“Men are piffle!” Mrs. Juliano interrupted, muttering.
From the kitchen came the sound of shattering crockery.
“For sheer physical satisfaction,” Barbara concluded, “masturbation is better most of the time!”
“I don’t masturbate,” Faith responded.
“What do you do?” Gertie demanded. “If you’ve got something new, let us in on it.”
“I meditate.”
“What?”
“I meditate,” Faith repeated. “Transcendental Meditation is the Only True Way to achieve Peace with the Inner Self. I practice it. And I teach others how to do it.”
“A religious nut!” Gertie decided.
“Hari krishna.” Faith’s placidity was undisturbed.
But they didn’t let up. Somehow Faith’s sexlessness bothered them far more than Regina’s promiscuity. They kept at her, without penetrating her calm, until Barbara suggested it was time to break for coffee. “Orville,” she called. “You can serve now.”
“Coming, dear.” Orville entered carrying a large, gooey lemon meringue pie. He smiled at the ladies shyly, innocently.
“Men are piffle!” Mrs. Juliano greeted him.
“Really?” Orville turned the pie on its side and mashed it into his wife’s face. “Power to the piflle!” he proclaimed.
“Up the revolution!” Mrs. Juliano clapped her hands.
“Male chauvinist pig!” Barbara sputtered through the meringue.
On that apt note, the meeting ended.
Outside, Regina Blue and the strange blonde girl were both trying to hail a cab. “Why don’t we share?” Regina suggested.
“All right. Thank you.” Faith agreed.
In the taxi, when she heard Faith’s address, Regina Blue laughed. What a coincidence. We live in the same building. That’s New York! Neighbors have to come clear across town to meet.”
Faith Venable agreed that it was a coincidence.
“I’m in the penthouse,” Regina told her.
“Fourteen-D,” Faith replied. “Directly below you.”
“Come up some time,” Regina invited. “We’ll talk Woman talk. It’ll be fun. Really. Make it soon.”
And Faith Venable did make it soon. Sooner than Regina expected. The next night, in fact.
Faith dropped up. She dropped in. She dropped by.
She dropped dead!
CHAPTER FOUR
How to Skin a Tomato
The next day, the day which would end in murder, Regina Blue woke up late in the afternoon. Stimulated by having had her female consciousness raised, she hadn’t been able to get to sleep the night before. She'd lain awake seriously considering the idea of quitting her profession.
The meeting had triggered the impulse, but there was more to it than that. She probably still had ten good years left—maybe more—-but Regina knew that eventually she must reach a point of diminishing desirability, and there is nothing more pathetic than an old whore living on past glories. As she thought of this empty future, she realized that the time to do something about it was now, while she was still young.
But what? Sleep brought no answer, nor did awakening. Regina sighed. It was three P.M. In eight hours a client would arrive. She knew she wouldn’t turn him away. All right. But that was no reason not to turn down other appointments, was it? If she really was going to quit, the only way to do it was to quit!
She thought about the client. He was a famous criminal lawyer, right up there with Belli and Bailey. He’d paid her many visits over the past couple of years, and was always generous. Regina recalled that she’d met him through Angus MacTeague. She thought about Angus then, and smiled, remembering . . .
Angus MacTeague, founder and head of the ATOMICS Agency, was a legend in his own time. At sixty, he was known around the world as the Edgar Hoover of private investigations. But to Regina Blue, MacTeague was the john who taught her what it meant to “skin a tomato.”
They had met some three years prior to the night on which Faith Venable was murdered. MacTeague called on Regina’s unlisted phone and mentioned the name of the mafioso who’d given him the number. It was introduction enough.
“I’d like you to come to Jamaica with me for two weeks.” MacTeague didn’t waste time. “My chauffeur can pick you up at six. That should give you time to pack. I’ve chartered a private plane for seven from LaGuardia.”
“Whoa!” Regina was impressed, but she’d long ago gotten over being overawed by any celebrity. “You don’t even know me. Shouldn’t we meet first? You might not like me.”
“Don’t worry. I know everything there is to know about you. And I approve.”
Regina thought about ATOMICS, the largest detective agency in the world, and realized he must have a complete dossier on her. Some of the pictures must be lulus! “Suppose I don’t like you?” she hedged.
“You will. Our computer checked it out. You and I are quite compatible.”
“There’s the matter of remuneration,” Regina said delicately.
“I never pay.”
There was dead silence over the phone for a full moment.
“Then I don’t think I can accept your invitation, Mr. MacTeague.” Regina was firm.
“Right.” He hung up.
Regina stared at the dead phone in her hand.
A half hour later it rang again. The slightly accented voice on the other end didn’t identify itself, but Regina had no trouble recognizing it. “You goofed,” it informed her. “MacTeague’s sensitive. He doesn’t have time for a wife or a girl friend, so he’s loft with swingers—but he can’t stand the idea of paying for it. It hurts his ego.”
“Well, giving it away hurts my bank account,” Regina replied. “I’m not in business for love, you know.”
“That’s exactly the business you are in, baby. Now you listen to Poppa. I’ll see if I can get him to call you back. If he does, you go. Don’t even mention money. And don’t look for any trinkets either. Minks and diamonds aren’t his style.”
“Then what—?”
“Maybe six months from now, maybe less, you get a phone call. The caller mentions the name of a stock. You hock your G-string and you buy that stock. Two, three weeks later, you get another call. One word: ‘Sell’. And baby, you sell! Do what I tell you and your two weeks in Jamaica might make you a wealthy girl.”
MacTeague called back. This time Regina accepted his invitation. That night they had a midnight dinner at the Casa Montego in Jamaica.
After that they ate in the villa MacTeague owned in the hills directly overlooking Montego Bay. The food was prepared by a French chef who had been flown over from Paris expressly for them; the rest of the servants were Jamaicans.
Mostly they stayed in the villa. MacTeague explained that he saw enough of people in his work, and that when he was on vacation he valued his privacy. Regina didn’t mind. The setting was beautiful, the weather perfect, and MacTeague was fascinating company. The ATOMICS Agency computer hadn’t been mistaken: he and Regina were completely compatible.
He was a lean, hard-muscled man with a zest for life that could only be described as youthful, despite the passing of his sixtieth birthday. His age, of course, didn’t overly concern Regina. In her profession she had frequent contact with older men. They were the ones who could afford her.
Their first three days at Montego, MacTeague made no amorous overtures to her. During the day they sunned themselves in the nude on the sands of the private beach edging the secluded cove at the foot of the hill where the villa stood. At night they retired to separate rooms.
By the morning of the fourth day, Regina had an all-over lobster burn. She knew that it would eventually deepen to a smooth, golden tan, but meanwhile it was red and itchy. “You look like a ripe tomato,” MacTcague told her as they spread their blanket out on the sand and settled down on it.