Kissing in Manhattan (18 page)

Every evening, hands deep in his pockets, Leonard stalked the streets of midtown, craving half the women that passed him. He lusted after young mothers with wholesome hips, college girls in miniskirts, skinny models on billboards. At night, alone in his apartment, with his fists clenched, Leonard watched films with Ann-Margret, Raquel Welch, and Katharine Ross. It seemed to Leonard that God had created women for men to squeeze and spend money on, and that if only a man could be well paid and free of blemish, the graces of women were his to hunt and gather. The woman Leonard most wanted to squeeze, the one whose graces he most wanted to tap, was Hannah Glorybrook. However, out of livid conviction in his shortcomings and a basic desire to get laid, the woman whose desk Leonard approached was Alison Shippers.

“Ms. Shippers,” said Leonard, “have you finished the Kowalski brief?”

Alison looked up. She had a round face with obvious features, like a man-in-the-moon caricature. Also, she wore a white blouse with a gold pin on the bust. The pin was a heart on a stick.

“Almost, Mr. Bunce.”

Leonard checked his eyes east and west, scanning for eavesdroppers.

“Ms. Shippers,” said Leonard, “will you join me for dinner tonight?”

Alison blushed. “Why, Mr. Bunce . . .”

She’s got a pent-up, New England libido, thought Leonard. She’ll fuck me like a sex-starved rabbit.

“Duranigan’s at nine o’clock,” he said. Two cubicles away he could see Hannah Glorybrook’s neck and shoulders. Peeking out from under Hannah’s dress was an indigo bra strap.

At promptly nine that evening Alison and Leonard dined at Duranigan’s Restaurant on Madison Avenue. Alison wore perfume that smelled of berries and a tasteful white dress that came to her calves. She smiled meekly through her lobster cocktail and osso buco, while Leonard eyed her sturdy biceps.

“You played sports in college?” he guessed. “Rowed crew, maybe?”

“You must be psychic, Mr. Bunce.”

By eleven-thirty that night Leonard had Alison alone in her apartment, where he filled her with wine and asked her questions. By twelve-thirty Leonard had his face in Alison’s thighs.

“Why, Mr. Bunce,” breathed Alison. She wondered if she’d done particularly good work on the Kowalski brief.

Leonard kept himself wedged where he was, flicking his tongue out at Alison like a serpent. He glared up at her torso, her pink brassiere. When he satisfied a woman this way, no talking was necessary. Alison couldn’t witness his birthmark, and he, unable to see her face, could pretend she was a slender, conquered Barbarella.

At work the next day Alison made eyes at Leonard. She brought him coffee and touched his wrist.

“I’ll make you dinner tonight,” she whispered.

Gullible cow, thought Leonard.

Hannah Glorybrook strolled by, wearing high heels and a plaid Scottish miniskirt.

Leonard smiled thinly at Alison. He could still smell her awful berry odor.

“Dinner it is,” he said.

It went on for a month. Leonard spent his days trying to approach Hannah Glorybrook, to find some pretext to speak to her. But whenever he got close to her cubicle, Hannah made some unconscious feminine adjustment—smoothing the lap of her dress, tucking her hair behind her ear—and Leonard’s heart seized up, and he touched his birthmark and walked away. After such moments Leonard tried every means possible to expend the energies that Hannah stirred in him. He crucified his opponents in court, then waged war on the body of Alison Shippers.

On a warm Thursday night in August, Leonard Bunce was at Cherrywood’s Lounge on Forty-second Street, taking the night off from Alison’s meat loafs and thick ankles. Cherrywood’s was a cozy bar that featured fine Scotches and live storytellers. It was the kind of dimly lighted establishment, Leonard thought, where a man could drink alone and have his place.

Leonard ordered Glenfiddich over ice, and sat in a booth, his birthmark toward the wall. He was well into his second Scotch when a smell reached his nose that had no trace of berries. Leonard looked up.

“Well, well, well,” said Hannah Glorybrook. “Lenny Bunce.”

Leonard’s face creased with pleasure. Holding a pint of Guinness and a cigarette, Hannah stood in a black shift that slit up one side all the way to her waist. She had her blond hair collected in a wispy beehive, and she wore cat-rimmed black glasses that Leonard had never seen on her. Strangely and, to Leonard, thrillingly, Hannah was barefoot and free of jewelry or makeup. Best of all, she was alone.

Hannah dragged on her cigarette, exhaled. “Hello, Hannah,” she prompted him. “Good evening, Ms. Glorybrook.”

Leonard stood with a fluster, banging his knee on the table. “I’m sorry. Ow. I’m sorry, hello.”

