The Erection Set

When he closed the door I looked at the doodles I had scribbled on the pad. Circles were drawn around the name Ferris and sixes and fives were intertwined around the edges of the paper. Straight lines from the name went out to each of the numerals and the seed grew a tiny stalk but still went unidentified. Out of habit I got up, flushed all the paper on the pad down the toilet, burned Al’s sheets in the sink and went out to meet my contact.

His French faltered and burst into rapid Spanish punctuated with little taps of his forefinger on the tabletop. “No, I am sorry, Mr. Kelly, there is no more. Everything is completely out of hand now.”

“Tell me what O’Keefe said.”

Sweat dotted his forehead and ran in a rivulet down his temple. “Please.”

I could see my face in the mirror behind him and it wasn’t something I could enjoy either. He had been too long in the easy end of the trade and now he was knowing what it was like on the other hand. He swallowed hard, trying to cover his shakiness by sipping his drink, but it didn’t work and I waited him out.

“For you,” he said, “it will be as a favor.”

“As a favor,” I repeated.

“It has left the country. The courier who was killed ... he entrusted it to somebody. The one called LeFleur ... he suspected it went to that bookstore in Soho ...”

“Simon Corner?”

“That is the one. Simon Comer is now dead. He did not have it either. However, it has given the English police a chance to locate the mysterious Le Fleur. As the Americans put it, all hell is breaking loose over there. They may now have the opportunity to break the entire structure of the apparatus. The monetary loss of the shipment was too much for any organization to stand. They cannot recoup unless it is found.”

“What did O’Keefe say?”

He took another taste of his drink and nodded slowly. When he put the glass down he patted his mouth, then licked his lips nervously. “For some reason they have decided to concentrate totally on you. People are ... being alerted. O’Keefe says ... for you to ... take off.”

“It’s screaming halt time, isn’t it?”

“Pardon?”

“I’m like persona non grata now.”

“Precisely, Mr. Kelly. All indications point to you as not being able to live more than a few days unless ...”

“Unless?”

“Yes. Unless ... you surrender the shipment.”

“The real big guns are coming out now, aren’t they?”

“I’m ... afraid so.”

“You were authorized to make this meet then?”

“Yes.”

“Tell them to go fuck themselves,” I said.

When you can’t run and you can’t hide, you do a little bit of both and bring them out into the open. In the weeds you make yourself a weed while they’re rocks and in the rocks you’re a rock while they’re weeds. But you keep them visible and not you, always keeping the back door open and a few birds around to caw and scream when the intruder shows up. You find your own backyard where you know all the crevices and trip wires and you’re safe until they break the defenses and if you’re lucky, by then you’re in another backyard you know equally as well and start all over again. But you had to remember, it wasn’t the hound tracking you who had the worst bite. It was the strange dog in the other yard who got you from behind.

I turned the television on, caught fifteen minutes of worthless news and switched it off again.

Sharon Cass was out to lunch and couldn’t be reached. I left a message that I’d see her at her apartment that night and stretched out on the couch. The seed in the back of my mind grew another inch, but it was just a tiny thing and I said the hell with it and went to sleep.

It was a nice party. Only a small ten-piece orchestra and a few hundred important people in a tidy twenty-room penthouse belonging to S. C. Cable.

The noise of the crowd rose above the soft music, drowning it out completely, bass laughter and the tinkle of glasses making it seem as if it weren’t there at all. Flesh was rampant in see-through blouses and plunging necklines or backs designed for a maximum of exposure. Skin-for-sale time. Feel for texture, pluck for resiliency, poke for resistance. Body fragrances were mixed into a cesspool of heady smells that had no individual identity. Uniform of the day, nearly exposed, jutting tits. No underwear. Crotches thrust forward, eyes seductively lowered. Lips wet. Face the tuxedos and black business suits, for here is the enemy who might drop a piece of priceless information for a closer look at those bulging orbs, or, for the comforting rub of protruding genitals against a girdled thigh, the little fat lady with the diamond rings might just hint what agency contact to see about a part.

Sharon said, “I knew you’d hate it, Dog.”

“It’s not all that bad.”

“Not if you like the sex routines.”

“Right now that’s all you can smell.”

“That’s movie business.”

“Any business, kitten. How long do we have to stay?” Her laugh was gentle and low. “I thought anyone who spent time in Europe would be used to the sophistication.”

“They’re a little more subtle about it over there,” I told her.