Philip Kerr - The Five Year Plan (1998)

Kate had borrowed some surveillance equipment from the Bureau to obtain aural and pictorial evidence of Howard's infidelity and caught him banging the ladies' golf pro from the nearby Turnberry Isle Country Club. That was bad enough. Golf was such a stupid game. But it's the small things that really bother you and she had been even more appalled to discover that Howard's golfing partner was using the contraceptive gel from Kate's own bathroom cupboard for their stroke play. So with the help of a girlfriend in the Bureau's laboratory, and following extensive trial and experimentation, she had substituted the gel inside a tube of Gynogel for an identically clear and similarly scented brand of exercise balm -- an alcohol and menthol-based deep heat muscle rub that was definitely not recommended for use on sensitive areas. Especially the two sensitive areas that Kate had in mind. Even now, months after the event, just the thought of the tape she had made of her husband and his lover screaming through their hottest ever session of lovemaking could still make her laugh out loud. Whoever said that revenge was a dish best served cold had obviously never listened to two generous servings of overheated genitals.

Somehow Kate had never thought of herself as the vengeful wife. With her beautiful face, her keen appreciation of art, literature and music, not to mention a strong imagination, she had always seen herself as a more romantic type. It seemed odd to think about it now, but that was the reason she had joined the Bureau in the first place, and not some sawgrass-dull firm of Downtown attorneys. She had wanted action and excitement, even the occasional danger. But of late the most hazardous thing she had done had been forgetting the safety catch on her Lady Smith & Wesson; and for all that she needed a weapon she might as well have been packing a hatpin. In the hope of getting a foreign posting, like Bogota, Caracas, Lima or Mexico City, Kate had started to learn Spanish. Meanwhile she stared out to sea and dreamed of adventure.

Chapter SEVEN

Everyone agreed that Al Cornaro's wife, Madonna, was an extraordinary woman. It wasn't that she was beautiful, just that everyone thought it extraordinary that Al should have married her at all. Most of the guys who worked for Tony Nudelli were married to beauty-parlor blondes with brassiere-sized IQs and Conde Nast educations. Not so much trophy wives as tin cup ones, these were the kind of women who could manipulate an eyebrow pencil with more skill than they could use a pen, and for whom oral skills meant giving a good blow-job. What made Madonna different was her intelligence, her sharp tongue, her total disregard for self-image, and the size of her tits. The tits were genuine, you just had to look at the rest of Madonna to work that out. They hung around her waist like something that had been sculpted there as a dry run for Washington and Jefferson on Mount Rushmore -- a monumental effect that was enhanced by Madonna's dislike of brassieres -- or for that matter any underwear at all -- and the recent birth of her fourth son, Al junior. Al senior loved his wife, but it didn't stop him making jokes about her for Tony Nudelli's amusement. Keeping Tony amused was an important part of Al's job as Tony's business manager. Keeping him amused and taking care of business. Colonel Tom Parker with guns and jokes. Today the business included Dave Delano, but first Al wanted to make sure Tony was in a more forgiving mood than the day before when Al had had to tell him that Willy Four Breakfasts had fucked up and was now laid up in the Miami Beach Community Hospital with a serious eye injury, courtesy of his planned victim.

It was not quite ten o'clock when Al arrived at Nudelli's luxurious villa in the heart of Key Biscayne. He recognized the red Porsche convertible that was parked in the driveway and instinctively made his way to the 6,000 square foot pool-house. He knew his boss, a keen swimmer, would be in the sixty-foot pool under the personal supervision of his coach, Sindy, a former lifeguard from Wet n'Wild in Orlando. Al liked to see Sindy, not least because she was usually naked and there was always a lot to see. He was a non-swimmer himself, but it might have been worth getting into the water just to have Sindy encourage him to learn in her own special way. From time to time she would dive gracefully off the granite deck, chase the naked Tony underwater like some fabulous dark dolphin, and then get underneath him to lick and nibble his penis. Most people thought Nudelli was called Naked Tony because of his surname, but Al knew different. Al knew that it was mostly because of what Tony and Sindy got up to in the pool. Sindy told Al that she got the idea from reading a book about the Roman Emperors, and in particular the life of Tiberius. Al wasn't much of a reader, but that was one book he just had to take a look at, and they were every bit as depraved as she had said. Sindy was tall, black and beautiful and merely looking at her gave Al a hard-on. Tony called her his Angel-fish.

Al walked into the pool-house.

'Morning Al,' smiled Sindy.

'Morning Sindy.'

Just about the first thing Al looked for after he had looked at Sindy's pubic hair and then her tits was Sindy's orange juice. Tony didn't swim a prescribed number of lengths, or even a set period, but only for as long as it took Sindy to finish him off in her mouth. If Sindy was drinking orange juice it meant that she and Tony were done.

'Party over?'

Sindy toasted Al silently with half a glass of juice and then sipped at it teasingly. Al's eyes stayed on her lips and the juice.

'Want some?' she said, offering him the glass.

'Ah no, thanks, ah, Sindy.'

There was no way Al was going to put his lips anywhere near that glass after what her mouth had been doing.

'Sure? It's um... freshly squeezed. Y'know what I'm sayin'?'

'Sure. I ah... just had breakfast.'

'Hmm. So did I.' Sindy swallowed thoughtfully. 'Rather a lot as it happens. Tony must be taking extra zinc or something.' Giggling at Al's very obvious discomfort, Sindy tapped him on the nose with one of her long, scarlet fingernails and called out to the weary looking man crawling slowly towards the poolside: 'OK, hon, I'm outta here. You OK? Want me to help you out?'

'I'm OK. And you helped me out enough already. Thanks, baby. I'll call you.'

'Later.'

Al watched Sindy's bare ass all the way back to the changing rooms and shook his head in quiet desperation.

'I should learn to fuckin' swim,' he said.

'You said it, Mary Joe.'

'Mary Joe' was what Tony always called Al whenever the subject of Al not swimming came up, after Mary Joe Kopechnie, the girl who drowned at Chappaquiddick when Ted Kennedy didn't. 'Mary Joe', or sometimes 'Pussy'.

Nudelli sank beneath the surface of the water and kicked his way toward the pool steps. Al had to admit, Tony looked good for a man of his age. His shoulders and chest were broad and he still had all his hair which was a Cary Grant shade of silver gray. Nudelli enjoyed the comparison.

'Hand me that robe, will ya Al?' Nudelli said, surfacing again and coming up the steps.

Hung too, thought Al. Like a horse. It looked like Sindy had her work cut out. For an older guy Tony sure had a whole lot going for him. Al collected a towel robe off the back of a white rattan chair and handed it over. Nudelli slipped it on. As he sat down he jerked his head toward the wet bar.

'Fix yourself some breakfast if you want,' said Nudelli, putting on his glasses and selecting a large Cohibas from the rosewood humidor on the etched glass table. 'There's fruit and coffee, all kinds of shit.'

'Thanks, I already had some.' Al started to laugh as he remembered the story he had prepared for Tony's amusement.

'No coffee?'

'Yeah, coffee, thanks. Here let me get it.' Al walked over to the wet bar, picked the Cona jug off the hot-plate and poured two mugfuls. 'Well, I say breakfast,' he said, bringing over the coffee. 'Weirdest fucking breakfast I ever ate. And that includes the ones in Holland.'