The Evening News (50 page)

"We sure did
,”
Jaeger said
.”
Les, if we have to, we'll remind you of
those words
.”

Chippingham
shook his head
.”
That won't be needed
.”

The talk continued. While it did, Rita appeared to be
s
earching in her bag, though what she was doing was scribbling on a piece of paper. Discreetly, under the table, she put it into Chippingham's hands
.
He waited until attention was directed away from him, then looked down
.
The note read: Les, feel like getting laid? Let's get out of here.

They went to Rita's. Her apartment was on West Seventy-second, only a short taxi ride from Sfuzzi's. Chippingham was living farther uptown in the Eighties while his and Stasia's divorce was being fought over, but the apartment was small, cheap for New York, and he wasn't proud of it. He missed the plush Sutton Place co-op he and Stasia had shared for a decade before their breakup. The co-op was forbidden territory to him now, a lost utopia. Stasia's lawyers had seen to that
.
Anyway, right now he and Rita wanted the nearest private place. Their
hands were busy in the taxi until he told her, "If you keep doing that
,
I'll explode like Vesuvius and it may be months before the volcano's in
business again
.”

She laughed and said, "Not you
!”

but desisted just the same
.
On the way, Chippingham had the cab driver stop at a newsstand. He left
the taxi and returned burdened with the early Sunday editions of the New
York Times, Daily News, and Post
.”
At least I know where I rate in your priorities
,”
Rita observed
.”
I only
hope you're not planning to read those before . .
.”

“
Later
,”
he assured her
.”
Much, much later
.”

Even as he spoke, Chippingham wondered if he would ever grow up where
women were concerned. Probably not, or at least not until his libido
burned lower. Some men, he knew,
would envy his virility which, with his fiftieth birthday only a few months away, was almost as good as when he was half that age. On the other hand, a permanent hominess had its penalties
.
While Rita excited him now, as she had on earlier occasions, and he knew
there was pleasure ahead for them both, he knew also that in an hour or two
he would ask himself. Was it worth all the trouble? Along the same lines
,
he often wondered: Had his sexual dalliances been worth losing a wife he
genuinely cared about and, at the same time, putting his entire career in
jeopardy-the last a reality made clear by Margot Lloyd-Mason during their
recent meeting at Stonehenge?
Why did he do it? In part, because he could never resist a carnal romp when
opportunity arose and, in the news business, such openings were legion
.
Then there was the thrill of the chase, which never lessened, and finally
the invasion and physical
fulfilment
-getting and giving, both equally
important
.
Les Chippingham kept a notebook, carefully hidden, recording his sexual
conquests-a list of names in a special code that only he could decipher
.
All the names were women he had liked and some who, for a while, he truly
loved
.
Rita's name, recently added to his book, was the one hundred and
twenty-seventh entry. Chippingham tried not to think of the list as a
scorecard, though in a way it was
.
Some people who led quieter or more innocent lives might find that figure
excessive, perhaps difficult to believe. But those employed in television
or working in any other creative field
artists, actors, writers-would have
no trouble believing it at all
.
He doubted if Stasia had any idea of the number of his side
excursions-which brought to mind another recurring question: Was there any
way to repair their marriage, a chance of returning to the closeness he and
Stasia had enjoyed even while she knew of his philandering? He wished the
answer could be yes, but knew it was too late. Stasia's bitterness and hurt
were overwhelming now. A few weeks ago he had tried writing her a letter
with a tentative approach. Stasia's lawyer had replied,
warning Chippingham not to communicate directly with his client again
.
Well, he reflected, even if that particular ball game was lost, nothing
would hinder the pleasure of the next hour or two with Rita
.
Rita, too, had been considering relationships, though on a simpler level
.
She had never married, never having met an available man to whom she
wanted to tie herself permanently. As to her current affair with Les, she
knew there was no long
term future. Having known and watched him for a
long time, she believed Les incapable of fidelity. He moved from one
woman to the next with the casualness that other men changed underwear
.
What he did have, though, was that big, long body with accessories to
match, so that a sexual escapade with him was a euphoric, joyous
,
heavenly dream, As they arrived at her apartment building and Les paid
off the taxi, she was dreaming of it now.

Rita shut and bolted her apartment door and a moment later they were
kissing. Then, wasting no more time, she led the way to her bedroom as
Les followed, dropping his jacket, tossing his tie aside, unbuttoning his
shirt
.
The bedroom was typical Rita-organized, yet in a casual, comfortable way
with pastel-colored chintzes, and cushions everywhere. Deftly, she pulled
back and roughly folded the bedspread, throwing it onto a nearby
armchair. She undressed quickly, flinging her clothes in all directions
,
an instinctive lover's gesture of shedding inhibitions too. As each
garment flew she smiled across at Les. He in turn appraised her as he
slipped out of his undershorts, sending them sailing after Rita's panties
and brassiere
.
As he had before, he liked what he saw
.
Rita, a natural brunette, began dying her hair in her early thirties when
a few gray strands appeared. But after changing her job and image from
correspondent to producer, she let nature have its way and now her hair
was an attractive mixture of dark brown and silver. Her figure, too, had
matured and she carried an extra ten pounds over an earlier sleek hundred
and
twenty
.”
You could say
,”
she told Les on the first occasion he had viewed her nude, "that I went from Aphrodite to a comfortable Venus
.”

