Then, when David rose and went to the door to admit the restaurant-personnel with their food, Valerie quickly reached underneath the divan where he'd been sitting and plucked the tape from a tiny recorder she'd planted there. On the pretext of wanting to powder her nose, she went to her bedroom and found a safe hiding place for her cache.
The next morning she lovingly gift-wrapped the tape and sent it to Wilbur Montclair's office, via special messenger. Then she sat back and howled with the surging excitement of victory and anticipation; for she was certain that the result of this act would be the industrial relations coup of the century, and… Wheel… that boy would be released for active duty so fast she'd have him peddling his weenie out of sheer nervous aggravation before he even knew what hit him. She sensed a compulsive need in David to wallow in self-degradation, having observed that the lower his opinion of her, the more frantic he was in bed. So all right, if he had a secret desire to set up housekeeping in the gutter, she was just the gal to help him with the decorations, and welcome to the swill, Prince Valiant! Drop your armour and your virtue and start hustlin' your ass off, Mr. Precious-Face dewy-lips, Mr. Tall Pedigreed Hard-On…!
… Oooh, she'd be so proud of that pasteurized stud, for there was no telling how much juicy traffic they could swing in and out of her apartment once they put their goodies together and concentrated. She decided to blast him right into a ball-breakin' crash-program so she could realize the fullest profits from him before he ran out of steam. She'd start him out on eight or nine parties a day, to see how he weathered the turnover. And then finally, when she was sure she'd milked all his talents dry and useless, she'd dump him and hit up the old man himself. It made her little tummy tingle when she thought how much cash Wilbur Montclair would cough up to keep his son-in-law's escapades from being publicized all over the area. Of course, that poor kid was so hungry for sex, there was no telling how long she'd be able to keep him productive. Months… maybe even a year… and ooh wow, what a future they'd have while it lasted! And how good it would be for the industry!
FIFTEEN
Two days later David received a mysterious summons to appear in Wilbur Montclair's tower offices. With the exception of a brief appearance at their welcome-home dinner party a few weekends ago, it had been some time since David had met socially with his affluent in-laws. He felt some vague apprehensions about being coolly chastised for his sloth I work-performance, as well as some spasmodic absenteeism during recent weeks. He had no illusions that the old man might want to see him for purely friendly reasons, for their relationship had been a cursory and dutiful one at best. However, David was in no way prepared for the jarring shock he was to receive that morning.
Upon being admitted to Mr. Montclair's staggeringly opulent office, the two men shook hands and exchanged a few stiffly amiable greetings. David was reminded what a striking and dignified figure Linda's father was, with that shock of white hair and firm, broad shoulders. The boy saw this whole impressive facade as a "noble bearing," until he suddenly recalled what Valerie had said about, her penchant for "sexy septuagenarians" and, even though Wilbur was only fifty-nine, the full essence of this man's aplomb became somewhat blurred for David. He tried to imagine Valerie servicing a man of this vintage, wondering how long she'd have to "work" on this one to get something to harden besides his arteries. Nor did it add much to the old guy's scion-status when David recalled what a ludicrous role he'd played in some of his nightmares. But here the impact backfired, as David summoned up his own role in these hoary vignettes: his rod impaled on the naked grinding ass of his father-in-law… a bit of imagery that now coupled with the pouncing hot cheeks of Hazel-Harry… the beautiful girl-mouthed boy and his humping father-in-law…? Oh no! David cringed at these thoughts and tried desperately to wipe such visions from his mind. How could he look this man in the eyes, or even be civil to him, if he were going to keep thinking of him like that? Hell no!.. it was a bad scene, so kill it, right here and now…
"Sit down, David," Mr. Montclair said grimly. "I'm afraid we have something rather crucial to discuss."
"Oh?" said David, taking a seat near Wilbur's immense Oak desk. "No illness in the family, I hope."
"Illness in the family," Montclair repeated his words, sighing and looking sadly towards the windows. I couldn't have put it more succinctly if I'd tried." Then he turned and gave David a piercing, blue-eyed glare, David visualizing the old man's naked nightmare-haunches again and having to look away. "If there is any illness in this family, David, all the germs will have come from you."
David stared down at his hands and waited, his muscles going tense; for he knew now that something horrible was about to happen. An explosion.
"But you see, I love my family far too much to let this disease spread and infect them," Montclair went on. "In order to protect Linda and the children, I'll have to work out some kind of quarantine for you. And now, David, I shall say no more until you've heard this tape."
He pulled a tape-recorder out of his desk-drawer, and, after plugging it in, set it in motion.
Upon hearing the first sound of his own voice, David gave a start. And as the tape droned on, he grit his teeth and kept his head lowered, wishing to God he could disappear or dissolve under the rug. He felt Montclair's eyes on him during the whole playback, but couldn't bring himself to look up. Oh man… all his hidden resentments and hostilities were now in the room with them, unmasked and undiluted. Oh Christ, that bitch! Making him spill his guts out like that, and how sick all those antipathies sounded spoken in the lush Martini-atmosphere of her apartment. He sounded so damned warped and depraved, spewing out all that overstated melodrama, when the truth was that he could have broken away any time he wanted, if he'd had the guts, if he hadn't let his wife and his kids and his house hammer all those nails in his coffin. And yet, even though every word on that tape reflected his true feelings, his manner and attitude sounded definitely neurotic: grown-up little boy blaming everyone but himself for his own weaknesses.
After several painful moments, the tape stopped. Then silence. And accusation:
Montclair removed his glasses and leaned across his desk in David's direction, his tone surprisingly soft and friendly. "I've always sensed that you disliked me, David, and it's made me a very unhappy man. Both Mrs. Montclair and I have always wanted your love…"
David glanced sharply at him, thinking of his nightmares again and remembering how bitterly these two old harpies had fought over him in bed… wondering why his mind was suddenly playing these bitchy little Freudian pranks on him: realities merging into dreams? But with a shrug, he said: "Cheer up, Mr. Montclair, only God is loved by everybody."
With this flippant remark, Wilbur put his glasses back on and regained a most militant stance, pinning David with an imperious stare of judgment; as the boy wretchedly wondered what the hell he was supposed to do, weep and wail and kiss the cuff of the old guy's pants? So all right, dammit, his secrets were out and this was the end of his free and vapid ride through life… and Sir Fat-Ass Mount Rushmore here could just go out and buy his daughter another robot baby-maker!