Scenes from the Secret History (The Secret History of the World) (21 page)

Eventually it came to a point where Phil was sprawled back on the hotel bed, naked, moaning as Ingrid worked on him. She knelt on the carpet with her thighs spread wide as her head bobbed up and down over Phil's pelvis. And Ed...he knelt behind her, gripping her black garter belt like a rodeo rider hanging onto the reins of a bucking bronco, his pelvis slapping against her smooth buttocks as he slid in and out of her.

She paused and lifted her head from Phil.

"Baby, don't stop now," Phil said. His voice was thick, hoarse.

She turned her head and looked over her shoulder at Ed. In the dim light filtering across the bed from the open bathroom door, he could see her face. Her eyes glistened and her cheeks were flushed. Beautiful, and as insatiable as she was uninhibited.

"Do it faster," she said. "And harder! I want to come, damn it!"

Ed said nothing. He'd already come once himself, and was climbing the upslope toward number two. He picked up the pace, ramming deeper into her.

"Oh, yessss!" she said through a groan, and then went back to doing Ed.

I just don't believe this! Ed told himself for the hundredth time in the last hour.

This was the kind of thing that happened only in porno movies, in fantasies, not in real life. At least not in Ed Bannion's life. Fifteen years in this town
– sixteen in August – and never anything even close to an encounter like this. When he'd got the job with Paramount he'd been a sex-starved law school grad dreaming of starlet sandwiches and orgies. Even if he was in legal and based in New York, Paramount was Paramount, right? Wrong.
Nothing!
He'd never even
seen
a starlet, let alone a star. Paramount – hah! He might as well have been working for Exxon for all the poontang he'd got through the company.

But tonight! Tonight made up for the long wait. He'd carry the memory of this to his grave. Maybe even beyond.

He felt the pressure growing within the basement of his pelvis, surging outward, building...

He leaned forward and reached around her, grabbing her breasts.

...building...

He buried his face in her fragrant, wavy hair, and nuzzling the nape of her neck.

...building...

Suddenly he knew he was past the point of no return. He stiffened, cried out, then bit down hard as he exploded within her.

Ingrid screamed in pain. She straightened up and twisted, pulling free of Ed as she rose to her feet. She stood there, naked but for her garter belt and black stockings, staring at Ed and his brother, her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide with what looked to Ed like shock and horror.

"What's the matter, babe?" Phil said.

"Oh, no!" she moaned. There was no passion in the sound, only revulsion and unplumbed misery. "Oh, God,
no!
"

Ed turned cold inside. Something was terribly wrong here. What
–?

She turned to run and immediately slammed into the wall. She bounced off it and blindly dashed toward Ed, accelerating as she passed him.

"Christ, no! The window!" Ed said and tried to grab her leg.

But she was moving too fast. He missed her and could only watch helplessly as she rammed into the lower pane of the big double-hung window. For an instant it looked as if she might bounce off that, too, but then came a sharp crash like a shot, like an explosion, and suddenly the glass was coming apart all around her and she was still moving outward, taking a million bright dagger shards with her. And then she was gone, a keening wail trailing behind her.

Ed remained kneeling on the carpet, frozen in shock, shivering in the cold wind pouring through the shattered window, thinking this couldn't be real, this couldn't be happening, listening to the terrified wail that continued long after she was gone from view, much longer than it should have. And then he realized that the sound was coming from him.

You can find the rest of the story here:
Sibs

A related story, “Menage a Trois,” (along with many others) can be found here:
Soft & Others

Summer

THE TOMB

(the covers from the 2-volume Japanese version
;

th
is artist is the only one to nail the rakoshi)

Another novel that would not die… featuring a character who would not die.

The necklaces worn by Kusum and Kolabati are intimately tied to the Secret History and becaome crucial to the outcome of
Nightworld
.

Capsule version: Jack is an urban mercenary in Manhattan, a self-made outcast who lives in the interstices of modern society.  A ghost in our machine: no official identity, no social security number, pays no taxes.  He has a violent streak he sometimes finds hard to control.  He hires out for cash to "fix" situations that have no legal remedy. 

The name Repairman Jack comes from his gunrunner pal, Abe.  Jack’s not crazy about it, but he lives with it.  He’s not a vigilante, not a do-gooder. He’s not out to right wrongs. Nor is he out to change the world or fight crime. (He’s a career criminal, after all, as are many of his friends.) He’s not Batman. He’s just a guy with a devious mind who likes his work best when he can help what goes around come around. If you read him carefully you’ll see he gets a real jolt out of running a scam or setting up someone to be hoisted on his own petard.

He came from a dream. The scene on the roof in The Tomb was the dream, then I worked backward and forward to create a character who could survive that situation. I’ve been a libertarian forever, so I figured I’d act out my libertarian dreams, you know, make this guy an anarchist with no identity.

