BENNINGTON P.I. “BONITA” (3 page)

3.

I won’t say I made love to Ivanka, because frankly, I think that word is bantered around far too much these days.  Love?  No, we enjoyed each other’s company, and that is that.  It was an hour or so of time well spent, the kind of time I am always grateful for, and look forward to happening again.

I’d wondered what Ivanka would be like in bed since first seeing her some years back.  She was every bit as talented a sexual partner as I suspected.  So much so in fact, I found myself hoping to give back as good as she gave, making sure to match the slow, easy rhythm of her body that eventually transformed into a more urgent and demanding pace.  When we were done, she stretched out on top of her massive, king sized bed and let out a long, satisfied sigh, so I think I did alright there.

You know, if more men spent just a little more time and a lot more consideration making sure they satisfied the women in their lives, this world would be a hell of a lot better place.  This slam bam, thank you ma’am thing the younger generation are always going on about, shit, it don’t take much talent to get off.  And if that’s all a person is focused on, well, that’s one pretty useless, selfish son-of-a-bitch, now ain’t it?

Women can drive men crazy, and I think a good deal of their motivation for doing so is because they are walking around so damn unsatisfied because of all the men out there who don’t seem to bother with making sure they are doing their part to make a woman feel appreciated, mind, body, and soul.  And a lot of that appreciation takes place between the sheets, and anyone who says otherwise is either a damn fool, a damn liar, or both.

So you take all these unsatisfied women, and they start bitching to their men, and those men, well they go run off on a crime spree, or start some war, or invent all kinds of bullshit problems to solve, like global warming and cow farts, all as a means of getting away from that poor, unsatisfied woman in their life! 

Why do you think a woman goes vegan?  It’s not because she don’t like meat.  No, it’s because she’s not getting any real meat.  Being with a woman should never be a fast food joint where you stuff up on a bunch of empty calories and then fall asleep as your blood sugar goes haywire.  No way man, it’s got to be a multi course meal, spread out slowly, to be fully digested and appreciated.

So fellas, take some time taking your time, know what I mean?

Anyways, back to my time with Ivanka.

Her bedroom was something else. I knew the woman was doing well, but that room was downright palatial.  The bed was a huge framed, dark wood monstrosity with posts that reached up and nearly touched the nine foot high ceiling.  She had a damn Picasso on the wall above her bed man!  A real deal Picasso!  Thing was easily worth a couple million by itself. And the attached bathroom was bigger than my entire studio apartment.

It was that bathroom we found ourselves together again after finishing up in the bedroom.  Ivanka ran a bath for me in an oversized, polished marble tub and had me slide into its perfumed waters.  Then I was the recipient of the best damn massage I’d ever been given, and over the years I’d dropped into more than a few massage joints.  That massage was another clue of how appreciative Ivanka was of our just concluded time in the bedroom.

If your woman is giving you regular massages, you’re doing right by her.  If you can’t remember the last time her hands worked out the kinks in your neck and shoulders, there’s trouble in paradise, and you haven’t been doing your due diligence in the giving pleasure department.  Best get your hard hat on and get to work.

“You really have lost weight Frank.  You need to eat more.”

I chuckled.  It had been a long time since anybody had told me I needed to eat more, and I have to admit, it felt nice to hear it.

“Well, maybe I’ll have to come around here more often so you can feed me.”

Ivanka made no reply as her fingers continued to knead the muscles in my shoulders.  I hoped I hadn’t frightened her off at the prospect of my visiting more often.  Finally she broke her silence.

“If you become an investigator, you need a new wardrobe Frank.  Your clothes don’t fit you anymore, and you need to look the part.  The right appearance means more business.”

I leaned my head back and smiled, feeling myself grow sleepy under the influence of the hot bath water and Ivanka’s strong, expert hands.

“You gonna take me shopping?”

I felt Ivanka’s breath against my neck as she bit gently down onto my left ear lobe.

“That’s exactly what I intend to do Frank.  Now enjoy your bath. I’ll have some food ready for you when you get out, and we can talk more.”

Talking?  Ah crap.  Now that’s the trade off to good sex.  You do that right, and for some reason I’ll never quite understand, it makes a woman want to talk to you about anything and everything that comes into her head.  I’m not much for talking, but it’s just one of those things you have to nod and smile to, because I don’t care how good you are in the bedroom, if you make a woman feel you’re not listening to her, well, hide the knives buddy, ‘cause she just might feel like cutting you then and there.

See, listening to a woman who’s off on a talking trip is like going to the doctor.  No man enjoys going to the doctor, but sometimes you just got to do it, because it’s good for your health, even if it means turning and coughing, or getting a finger stuck up your ass.

Making a woman feel like you care about what she’s saying – same damn thing pally.  Same damn thing.

4.

True to her word, by the time I made my way to Ivanka’s kitchen, which was just around the corner from her bedroom, she had prepared a plate of bread slices covered in caviar, complimented by a tumbler of scotch and water. 

If you’ve never had real Russian caviar washed down with a quality, twelve year single malt scotch, you’re missing out.  It’s decadent smooth, and one of those combinations that just makes life worth living.

