Standing taller in her mother’s heels, she accepted him deeper inside her, and began throbbing almost at once, wave after wave of uncontrollable spasm seizing her as she strained against him, gasping, accepting him completely, melting against him, dizzy with pleasure, flush and faint and “Fuck me,” she said, “fuck me, oh fuck me...”

She lay beside him on her mother’s bed. His eyes were closed. He looked utterly peaceful and relaxed. She wondered if he’d learned to do all those things in medical school. The things he did to her. Did they teach you that in medical school?

“How many girls have you done this to?” she asked.

“Done what to?”

“What we just did.”

“Thousands,” he said.

“I’m serious,” she said. “How many?”

“Nine hundred and ninety-nine,” he said.

He was kidding, of course.

Wasn’t he?

“No, seriously,” she said.

“Why do you want to know?”

His eyes were still closed. With her forefinger, she began tracing the green scimitar tattoo on the underside of his left pectoral.

“I want to be special,” she said.

“You are special.”

“How am I special?”

“You’re passionate, and...”

“Well, anyone can be passion...”

“And responsive, and inventive, and...”

“How am I inventive?”

“You have a lively, inquisitive...”

“Mind? Give me a break.”

“Cunt, I was about to say.”

She fell silent. Finger still idly tracing the tattoo, wondering if she could dare...

She decided to risk it.

“I don’t like that word,” she said.

“Oh?” he said, and seemed to go suddenly tense beside her.

Immediately she said, “I didn’t mean...”

“That’s okay,” he said, and sat up. He turned to her, smiled in polite dismissal, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and began walking toward where he’d draped his clothes over her mother’s chaise lounge.

“Sonny?” she said.

“Yes?”

“What’d I say?”

“Nothing,” he said, and pulled on his Jockey shorts.

“Where... where are you going?”

“Home,” he said.

She was off the bed in an instant, rushing naked to him. He was reaching for his trousers. “No, don’t go,” she said, and hurled herself against him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

“Let go,” he said.

“Sonny, please, I didn’t mean to...”

“I said let go.”

“Please, I’m sorry, please don’t...”

The telephone rang.

“Answer your phone,” he said.

“Sonny, I don’t want you to...”

“Answer it,” he said.

She went back to her mother’s bed, lifted the receiver on the bedside phone, said “Hello” dully, and watched him as he pulled on his trousers and reached for his shirt.

“Miss Randall?”

“Yes, who...?”

And recognized his voice. The jerk from the British consulate.

“This is Geoffrey Turner,” he said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

“As a matter of fact...”

“I’ve run your friend’s name through the computer,” he said. “I’m happy to say...”

“I’ve already found him,” she said. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Well, good,” he said. “If I can be of any...”

She covered the mouthpiece.

“Sonny, wait,” she said.

“... further assistance...”

“Thank you,” she said, “I appreciate...”

And covered the mouthpiece again.

“Sonny, please!”

“Miss Randall...”

“Please, I’m very busy just...”

“I was wondering if you might be free for...”

“Thank you,” she said again, and hastily put the receiver back onto its cradle and hurried across the room to where Sonny was sitting on her mother’s plush velvet ottoman now, putting on his loafers. She forced herself onto his lap, threw her arms around his neck, lifted her lips to his face, tried to kiss him on the mouth, but he twisted away from her. She kissed his cheeks instead, his nose, his forehead, showered his face with kisses, murmuring “Please, Sonny, I love you, please, oh please...”

His voice low and steady, the words measured, he said, “Don’t ever tell me what you don’t like.”

“I won’t,” she said.

“Ever,” he said.

“I won’t, I promise.”

“Now get over there,” he said.

She looked bewildered for a moment. Where did he want her? In front of the mirror again? Or was he...?