He sat up in bed and reached for it, feeling more than a little chagrined. Taking it did not seem nearly so much a fine idea in the light of day as it had the night before.
"Jesus," he said aloud.
He examined the torn buttonhole on the strap.
Was I "mad with passion"? Or did that just happen, because we were like two squirming snakes on the seat of the Porsche?
He raised it to his nose and sniffed it. There was a very faint odor of Susan-or her perfume? Same thing? — on it.
Do I really love her? Or do I have a fatal case of penis erectus?
How could I possibly love her? Christ, I hardly know her. And what we've done most of the time is either fight or lie to each other.
But if I don't love her, where did this Susie-and-me-against — the-whole-goddamned-world feeling come from?
And does she love me? Or is this because she knows I'm onto her and fucking the cop, under the circumstances, seems a more logical thing to do than docilely putting out your wrists to have them cuffed?
And where is Susie now? Waking up and getting ready to go to work, to wait for my call, or already on an airplane headed for San Josй, Costa Rica, having stopped only long enough to call Chenowith from a pay phone in the airport to tell him the cops are onto him for his bank jobs?
Could she have been faking what happened to us in the car? Or in bed?
Why not? I got my sex education from two sources. Dad telling me about how not to knock up some decent girl, and Amy telling me the important stuff, including that because the female is smaller and weaker than the male, nature has equipped them with superior mental mechanisms to even things up. They lie much better than men, according to Amy. And, Amy said, they are entirely capable of allowing themselves to get knocked up if that's the only way they see to get the male of their choice to the altar. And to do that, they are entirely capable of pretending a far greater physical fascination with, sexual reaction to, the male than is actually the case. They can and do fake orgasms.
Was that what Susie was up to? Convincing me that I was the greatest thing since Casanova in the sack because that made more sense than getting herself hauled off?
It is entirely possible, Matthew the Innocent, that you have been played like a violin by a really tough female who had trouble not laughing out loud at your naпvetй.
Particularly when I wanted to keep her brassiere. Jesus!
Am I that fucking stupid? Face it, you are.
And how am I going to explain this to Peter Wohl? "Sorry, boss. I was thinking with my pecker. You know how it is"?
Will I be allowed to resign? Or are they going to prosecute me for being an accessory? They'll prosecute me. And they damned well should. I have betrayed that oath I took. What cops are supposed to do is get the bad guys, not help them walk from a multiple murder. I forgot that oath until just now.
And if all this is true, and logic tells me that it is, why don't I believe it? Why do I think that when, after carefully casing the First Harrisburg Bank amp; Trust Building to make sure the FBI doesn't have somebody watching the safe-deposit-box vault, and I call her office, she will be there, waiting for my call to come get the bank loot she's holding for Chenowith?
Because I am the fucking fool of fame and legend, thinking with my dick?
Or because I think that she loves me, and I love her, and she's the best thing that's ever happened to me?
Well, Matthew Payne, if you're going to go down in flames, you're really going to go down in flames. You're going to play this little scenario out to the end, believing what you saw in Susie's eyes-not only that she didn't know Chenowith was going to blow up the science building but, more important, that she loves you back-until Special Agent Leibowitz puts the cuffs on your wrists and starts reading you your Miranda rights.
He put Susan's brassiere back on the bedside table and picked up the telephone. He ordered orange juice, milk, coffee, a breakfast steak, two eggs sunny-side up, hash brown potatoes, and an English muffin.
"Since I know you are going to rush this right up, which means I will be in the shower, I will leave the door ajar," he said, and hung up. And then he added, aloud, "After all, the condemned man is entitled to the quick delivery of his last meal."
While he was shaving, he heard the sound of the cart being rolled into the room. He stuck his head out the bathroom door and called to the waiter, "Forge my name and add fifteen percent for the tip."
When he had finished shaving and combing his hair, he left the bathroom naked, and en route to the chest of drawers for his underwear lifted the cover over the steak and eggs.
"To hell with it," he announced to himself. "I'm hungry. "
And then he pulled a chair to the cart and sat down naked.
He had just dipped the first piece of steak into one of the egg yolks when there was a knock at the door.
"Shit," he muttered, got up, stood behind the door and opened it.
Maybe it's the newspaper.
It was Miss Susan Reynolds. She smiled at him somewhat shyly, met his eyes momentarily, and then looked away.
I love her. It's as simple as that. Otherwise, I couldn't possibly be this happy-maybe "thrilled" is a better word-to see her.
"Come in my parlor, my beauty, as the spider said to the fly."
"I wasn't sure if you'd be up," she said as she walked into the room. The first thing she saw was his reflection in a mirror, and then the room-service cart.
"My God!" she said.
"A little birdie told me you were coming, and I wanted to be ready."
"I was talking about the food," Susan said. "But now that you mention it, put your pants on."
"Do I have to?"
"Do you always eat that much for breakfast?"
"My mother taught me that the most important meal of the day is breakfast," Matt said solemnly.
"I'm surprised you're not as fat as a house."
"May I offer you a little something while I put my pants on?"
"All I had at the house was a glass of orange juice," she said.
"Help yourself," he said, and started for the chest of drawers.
He saw, reflected in the mirror, that she was watching him. He put an innocent look on his face and covered his crotch with both hands. Susan shook her head and smiled.
The telephone rang.
He sat on the bed and picked it up.
"Hello?"
"I hope you were sound asleep," Jack Matthews voice said.
"Why, Special Agent Matthews of the FBI!" Matt said. "What a joy it is to hear your melodious voice!"
Susan looked frightened, decided Matt was pulling her leg again, shook her head in resignation, and then, when he nodded, signaling that he was indeed talking to an FBI agent, looked frightened again.
Matt signaled for her to come to the bed.
"Are you alone? Can you talk?"
"I am alone and I can talk," Matt said.
He swung his feet into the bed to give Susan room to sit down. She took one of the pillows and laid it over his midsection. Then she sat on the bed. Matt held the handset away from his ear so that Susan could hear Matthews.
"Were you out with the Reynolds woman last night?"
"Indeed I was."
"What times?"
"Jack, you're not my mother."
"Just answer the question, for Christ's sake, Matt."
"She picked me up at the hotel about half past six and dropped me back off here just before midnight. We drove out to Hershey, to the hotel. We had clam chowder, roast beef, and asparagus. Did you know, Jack, that asparagus is an aphrodisiac?"
"Don't tell me it worked. You're not doing anything really stupid with that woman, are you, Matt?"
"No," Matt said, and looked into Susan's eyes. "I'm not doing anything stupid with that woman, Jack. Did you call up for a report on my sex life, or did you have something on your mind?"