Hannah slid into the booth across from him. Leonard sat back down. His right hand instinctively faked a scratch on his forehead to cover his birthmark.

“I don’t really go by Lenny,” he said.

Hannah held Leonard’s glass to the light. “Scotch,” said Hannah. “Yuck.” She drank from her pint.

Leonard glanced around. Several men at the bar had looked up from their whiskey and were watching Hannah. Also glaring at her were two wives, three girlfriends, and the six single women who were lounging near the billiards table. These women had come from viewing Broadway plays and musicals, and they were adorned with pearls, diamonds, lipstick, and, to the last woman, heels.

“I’m surprised you got into this place,” said Leonard.

Hannah blew smoke out the gap in her teeth. “I’m twenty-six,” she said.

“You’re barefoot,” said Leonard.

“Yep.”

“Are you meeting someone here?”

“Would you prefer that I were?”

Leonard blushed and, once again, scratched a phantom itch.

“I’ll bet you’re meeting someone, Lenny,” smiled Hannah. “I’ll bet you’re meeting a sexy little trollop. A tramp.”

Leonard imagined Alison facedown in a gutter.

“A hussy,” said Hannah. “A harlot.”

“You use a lot of big words,” said Leonard.

“Only till a man vanquishes me. Then I’m docile. Pliable. Reticent.”

Leonard turned even more crimson.

Hannah held up her empty glass. “I need a pint.”

Leonard hurried to the bar, ordered a Guinness and another Glenfiddich. In his mind he reviewed his day at light speed, searching for whatever deed he might have done to earn this company. When he returned, Hannah was lighting a fresh cigarette.

She’s staying, rejoiced Leonard. Even through the smoke he could smell the scent Hannah wore. It smelled finely of liquor, or a midnight breeze.

Hannah jutted her chin around. “These women are staring me down. They don’t like how I’m dressed. They think I’m all about sex. They’re jealous.”

“Well, do you always walk around downtown without shoes?”

Hannah drank her stout. “Lenny, let’s talk about something besides my feet.”

“All right.” Leonard thought madly of topics. He thought of the Certs breath mint he’d crunched down on the way into Cherrywood’s.

“Do you believe in God?” asked Hannah.

“Yes.”

“What’s the coolest place you’ve ever been?”

“New Zealand.”

“What’s the best sport in the world?”

“Soccer.”

“Wrong,” said Hannah. “Hockey. Who’s the most beautiful woman on the planet?”

Leonard thought of actresses he adored, a cheerleader he’d once lusted after, the mother of his boyhood pal, Johnny Wuggs. He wondered if Alison Shippers could ever be in a film, even as a supporting role. A toll-booth attendant, maybe, thought Leonard. A crossing guard.

“Time’s up,” said Hannah.

“Wonder Woman?” said Leonard.

Hannah laughed. Under the table she touched her foot to Leonard’s calf.

“Me, silly,” she said.

Leonard blushed. His hand flitted over his birthmark.

Hannah drained her pint. She leaned forward. “Don’t I look like a naughty librarian, Lenny?” Hannah kept her voice low. “Like a woman who’s smart but who loves men to fuck her?”

Leonard couldn’t believe what he was hearing. But he didn’t dare speak, afraid to break whatever psychedelic ride he was on.

Under the table, Hannah put her hand on Leonard’s knee. “Who’s the most beautiful woman on the planet?”

Leonard remembered his tongue, the serpent that lived in his mouth.

“You are,” he hissed.

Hannah squeezed Leonard’s knee. “And wouldn’t you love to take me back to my apartment and fuck me?”

Leonard’s loins ignited. “God, yes.”

“Come on,” said the paralegal. She pulled the bewitched Leonard Bunce to his feet.

Hannah’s apartment was on the sixth floor of the Preemption apartment building. The building itself was a tower of darkness and intrigue on West Eighty-second and Riverside Drive. It had a luxurious, hand-operated elevator, and the hallways were lighted by wall-mounted oil lamps. Hannah’s apartment was similarly ornate. Hannah’s father, Gerhard Glorybrook, used his olfactory riches to fund big-game hunting expeditions across the world, and he often bequeathed to his daughter the spoils of his recreations. As a result two giant beasts, caught in the thralls of taxidermy, loomed in the main chamber of Hannah’s apartment. Suspended by wires from the ceiling was an enormous bird of prey, while a full-grown black panther crouched, ready to pounce, beside a daybed.

“Wow,” said Leonard Bunce.

Hannah turned on no lamps, but lighted four tall candles, one in each corner of the room. She stood beside the panther, stroking its head.

