"Play with what?" Helen DiVay smiled broadly.
Pat got red and started to stammer again.
Helen laughed and said to Velda, "Isn't that sweet, a great big man like Captain Chambers ... blushing."
Maybe Pat wasn't going to have the fun evening that was his for the asking, but I was having a blast, watching the "great big man" squirm.
I was going over the log of incoming calls when Velda came out of her kitchen carrying a coffee tray and, after she caught the way I was gaping at her, she gave me a typical feminine smirk of satisfaction.
She had nothing on but a cobwebby-thin yellow robe that must have come out of a Times Square fetish shop, and with that beautiful dark hair she was a study in contrasts that could give a dying man the will to live.
All I could do was drop the book and ease back into the end of the sofa and gawk like a kid at a carnival hootch show.
"Will you either get naked or get dressed?" I asked her. "I can stand you either way, but not in between."
She put the tray down on the coffee table, still smirking. "Knowing your penchant for ripping the clothes off women, I deliberately bought something inexpensive."
"My ass. You got two weeks' salary tied up in that thing."
Velda leaned over and filled the cups and handed me one, her eyebrow raised in mock disdain, while her breasts under that filmy stuff swayed like tempting fruit. "What a romantic you are ... and you make snide remarks about Pat's bachelorhood."
"Sure. To him a bed is something you sleep in."
When she sat down next to me, she leaned over and kissed me on the neck. "Oh, and what is it to you?"
"A workbench," I said.
She smiled prettily, then gave me a devious look. "Someday ... if you ever decide to terminate our somewhat nebulous engagement in a legal ceremony, you'll need to undergo a rigorous brainwashing."
"Long engagements are recommended by the best shrinks to ensure lasting marriages, baby."
"Ten years long?" The pout was starting now. "Don't you ever get tired of playing permanent houseguest?"
"Nope. Kind of fun. No wife would be looking like you do right now."
The pout relaxed into a smile, but her dark eyes were still devious. "Oh, but you're wrong. I would. I guarantee you I would."
She kissed me again, and I felt that familiar surge of warmth. "Sometimes, Mike, I wish I'd never told you I'd wait for you.... That you could sow your wild oats and I'd still be here, waiting."
"Who says I'm sowing any wild oats?"
"Shut up," she said, and kissed me again.
Then she tensed her expression, a pretend-mad I knew so well. "What I ought to do is cut you off—no more fun and games until you get serious...."
I put her hand somewhere. "That's serious, isn't it?"
We necked a while, then she took my chin in her hand and said, "But you bring something home to me, Mike, it better be flowers. I don't take drugs and I include penicillin."
"I hear you, honey...."
I sipped and supped on those lush, ripe lips for a while.
Lazily, her dark eyes hooded, she said, "Sometimes I think I'll just go ahead and have a baby."
I drew away, grimace-grinned at her, put the half-empty cup back on the tray, and checked my watch. "Right. Yeah, well, I think I better blow this coop right now. I'm beat."
Velda seemed half amused, half hurt, then gave me a nudge with her elbow. "Easy, my love. I was only kidding. When you're ready, we'll do this thing. Do it right. Only for now, let's sort of keep the idea in mind, okay? A little Mike or a little Velda?"
"Deal. As long as it's an idea."
I didn't say it, but it wasn't a bad idea at that. Sowing wild oats was one thing—coming home to a feast like her every night was another.
And it must have shown on my face, because she got a little misty-eyed for a second before she turned her attention back to her coffee.
When we had seconds, Velda said, "I cleared out all the details at the office."
"Yeah?"
"The Jordan Agency is going to handle the Redding contract, and Bud Tiller said he'd cover the Murphy-Baine deal for you. No charge. You just owe him one, now."
What was this about?
"The rest of the business," she said, "I can handle myself. The bills are paid, and you have about eight thousand in the bank, if you have to do any check writing. So you're free to do this thing, and anyway, I know I can't stop you."
For one minute I was all set to climb her frame for being so damn presumptuous ... then the years went by in microsecond flashes, and I remembered the bullet scar on her back and the other one across her palm, and the irritation ebbed away into cold relief and I said, "Thanks, kitten."
"You were going to do it anyway, Mike," she said with a shrug. Her breasts rose and fell under the sheer yellow and keeping my eyes off them was hardly worth the effort. She was saying, "It works better if you don't have to worry about other things."
"Honey, you're a pisser," I said.
"Like I said ... ever the romantic..."
"An even bigger pisser than Pat." I shook my head. "All I do is nudge around the edges of something that may not even be there, just to relieve the monotony ... and you two get ready for a war."
Velda twisted around on the sofa, drawing her knees up under her. "So go ahead and nudge. Just keep your head down, your tail covered, and send back a signal if you need help at the front."
She wasn't kidding. She was the other licensed P.I. in our agency, after all, and she packed almost as many rods as I did, and in much more interesting places.
I could feel my teeth showing, and a relaxed, easy feeling settled in and replaced the tension around my shoulders.
It was on now, and I wouldn't have to make any excuses for it.
I reached out and ran a hand under the sheer yellow cobwebs and touched the satiny roundness of her breasts, their erect points daring me to do something about them.
"I appreciate it, kitten." I took my hand away and covered her up again.
Velda asked softly, "Would you really like to show me how appreciative you can be?"
"Uh-huh ... but maybe I'd better save my strength."
"You're finking out. Sometimes I think you're as bad as Pat."
"Not really." I buried my face in her neck and nuzzled.
Then I told her ear: "This tomcat doesn't want anything else on his mind when he tangles with a beautiful pussy like you...."
Droplets of night rain speckled the streets and the wind had a little bite to it as it blew out the last remnants of summer. Occasionally empty taxis would cruise by, but I ignored them, sticking to the nearly deserted sidewalks.
A jumpy drunk on the corner hustled me for a buck, but the young hippie in the doorway farther down got a fast brushoff. When I reached my block, I picked up the early morning edition of the News, and cut down toward my apartment house.
You've come a long way in a few years, Mr. Hammer, I thought. Used to be a West Side walkup, crappy but comfortable. Now here you are across town in a fancy pad with all the goodies, where you can stand on the ridiculous little patio and see both rivers at either end of the asphalt artery. From the street you can look up and see your quarters jutting out like a balustraded pouting lower lip, marked by the glow of the red overhead light.
The rain almost caught me, but I made it under the canopy in time. Having a uniformed doorman usher me in had become one of life's little pleasures, but this time I had to shoulder the plate-glass barrier open myself, because the guy was sneaking a smoke beside the service elevator.