“Thank you so much Ivanka.  You didn’t have to do this.”

That’s another rule for men to live by.  If a woman makes you a meal, even it it’s just a slice of toast, you damn well better tell her thank you.  Anything short of that is plain rude, and I don’t know about you, but I’m sick and tired of all the rude in this so called modern world of today.

People who say things are better today than they were before don’t know shit.  Times ain’t better – they’re just different.

“So you really up for some shopping Frank?”

I was amused by Ivanka’s excitement over the prospect of helping to dress me.  Women and shopping are like gravity.  Don’t try to understand it, just know that it’s always there, and in some weird way a man can never hope to comprehend, it all helps to make the world go ‘round.

“Absolutely Ivanka.  I am your canvas.  A little torn and frayed at the edges, but if anyone can make it look better, it’d be you.”

Ivanka flashed that rare smile of hers again, and then pointed to my half full glass of scotch.

“Want me to top that off for you?”

Be still my beating heart.  First we have sex.  Then she gives me a massage, feeds me, and now is asking me if I want more to drink.

Ivanka was proving herself the ideal woman.  This keeps up, I just might have to get married so I can lock this down for good.

A couple top offs later, and Ivanka called her brother Arman to come pick us up.  I knew Arman – he’d kicked the shit out of me last year outside one of my favorite bars.  No hard feelings, he was just doing his job.  He was a big, scowling, dark clouds always gathering kind of Russian.  Had connections to the local crime syndicate, but worked mostly with his sister providing security at her home, helping to keep the working girls safe, letting the clients know Ivanka wouldn’t put up with any shit, etc.

An hour later, Ivanka was looking back at me in an outfit she picked out from a men’s boutique store in the upscale 14
th
Street D.C. shopping district.  The store owner, a woman who was apparently one of Ivanka’s former call girls, even poured me a drink while she and Ivanka looked over various clothing options.

I began to feel like I was living out a scene from
Pretty Woman
, except I was the Julia Roberts character, and Ivanka got to be Richard Gere.  Have to admit though, I really did look the part of a high end private investigator.  I had the designer trench coat, Rat Pack era dress hat, shirt and tie, matching dress slacks, and a pair of handmade, Italian shoes that shined almost as much as my new cuff links.

Ivanka and the boutique owner, whose name was Melanie, both remarked how well I had “cleaned up.”  And you know what?  They were right – I looked pretty damn good.  Like somebody who might actually know what they were doing.  Maybe there really is something to that “clothes make the man” thing.

“You look so handsome Frank!  Like an ugly movie star!”

I downed the last of my drink and nodded toward Melanie.

“How much for the new threads?”

Melanie glanced at Ivanka and then looked back at me.  She appeared to be not quite forty yet, her dark hair cut short, her china white skin smooth and flawless.  She was slightly shorter than Ivanka, though far less imposing.  I sensed she was just a little nervous at disclosing the cost.

“For a friend of Ivanka’s, I’ll give you a discount.  For everything, just thirteen hundred.”

Even in my political operative, better money days, thirteen hundred dollars for a new outfit would have caused me serious heartburn.  I knew my face had fallen into open shock after hearing the price.”

“Uh, I don’t need the cuff links.  Or the shoes, and maybe---“

Ivanka cut me off with a wave of her right hand as she placed her other hand on Melanie’s shoulder.

“Send me the bill Melanie.”

Now like most men, I have an inordinate amount of pride in wanting to appear self sufficient.  I had played along with the whole kept man thing out of fun, but actually having Ivanka pay for my clothes didn’t sit right with me.

“Hold up Ivanka, I can pay for myself.  I appreciate it, I really do, but no thank you.”

Ivanka regarded me with her dark eyes, her face a stern mix of determination and understanding.

“You will owe me Frank.  There will come a time when I will need your services.  This will be a down-payment for when that time comes.  Don’t worry, I have every intention of making sure you pay me back.  Your manhood remains intact.”

I wagged my pointer finger at Ivanka, hoping my face expressed how important it was I do just that.

“You’re damn right I’m paying you back.  I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t no mooch”

Ivanka’s eyebrows arched slightly as her mouth curled upward into the familiar almost smile I had grown accustomed to seeing.

“You spent all those years working in politics Frank, an entire system based upon mooching off of taxpayers, right?”

I opened my mouth to voice an indignant response, then quickly shut it.

The damn woman had a point.

5.

Four months later…

Business was ok.  Not great, but I was bringing in just enough cash to keep me pleasantly buzzed most nights, and a roof over my head by morning.

Mine was a strictly cash and carry operation.  No business license from the District of Columbia regulation Nazis.  No receipts.  No paper trail.  Thing is, I spent decades working for, and with, Democrats on the Hill.  Now we Democrats, well, we’re all for higher taxes, right?  But man do we hate to pay those taxes, and most of the politicians I worked for took advantage of every tax loophole they could find, and if they couldn’t find it, they’d just legislate one out of thin air.  That’s the D.C. way. Tax policy is a means to buy votes, but at the end of the day, we all share in a mutual disdain for government.  It’s a matter of degree I suppose, the real difference between Democrat or Republican.  Two sides of the same coin, and neither one of them worth a damn.