Leonard peered nervously at the candles. He figured he was in for some Tantric sex, perhaps with a voodoo theme. He pointed up at the bird, whose wingspan was six feet.

“Condor?” he guessed.

“That’s a harpy eagle.” Hannah wasn’t smoking now. “My father killed it in the Amazon.”

“Wow.”

“Its cousin is the monkey-eating forest eagle of the Philippines.”

“Ah,” said Leonard.

“Remove your clothing.” Hannah unzipped her shift.

Leonard’s groin hardened. “What?”

Hannah’s shift fell to her ankles. “We’re going to fuck in the elevator.”

Leonard’s mouth went dry. Standing before him, in a black brassiere and skimpy black underwear, was the goddess he’d worshiped for six months. I’ll fell her, Leonard thought, I’ll take her as my prey. He stripped to his shorts.

Hannah crossed her arms, jutted her chin at Leonard’s boxers. “Those go too.”

Leonard hesitated because of his erection. Come on, he told himself. You’re a predator. With a deep breath Leonard shucked off his shorts. He was naked.

“Good,” said Hannah, “let’s go.” She led him to the apartment door, stood holding it open.

Leonard touched the back of Hannah’s arm, stared at her midriff. He breathed her in.

“You first.” Hannah patted Leonard’s ass, ushered him toward the hall. “Chop-chop.”

What the hell, thought Leonard. He leapt out into the hall, landed on all fours. He grinned back at Hannah and roared like a beast.

“Come on, baby,” he growled.

Hannah shut the door in Leonard’s face. Leonard heard the bolt shoot home. His face fell.

“Hey,” he said. He was still on all fours. He still had an erection. “Hannah?”

“Yes?” said the door.

“Come out here.”

“Nope.”

Leonard looked to his left and his right. There were twenty doors on the hallway, and five lighted oil lamps.

“Hannah?”

The door remained closed. “Yes?”

“I thought we were going to . . . make love in the elevator?”

“Actually, I said we were going to fuck in the elevator.”

“Right.” Leonard grinned, waited. After a while he stopped grinning.

“Hannah?”

“Yes?”

“Aren’t we going to fuck in the elevator?”

“Ha.”

Leonard moved close to the door. He pressed his palms and his ear to it, like a safecracker. “Hannah? I’m naked out here.”

No answer came. Leonard heard a dragging noise. He jiggled the door handle, but it was locked. There was a thin sliver of light at the door’s base, and when he leveled his eye to it, Leonard thought he could see Hannah’s feet.

“I’ve pulled my black panther over to the door,” explained Hannah. “He’s facing you. I’ve removed all my clothes, and I’ve mounted the panther like he’s a horse.”

It’s a joke, thought Leonard. It’s foreplay.

“My pubic hair has nestled in with the hair on the panther’s back. It feels good.”

“Hannah,” began Leonard. “Is this a joke?”

“Imagine how sexy I look, Lenny, straddling this stiff, stuffed panther, with my perfect tits hanging naked where any man could grab them.”

“Let me in,” pleaded Leonard.

“I’m not pale either,” chatted Hannah. “If you were guessing I’d be pale under my bra and underwear, guess again, buster. I’ve got a totally even tan. I sunbathe naked on the roof.”

“Hannah.” Despite his nakedness Leonard tried to sound suave. “This is foreplay, right?”

“Nope. It’s candid conversation.”

Leonard pounded with his fist. “Open this freaking door.”

“Lenny? Lenny.” Hannah’s tone was even, reasonable. “Unless you want to walk home naked across Central Park, you’ll collect your wits and listen.”

Leonard stood up, paced back and forth in front of Hannah’s door, his penis dangling between his legs. He glared at the door. As soon as Hannah opened it, even a crack, he would burst in and mount her.

“Lenny? Have you collected your wits?”

“You whore,” hissed Leonard.

Hannah tisked her tongue loudly. “Sounds like you need a moment. In the meantime I’ll rock myself back and forth on my panther, letting his stiffened back muscles thrill my naked loins.”

Leonard kept pacing. He looked up and down the hall for a carpet he might wrap himself in, but there was none. He checked his watch, the one accessory left on his person. It was nearly midnight. Leonard had a meeting at eight-thirty the next morning with a wealthy, important client, Joanna Krickmire. Mrs. Krickmire, the CEO of Krickmire Stocks, was divorcing her husband of twenty-one years and expecting to pay him not a single penny. She’d asked Spuck and Hardison to retain for her their man with the blood-colored birthmark, because she expected the trial to be nasty and brutish, and she wanted appropriate representation.