I decided at the outset to make him an anti-Jason Bourne – with no black-ops, SEAL, or Special Forces training, no CIA or police background, no connection to officialdom.  In other words, no safety net.  No one in the government he could call on.  He has to rely on his own wits and his own network.

He was not intended as a series character. I intended a one-shot, which is kind of obvious at the end of book. As I finished
The Tomb
, I thought,
Well, this character is great – so I gotta make it look like guy is dead or they’ll want more.
I had other books planned out and didn’t want to get locked into a series.

The thing was,
The Tomb
hit the bestseller lists, won the Porgie Award from
The West Coast Review of Books
, and never went out of print.  It kept selling and creating more and more Repairman Jack fans, clamoring for more Jack.  I resisted a second novel for 14 years… until Jack became a way out of a trap I got myself into with a multi-book contract.  (More on that when we get to
Legacies.
)

Here’s the opening.  Very low key.  No action.  I want you to spend a little time with this guy and realize that he’s
different
.

THE TOMB

(sample)

Manhattan
 

Thursday

1

Repairman Jack awoke with light in his eyes, white noise in his ears, and an ache in his back.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch in the spare bedroom where he kept his DVD player and projection TV. He turned his head toward the set. A nervous tweed pattern buzzed around on the six-foot screen while the air conditioner in the right half of the double window beside it worked full blast to keep the room at seventy.

He got to his feet with a groan and shut off the TV. The hiss of white noise stopped. He leaned over and touched his toes, then straightened and rotated his lower spine. His back was killing him. That couch was made for sitting, not sleeping.

He stepped to the player and ejected the disk. He’d fallen asleep during the closing credits of the 1931
Frankenstein
, part one of Repairman Jack's unofficial James Whale Festival.

Poor Henry Frankenstein, he thought, slipping the disk into its box. Despite all evidence to the contrary, despite what everyone around him thought, Henry had been sure he was sane.

Jack located the proper slot in the rack on the wall, shoved
Frankenstein
in, and pulled out its neighbor:
Bride of Frankenstein
, part two of his private James Whale Festival.

A glance out the window revealed the usual vista of sandy shore, calm blue ocean, and supine sunbathers. He was tired of the view. Especially since some of the bricks had started showing through. Three years since he'd had the scene painted on the blank wall facing the windows of this and the other bedroom. Long enough. The beach scene no longer interested him. Perhaps a rain forest mural would be better. With lots of birds and reptiles and animals hiding in the foliage. Yes... a rain forest. He filed the thought away. He'd have to keep an eye out for someone who could do the job justice.

The phone began ringing in the front room. Who that could be? He'd changed his number a couple of months ago. Only a few people had it. He didn't bother to lift the receiver. The answering machine would take care of that. He heard a click, heard his own voice start his standard salutation:

"Pinocchio Productions...I'm not in right now, but if you'll
–”

A woman's voice broke in over his own, her tone impa
tient. "Pick up if you're there, Jack. Otherwise I'll call back later."

Gia!

Jack nearly tripped over his own feet in his rush to the phone.

"Gia? That you?"

"Yes, it's me." Her voice sounded flat, almost resentful.

"God! It's been a long time!" Two months. Forever. He had to sit down. "I'm so glad you called."

"It's not what you think, Jack."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm not calling for myself. If it were up to me I wouldn't be calling at all. But Nellie asked me to."

His jubilation faded, but he kept talking. "Who's Nel
lie?" He drew a blank on the name.

"Nellie Paton. You must remember Nellie and Grace,
the two English ladies?"

"Oh, yeah. How could I forget? They introduced us."

"I've managed to forgive them."

Jack let that go by without comment. "What's the problem?"

"Grace has disappeared. She hasn't been seen since she went to bed Monday night."

He remembered Grace Westphalen: a very prim and proper Englishwoman pushing seventy. Not the eloping sort.

"Have the police–?"

"Of course. But Nellie wanted me to call you to see if you'd help. So I'm calling."

"Does she want me to come over?"

"Yes. If you will."

"Will you be there?"

She gave an exasperated sigh. "Yes. Are you coming or not?"

"I'm on my way."

"Better wait. The patrolmen who were here said a detec
tive from the department would be coming by this morning. "

"Oh." That wasn't good.

"I
thought
that might slow you up."

She didn't have to sound so smug about it.

"I'll be there after lunch."

"You know the address?"

"I know it's a yellow townhouse on Sutton Square. There's only one."

"I'll tell her to expect you."

And then she hung up.

Jack tossed the receiver in his hand and cradled it on the base.

He was going to see Gia today. She’d called him. She hadn't been friendly, and she’d said she was calling for someone else – but she’d called. That was more than she’d done since she’d walked out. He couldn't help feeling good.