I Will Fear No Evil (40 page)

(Darling, darling! I was
not
shocked, I have
never
been shocked by you. Damn it, it’s that Generation Gap. You can’t believe that I packed far more offbeat behavior into my long years of lechery than you possibly could have crowded into the fourteen years you claim. You’ve been a busy body, that’s clear—but I had more than five times as many years at it and quite as much enthusiasm. Probably not as frequent opportunities, but beautiful girls get asked oftener than do homely boys. But it was never for lack of trying on my part, nor do I have any complaints, as I received more cooperation than I had any reason to expect.)

(I think you were shocked.)

(No, little innocent. Sheer admiration—plus surprise at your endurance. You must have been half dead the next day.)

(On the contrary I felt grand. Glowing. Happy. You remarked on it. You may even recall it . . . it was the day Joe painted me with tiger stripes and a cat’s face makeup.)

(Be darned if I don’t! You were bouncy as a kitten—and I said you looked like the cat who ate the canary. Darling girl, I was hurting that day; you cheered me up.)

(I’m glad.)

(How much sleep did you get?)

(Oh, plenty. Six hours. Five at least. Plus a nap stretched out on my tummy while Joe did most of the stripes. Joan, a well-loved woman doesn’t need as much sleep as a lonely one—you’ll find out. As for it being too much for me—Boss, who told me just last week that nothing encourages sex the way sex does?
You
, that’s who.)

(Yes. But I was speaking from a man’s viewpoint—)

(Works the same for a woman, twin. You’ll see.)

(I hope so. I know that most people—in my day—assumed the opposite. But it’s not true. Sex, whatever else it is—much else!—is an athletic skill. The more you practice, the more you can, the more you want to, the more you enjoy it, the less it tires you. I’m glad to hear—very personally glad—that it works that way for a woman, too. But you aren’t the first girl to tell me so. Uh . . . first time I heard a girl say that, or roughly that, was when Harding was President. Not a girl, a very sweet young married woman who had more in common with you than you are likely to believe. Almost certainly dead now, God rest her soul; she would be over a hundred years old)

(What was her name?)

(Does it matter? Little busybody, you were telling me about Fred and Anton. I still don’t understand how you swung it. The setup, yes—but how did you gentle them to it? Did you split the time and take them into your apartment separately?)

(Oh, heavens, no! That would be rude. And embarrassing for everyone. It would have turned me off utterly. It was a Troy.)

(Well?)

(Boss, can you imagine how excited two men can get while kissing—fondling—the same girl? If she’s willing? If they trust each other? Which they did, they were driver and Shotgun together.)

(Yes, that’s true but I can’t visualize—wups! I just remembered something that happened so many years age I had almost forgotten it.)

(Tell me.)

(No, no, you go on. Just that history repeats itself—as it always does. Go on.)

(Well, they do, Boss. Excite each other even if they don’t touch each other at all. Just her. ‘Heterodyning’ is the term I learned for it in secretronics; I don’t know what the kinseys call it. But I had been kissing them good-night almost every other night for weeks, and kissing them when they picked me up in the mornings. And the kisses got warmer and it’s never been my nature to discourage a man if I like him—which I did; I felt affectionate toward both of them; they’re nice people.

(Presently we were stopping for a necking session —could no longer call it a good-night kiss—in the basement parking before they would take me up the lift. I had to slow that down by saying, ‘Watch it, boys. You’re not only getting body paint on your uniforms, you’re getting me so mussed up I’ll have trouble getting neat enough that Joe won’t notice it.’ Which did slow them down, more on my account than any fret about uniforms; they liked Joe—everybody likes Joe—and did not want to cause me worry at home. Didn’t tell them that Joe wasn’t fooled; his artist’s eye sees much more than most people see.

(But we settled it that night, Boss. I told them that I was not a tease and that I was as eager as they were . . . but that I was not going to be spread in a basement. But that I would find a chance. They are both nice boys—oh, men, sure; Anton is forty and Fred is as old as I am. Was. So they waited, and didn’t do more than kiss me and grab a friendly feel. Then twice we almost had it made but Joe was busy painting, which I would not interrupt to take the President to bed.

(Then we hit the jackpot. Almost missed at the last minute; Jake was going to send me home in his car. He told me to cancel the call I had put in for my car. Yours, I mean. I surprised Jake by being balky—told him that I didn’t feel safe with Charlie unless he, Jake, was along. True, as far as it went; Charlie is a bad one, not like our four.

