The Shaft (30 page)

    They clasped and shook. Contact with her skin nearly drove Jonathan insane right then and there. He brewed more of the Columbian Supremo, ground medium coarse at the market.

    Next step. 'After all the crap that went down this weekend, I just wanted to mention that if you truly didn't like that scene, and were serious about doing something, you can. You can help. Cruz, me, all of us. Jesus, you think I like doing the nasty with Bauhaus? You think I'm crazy or have no taste? No way, hoser.'

    Whatever hold Bauhaus had over her, whatever history they had racked up, however black it got, it doesn't matter, Jonathan thought. I have her there. I have her now.

    'Your mom coach you in the other stuff?' He tried to sound wry.

    'Hm!' It was a laugh. 'How much did your parents tell you about the beast with two backs?'

    'Topic never came up.'

    'Never?' The pun set her to snickering. 'You've been doing some of Uncle Bauhaus' comedy dust, haven't you, my friend?'

    'Am I?'

    'Am you what?' She crossed her ankles, leaned back to use her coat as a cushion, warming now. Outside the wind raised hell, scouring the stone, making threats so that the wood within the walls groaned and ticked in fear.

    'Am I your friend?' He stopped the hot plate busywork to look dead at her.

    'Sure.' It was that simple. 'We've been through so much together, wot?'

    No matter which way he turned he felt jumpy, nervous, uncomfortable. Jamaica 's presence, so close, untethered him. Maybe this was backwash from the cocaine.

    Water boiled. 'So what's the status report on our pal Cruz?'

    'Hospital kept him for a day. Fill him full of drugs, most likely. What a joke.' She had not actually seen Cruz, but had heard X-rays were necessary for some of the injuries he had sustained at the Oakwood pokey. She half-reclined on the cot, chocking a wrist beneath her chin. Her elbow sank into the pad. She eased in like a sleepy cat, having fun watching Jonathan putter about, wearing his towel.

    'What do you take?'

    'We've already done that one.' She enjoyed being playful, partially because playfulness seemed to perturb him so much. 'I take… everything.'

    She got the Moon mug again, Jonathan's 'company' cup. She wondered if it was something astrological, peered close. Nope, science. Kind of the same, really.

    To make a place for himself on the cot next to her would be going too far. He decided to clear a yet-unpacked box from the wicker seat of the rocking chair.

    Jamaica saw him make up his mind. When he turned to the chair, she snatched off his towel.

    'Ooh. Good buns.' She grinned evilly.

    'Goddamnit-!' Cold air goosed him. He tried to play normal, holding out a hand for the towel while a volcanic blush tinted his entire nude body a uniform red.

    'I like that.'

    'What?'

    'You didn't cover your crotch with your other hand.'

    'Seems kind of stupid. I mean, it's nothing you haven't seen, right?' His arm beckoned; he might have been posing for a Grecian sculptor.
Ding-Dong in Search of a Fig Leaf
.

    'You dress to the left.'

    'What…?' He almost made a move to grab the towel; she wadded it defensively to dissuade him. His voice had gone up high. It was absurd, this badinage in the buff. It was more than comic. Nearly burlesque. 'Uh… please?'

    'One of my favorite words.' She stood up, held out the towel…

    … and tossed it into the bathroom, out of range.

    Before Jonathan could fade for it, she eliminated the distance between them, collecting his rising penis gently in one hand, the back of his neck in the other, and drew him bodily into a lush kiss.

    She found his lips tight, his teeth locked, his brain lying to his entire body.

    She had blindsided him. He wanted her so badly he was incapable of composing a coherent sentence. The lies melted like sherbert in a microwave oven. He hardened below, softened above. He willed his arms to enfold her.

    He expected some grotesque orgy of pumping and suction, a stroke film thrill ride that would have force-fit her into the character part of whore. She could live up to the label he'd slipped on her when assaulted by the sight of Bauhaus' blow job.

    She knew this, and played against stereotype.