"I'll take your Venus
,”
he had said
.
Either way, Rita's five-foot-six body was in excellent shape, the hips
well rounded, breasts high and firm
.
As her eyes dropped, she knew Les needed no further arousal. Yet he came
to her slowly, bending down to kiss her forehead, her eyelids and her
mouth. Then, gently cupping his hands around her breasts, he drew the
nipples, each in turn, into his mouth. A quiver of bliss ran through her
as she felt them harden
.
Breathing deeply, each movement of her body a growing delight, Rita's
hands reached down to Les's groin, moving her fingers gently, slowly, her
touch feather-light, experienced. She felt his whole body stiffen, heard
the sharp intake of his breath and a soft low sigh of pleasure
.
Gently, Chippingham. pushed her down on the bed, his hands and tongue
continuing to explore the sweet, warm wetness of her body. When neither
could wait any longer, he slid inside her. Rita cried out, then moments
later soared to a final, glorious peak
.
Rita floated for a while, savoring the lazy moments until her ever-active
mind posed questions. Each time, their lovemaking was so smooth, so
perfect, so experienced, that she wondered: Was it always like this for
the women who had sex with Les? She supposed it must be. He had a way of
handling a woman's body that had given Rita-and probably all the others
-an undiluted ecstasy. And Rita's own excitement undoubtedly enhanced his
own. Only after her exquisite climax-and how wonderful not to have to
fake or strain toward it!--did he, too, explode within her
.
Later, bodies damp, sweat mingling in its own sweet union, they lay side
by side breathing deeply, evenly
.”
Leslie Chippingham
,”
Rita said, "has anyone told you you're the world's
most perfect lover
?
”

He laughed, then kissed her
.”
Loving is poetry. Poetry feeds on
inspiration. At this moment, you are mine
.”

"You're good with words, too
,”
she told him
.”
Maybe you should be in the
news business
.”

After a while they slept, then, awakening, made love again.

Eventually, inevitably, Chippingham and Rita turned from sex to the pile
of Sunday papers which Les had stopped to buy. They spread them on the
bed and he started with the Times, Rita the Post
.
Both devoured the latest developments from the Sloane family kidnap
,
emphasis being on Saturday morning's explosion at White Plains in the
vehicle the kidnappers had used, and the resulting devastation. From a
professional viewpoint, Rita was pleased to see that CBA News had missed
nothing major in its Saturday evening coverage. While the print press had
longer stories with more reactions, the essentials were the same
.
From the kidnap, Rita and Les moved on to major national and
international stories to which they had paid less than usual attention
in the past few days. Neither spent any time reading, and scarcely
noticed, a single-column report appearing only in the Post and buried on
an inside page.

UN DIPLOMAT
SLAYS LOVER,
AND
SELF
IN JEALOUS RAGE

A United Nations diplomat, Jose
Antonio Salaverry, and his woman
friend, Helga Efferen, were found shot dead Saturday in Salaverry's 48th
St. apartment. Police describe the shootings as "a jealous lover's
murder-suicide
.”
Salaverry was a member of the Peruvian delegation to the UN. Efferen
,
an American citizen, formerly a Lebanese immigrant, was employed by the
American-Amazonas Bank at its Dag Hammarskjd1d Plaza branch
.
The bodies of the dead couple were discovered early Saturday by a
janitor. A medical examiner fixed the time of death between 8 and 11
p
.m. the previous day. Substantial
evidence, police say, points to the discovery by Salaverry that Efferen was using his apartment as a base for her sexual affairs with other men. Enraged, he shot her, then himself
.

With the grace of a gull the Learjet 55LR descended through the night, its powerful engines momentarily curbed. It settled toward two parallel strands of lights ahead, marking runway one-eight of Opa Locka Airport. Beyond the airport were the myriad lights of Greater Miami, their reflection a vast halo in the sky
.
From his seat in the passenger cabin Miguel peered through a window
,
hoping that America's lights and all they represented would be behind him
soon
.
He checked his watch. 11: 18 P.m. The flight from Teterboro had taken
slightly more than two and a quarter hours
.
Rafael, in the seat ahead, was watching the approaching lights. Socorro
,
beside him, appeared to be dozing
.
Miguel turned his head toward Baudelio who, a few feet away, was
continuing to monitor the three caskets, using the external equipment he
had fastened to them. Baudelio nodded, indicating all was well, and
Miguel turned his mind to another potential problem which had just
arisen
.
A few minutes earlier he had gone forward to the flight deck and asked
,
"At Opa Locka, how quickly can you do what's needed and get us on our
way
?
”