(So dear old Jake was going to get dressed and ride with me—I said that was silly, that Finchley and Shorty—I never referred to them as Tom and Hugo and wouldn’t advise you to—)

(I’m not stupid, dearest. When I’m ‘Miss Smith,’ they are ‘Finchley’ and ‘Shorty.’)

(Sorry, Boss darling, I know you’re not stupid. But I have more experience in being a woman than you have.)

(So you have, and you keep me straight, darling. But what’s this about Tom and Hugo?)

(Misdirection. I knew who was on call that night. So Fred and Anton picked me up and I was tempted to tell them—getting excited all the time, myself. Couldn’t. Would have spoiled it some for them, since men enjoy so much spreading a married woman without her husband knowing it—even sweet old Jake relished me more for that naughty reason. I always went along with this quirk because it gave me more control over a situation not easy to control once a man has had you. Gives you a lever. You might remember that, Joan.)

(I will. But I’ll need a husband to make use of it.)

(You’ll get us a husband, never fear, dear—I still think we ought to marry Jake. He’ll come around. But don’t hold out on him, Joan; Jake is not a man you can pressure that way.)

(Eunice, I won’t hold out on Jake one-half second. I’ve never had any respect for that female tactic and won’t use it now that
I
am female.)

(I have never used it, Boss, I’ve used almost every other female deception—but not that one. That one is whoring but not honest whoring. ‘Minds me. How do you feel about whores, Boss?)

(Me? Why, the way I feet about any professional who performs a personal service. Say a dentist, or a lawyer, or a nurse. If he’s honest, I respect him. If he is competent as well, my respect is limited only by his degree of competence. Why?)

(Have you ever patronized whores? Hired their services, I mean, not ‘patronize’ in the snooty sense.)

(If I give that a simple affirmative will you get on with your story? We’re already downtown, damn it.)

(Yes, sir. I mean, ‘Yes, twin sister you knocked-up virgin.’ Got home, went up the lift with them, was ‘surprised’ to find Joe not at home, found the dummy clock propped on the sink, hands set at midnight, and told them what it meant. That did it. Finis.)

(
Hey!
)

(What is there to tell? You already know what we did.)

Joan sighed. (That is the skimpiest account of a gang bang I ever heard in my long and evil life.)

(
What?
But it wasn’t a gang bang, Boss! Quit dragging your feet and come on into this century. A Troy is
not
a gang bang. Nor is it a frimp session, or needn’t be and this was not. A Troy is friendly and loving. They are both married and they treated me as sweetly as they would treat their wives—and I loved the way they treated me and loved both of them, quite a lot and still do, long before the evening was over . . . when up to then it had been just affectionate, sex-charged friendship. Boss, one of the regrets I have about being killed is that I was never able to offer them the second chance at me they had earned—and I had promised. Mmm . . . do you think you might make it up to them?)

(Huh? As you pointed out, I’m their boss; it wouldn’t be easy. And besides . . . well, hell, I’m scared.
Two
men?)

(You didn’t seem scared of Mac and Alec.)

(Not quite the same thing.)

(Nothing ever is, Boss—especially about sex. But I want to tell you this. A Troy—if it works right, and it can’t unless there is trust and respect all the way around—if it works, it is the nicest thing that can happen to a woman. Not just twice as nice because she gets twice as much of what she wants so badly. That’s not it; she might even get less than some rutty young stud could manage alone. It’s the warm and friendly and loving and trusting aspect that makes it so good. Four times better, at least. Maybe eight. Oh, arithmetic can’t measure it. But, Joan darling—listen to me—until you have been in bed between two sweet and loving men, men who love each other almost as much or even more than they love you . . . with your head pillowed on both their arms and surrounded by their love—until that’s happened to you, you still have one virginity to go, and an important one. Darling, I was crying most of the time they were with me . . . cried again when I kissed them good-night . . . was still crying happy after they left. . . then jumped out of bed and rushed to unbolt the door when Joe got home a few minutes later—and blubbered all over him and took him straight to bed and told him all about it while he was being especially sweet to me.)

(Did he want to hear about it?)

(Wouldn’t
you
want to?)

(Yes, but no two men are alike and some husbands get headaches from horns.)

(Some do. Maybe most of them, Joan. I was always careful of Joe’s feelings. Sometimes I strayed and carefully kept it from him—I never told him about Jake.)