    The hand holding his cock did nothing but maintain its loving grip. He came up stiff as a railroad spike, scrotum contracting, balls aching to give to her. For the nonce she avoided the lewder tonguework, softly kissing his neck, his earlobes, his blissfully closed eyelids. She rubbed her face against his bare chest, feeling his heart slip gears, hearing his breathing become precipitous.

    No rush.

    Calmly, mildly, she grazed him until he was quivering. His legs refused to hold him standing any longer.

    Jonathan found himself lying slowly back on the cot, the cool leather of the bomber jacket against one calf. Jamaica made sure he could see her peel her sweatshirt inside-out. She was free of her boots and pants in a second, and over him, her fine large nipples tracing an electric geometry on his flesh. She moved astride him and crawled forward, foxy and langorous. He felt her explicit outcrop of pubic hair examine his navel, then his sternum, then his lips.

    He opened his eyes. His cognizance overloaded with her, blowing off free champagne bubble sparks and firework lightning. Her face was what he saw, benevolent, benedictory, far above and looking down at him from between the hard coffee nipples, and when their eyes locked she accepted what she saw, and shifted oh so subtly, a wealth of precision and control there in those schooled leg muscles, and she offered herself to his ready mouth, the rosewater tang of labia unexpected and exhilarating.

    He had been starving, bereft for so long.

    'You haven't done this in a while, have you baby?' She was concerned.

    'It's been tough.' He chuckled. 'I was about to say it's been hard.'

    'No drawbacks in that arena. You seem- ah!' She sucked air sharply. 'Like that. Like that. Just like that.'

    She had been reaching rearward to fondle him. She lost herself and her grip became indecisive. Jonathan did not speak for a few liquid moments, and she mashed downward onto his face a little rougher than she intended.

    He felt her trembling.

    

    

    When he could next see her face, it was turned far to his right, her graceful deer's neck arched, mouth open, eyes shut. She paced her breathing. Her eyes glowed like emerald candles, and suddenly she was in a great, urgent hurry, moving and seizing him and before he knew it he had been swiftly guided all the way into her and she was making the sort of noises a thirsty person makes between big gulps of water. She moved fast and it felt too good to last. He tipped over and came his whole life out.

    When she reached for her coffee mug she found the contents still tepid. She and Jonathan had accomplished a hell of a lot in very little time.

    'Can you be bribed?' She stroked his chest.

    'Can't everybody?' He loved best of all the feel of her legs against his, moving idly. 'Everybody has a price tag. On some people you need to find out where it's hidden. On some the price is too high. Most people are too eager to sell their souls when it's buyer's market.' His groin was entirely juiced. 'What do you need done?'

    'Besides my back, again?' She drew breath deeply.

    'No- you said I could help. Before.'

    'I came down here from Cruz's room. Tried you earlier, but you weren't home. Guess you were somewhere else, still busy being a jerk.'

    This amused him by now.

    'Bauhaus. That asshole. Had Cruz's apartment turned over. Marko probably buzzed over here as soon as Cruz got his first sedation. He slipped his keys to me before we all walked into Bauhaus' place. Upstairs, it's a professional search job, but it's still obvious. Bauhaus is taking potshots at Cruz's story about flushing the dope. To see if it sprouts holes and bleeds.'

    'How did you get over here tonight, anyway?' The flesh of her calf was smooth and perfect against the sole of his naked foot. '

    'Bosco.'

    'Come again?'

    'I do have a car. Not much of a car, but it's transportation, they say. One of those little Jap skateboards. I call it Bosco. After…' She furrowed her brow. 'Hm. I don't remember. That's weird.'

    Jonathan was from Texas, and had never used Bosco. 'I didn't see a car the first night you were here. The night of the jail stuff.'

    'Bosco was in the shop. Maybe he likes it there because it's warmer. Or something. He's spent most of the winter there. I'm always losing a belt or blowing a hose or something. I always remember to put all the fluids and water in, but

    'The guys at the repair bay probably sabotage the car so you'll keep coming back, so they can hang around and gawk at you.'

    'Bosco is usually fixed by a woman. Adela.'

    'Whoops. You're right. Unwarranted sexist assumption. Unless, of course, Adela's gay.'