(Why not? I would think that Joe would approve of Jake for you if he approved of anyone. Jake respects Joe very highly—you know it, too; you heard him.)

(Yes. But Jake is rich and Joe is dirt poor. Perhaps Joe could have accepted Jake—I now think he could have. But I wasn’t sure, so I didn’t risk hurting him. But Anton and Fred—well, they are just mobile guards; Joe treated them as friends and equals, and secretly—I think—felt a little superior to them, since he is an artist and they are just stiffs. I knew they wouldn’t trouble Joe’s mind . . . and I was right; he was delighted for me. Happy that I was happy. Can’t explain it, Joan; you get an instinct for it. But a man’s pride is a fragile thing and it is all the armor he has; they are far more vulnerable than we are. You have to be oh so careful in handling them. Or they droop.)

(I know, Eunice. Literally droop in some cases. Did I tell you that my second wife made me psychically impotent for almost a year?)

(Oh, you poor darling!)

(Got over it. Not through a shrink. Through the warm and generous help of a lady who didn’t assume that it was my fault. And I was never troubled again until I was too feeble for any sort of proper physical functioning.)

(I’m glad you found her; I wish I could thank her. Joan . . . I wasn’t born knowing this about men; I found out the hard way. Twin, I made some bad mistakes in high school. Look—males are so much bigger and more muscular than we are, I didn’t
dream
that they could be so fragile. Until I hurt one boy’s pride so badly he dropped out of school . . . and I’ve tried never to hurt any boy, or man, since. I was stupid, Boss. But I did learn.)

(Eunice, how long has it been since I last told you I love you?)

(Oh, at least twenty minutes.)

(Too long. I love you.)

Finchley’s voice interrupted her reverie. “We’re about to park, Miss Eunice.”

“What’s this ‘Miss Eunice’ nonsense? We’re not in public.”

“Seemed like a good compromise.”

“It does, huh? Why just dabble your toes? Why not go whole hawg and call me ‘Miss Smith?’—and I won’t kiss you good-night.”

“Very well—Miss.”

“Oh, Tom, don’t tease me. It’s been a perfect day; don’t remind me that I must be ‘Miss Smith’ again. You know I’ll kiss you good-night if you’ll let me . . . or the real Eunice wouldn’t speak to me. Hugo, make him behave!”

“I’ll fix his clock, Eunice. Tom, you call her ‘Eunice,’ real nice.”

“I’m sorry, Eunice.”

“That makes me feel better, Tom. Are you going to be able to park this wagon close enough that you can come with me?”

“Sure thing, Eunice—but keep quiet right now, please; I’ve got to work close with the traffic computer to get us in.”

20

“Good evening, Chief.” Joan rested her hand on O’Neil’s forearm, stepped lightly down.

“Good evening, Miss. Message from Mr. Salomon. His respects to you and regrets he will not be back for dinner. Twenty-one o’clock, he hopes.”

“I’m sorry to hear it. Then I shan’t dine downstairs; please tell Cunningham or Della that I want trays in my lounge for Winnie and me. No service.”

“Two trays and no service, Miss—right.”

“And tell Dabrowski that I want him to drive me tomorrow.”

“He’s gone home, Miss. But he knows he has the duty. He’ll be ready.”

“Perhaps you didn’t understand what I said. Chief. I want to tell him, now, that
I
want him to drive me tomorrow. Ten, possibly—not earlier. So after you phone the pantry, call Dabrowski and give him that message from
me.
Leave the call in until you reach him. And phone me at once when Mr. Salomon’s car returns, no matter what hour. Don’t consult him; do it. Before Rockford unbuttons.”

“Yes, Miss. Phone the pantry. Phone Dabrowski immediately thereafter. Phone you instantly when Mr. Salomon’s car returns, before he is out of his car. If I may say so, Miss, it feels good to have your firm hand back at the controls.”

“You may say so, to me. But not to Mr. Salomon. For
his
firm hand has been invaluable. As you and I know.”

“As we both know. He’s a fine gentleman, Miss; I respect him. Shall I tell Cunningham to send down for your packages?”

“No, Finchley and his guns can handle them—though I did go on quite a shopping spree.” Joan gave her security boss Eunice’s best happy-little-girl grin. “I was drunk with excitement, bad as a kid on Christmas, and tried to buy out the town. Finchley. Split those packages three ways and you three come up with me. Yes, I know it’s not your work, so don’t report me to your guild.”