    'No, she… wait.' She actually thought about it for a moment. 'You know, I have no idea. Suppose it's possible. Personally, I think the solution to all this is to get a new car. Quite American, thinking that way. I genuflected to the energy crisis and bought a car, used, that conserved gasoline for the entire country. Now its paintjob is down to the gray. It's full of road dings and there ain't much tread left. It's on Adela's lift most of the time, and nobody worries about gas shortages anymore.'

    'We're about due for a new one. Just as soon as everyone cycles back into muscle engines. Then,
pow
- right in the wallet.'

    'Bosco made it over here tonight, though. Whether he'll start, after being buried in snow, is another proposition altogether.'

    The storm heaved against the windows as punctuation.

    'I just came in out of that,' he said. From ice cakes and carbonized slush to the warm taste of Jamaica lingering on his lips.

    Right now Jonathan's recall was scant and fuzzy where their trip to Bauhaus' was concerned. He had overheard many details, but was able to interpret precious few. Cruz's mouth had not been in top form for storytelling.

    'You told Bauhaus that Cruz dumped the stuff into the toilet. Two kilos.'

    'I lied. File a lawsuit. I didn't mention the gun in the candy box, either. Cruz wrapped it up pretty good. We need to go get it out, now, before Bauhaus invents any more options. Cruz is in no shape to fetch anything; that guy in the jail really did a job on his arms. And Cruz knows this guy in Florida named Rosie. He can translate the dope into cash.'

    'The bag is really at the bottom of the airshaft, right?'

    'Gun, dope and all. If the bag didn't break.'

    'You want me to fish out the bag?' He was surprised to discover himself postcoitally overprotective. No one had been inside Jamaica as recently as Jonathan. He was randified, territorial and hot to maintain his front-running position. He supposed it was all grandly primitive. Some hormonal imperative.

    'Cruz dropped that bag from the third floor, and there's a damned good chance it got punctured when it hit bottom.' The longer they waited around, the greater was the likelihood that their potential freedom egg had decomposed into worthless white goo. 'Do you know if there's some way to get into the airshaft from the basement?'

    'No. Not that I've seen.'

    Jonathan had made a single sortie down to the icebound laundry room. There were many heavily hasped doors, some with bolted steel fascia, and a few grotty basement studios. Occupancy was full. Cold water dripped to pool near the center of the cement floor. The severity of the winter had rendered the 'washer and dryer useless; the winter itself would soon jeopardize the incumbent mayor's tenure. There was no earthly reason, Jonathan saw, for the airshafts to have below ground access. The floorplan was confusing enough that, down there, he lacked any idea of which direction he was pointed. Each floor seemed skewed, its halls and doors and stairs in slightly variant positions.

    He thought it out. 'If I ask Fergus, he'll just ask questions.
Boolsheet sunvahitch
, he'll say. It might be better, quicker and easier to just climb down the shaft and get it.'

    'What? You mean like mountaineering?'

    'From the second floor it's only one story down. The bathroom windows looking out onto the shaft are all soaped up or boarded over. Up. And down. And nobody suspects anything. Might be better. Safer.'

    She stared as though his forehead had just sprouted a finger. 'You can do that?'

    He clenched both fists tight, to pop the hamstrings. 'I've always had more strength in my arms than my legs. Did some flat rock scrambling in Texas and some caving in Arizona. With the right kind of rope it's just a bit more strenuous than going up and down stairs. Besides, if I can shimmy down there and hook goodies on to the line for you to pull up, we don't risk anybody catching us in the hallways with, how you say, incriminating evidence. We can Mission Control the whole recovery from behind my own locked door - two locked doors - and nobody has to know. Even if Bauhaus has somebody keeping an eye on Cruz's place, he still won't suspect. Yes?'

    He savored this sudden feeling of control. He was steering, for a change.

    Jamaica was not about to question a windfall. 'When could we do this?'

    He saw it coming. 'Why not right now, tonight?' He was well-fucked and giddy with potential. He could impress her with forthright action. 'You're here, I'm here. I even stole a flashlight from work today so I could take a peek down there myself. We've got magic fairie dust for those critical energy boosts. All we need is a rope.'