“You’re turning purple, Mother. Now calm yourself.” Pennington patted her perspiring brow and surreptitiously wiped off his hand on a corner of the blanket. “I have to be leaving now, or I’ll be late for work,” he told her.
“That’s right! First get me all upset. Then leave me all alone!”
“I have to go to work, Mother.”
“If you didn’t give half your salary to that ex-wife of yours, you wouldn’t have to work at all.”
“I don’t give Brandy half my salary, only about a third. Besides, she’s entitled—”
“She’s entitled to nothing! That redheaded floozy! I don’t know why you ever married her in the first place!”
“As I recall, it was because you thought she’d make a good wife. As I recall, my wishes were consulted only after you and she made all the arrangements. As I recall, you picked her out for me, Mother.”
“That"s right, throw it in my face! Twenty-nine years of motherhood and I make one mistake, and will you let me forget it? No! That’s the thanks I get!”
“I’m not throwing it in your face. I’m only saying I don’t give Brandy half my salary.”
“Then you must be throwing it out on that other floozy clown in the Village!”
“If you mean Sonia, she’s not a floozy. She’s a freelance illustrator and she makes a very good living without any help from me. She enjoys my company and I enjoy hers and I don’t see why that should bother you, Mother.”
“When you get home at five o’clock in the morning and don’t get any sleep, I’m bothered. I’m your mother. It’s normal.”
“Well, I won’t be home late tonight, so you don’t have to worry. That is I won’t be home late if you’ll just let me get out of here so I can get to work.”
“Work! Ha! You just want to get to the office before your boss does so you can grab that Miss Hodgkiss behind the water cooler and lover her up.”
“Mother, my relationship with Miss Hodgkiss is strictly business. But I’m not going to argue with you anymore. I don’t have time. I have to leave now.” Before she could argue, Pennington gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and exited.
Coming out the front door of the brownstone, in his hurry Pennington almost collided with the mammoth female figure mounting the front stoop. “Oops! Sorry.” Pennington stepped aside. “Good morning, Miss Carridge,” he added.
“Ggrrrowbpf!” Miss Carridge grunted and kept going without breaking stride.
Pennington shrugged and headed for the subway. A half hour later he disembarked and walked the two blocks to his office. He pushed through the doors of the Fuller Lawn Manure Co., ignoring the company slogan embossed under the name—“Six Pounds of Fertilizing Power in a Five Pound Bag”— and went directly to his own private office with the name-plaque and the title “COMPTROLLER” on the door. He stayed just long enough to deposit his attache case and then headed for the stockroom.
There, behind the water cooler, Miss Hodgkiss was bending over to get some folders from one of the lower shelves. Pennington reached out and under the short skirt she was wearing. His hand closed over one silk-encased cheek of her delectable derriere and squeezed gently.
“Morning, Mr. Potter.” Miss Hodgkiss neither flinched nor found it necessary to turn around to identify the bestower of the bold caress.
“Why so formal this morning, Clytemnestra?”
“You’re informal enough for both of us.” She pushed back and wriggled against his hand, shooting him an impish glance over her shoulder.
“If my right hand offend thee, pluck it out.”
“I’m not offended,” Clytemnestra murmured. She stood up and faced him, checking to make sure the water cooler blocked them from the view of anybody passing the open door of the stockroom. Then she pressed against him and held up her mouth to be kissed.
The kiss lasted a long time. During it, Pennington fulfilled his mother’s prophecy by grabbing freely at various erotically meaningful portions of Miss Hodgkiss’ body. It had more than its share of such portions.
Pulchritude! That summed up Clytemnestra Hodgkiss. She was one of those blondes who like to pull their hair back tight, wear rimless glasses and very little makeup because by thus playing down an attractive face they are sure that attention will be drawn to a torso which merits it. Clytemnestra’s torso merited it in spades.
Following the route of Pennington’s hands, there were warm thighs, just a trifle heavy and tapering down to shapely legs. Above them was a pert bottom, small and trim. Her hips, like her thighs, were on the fleshy side and made all the more attractive by the narrowness of her waist. Small breasts, but carried very high and beautifully shaped, completed the tactile journey. Pennington’s hands lingered on them, his fingertips digging a little to trace the sharp nipple under the dress and bra she wore.
Clytemnestra broke the kiss. “Party time’s over,” she told him. “Mr. Fuller will be in any minute.”
“Check. See you back here at lunchtime?”
“Not today. I have to get over to the bank and take care of those financial obligations,” Clytemnestra demurred.
“That’s right. I forgot.”
“Well, I didn’t. And I’m really grateful, Pennington. I want you to know that.”
“Ah, forget it.” He slapped her lightly on the behind and started her on her way out of the stockroom. “What Fuller doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Just look at it as strictly a paper transaction.”
“It’s more than that. I just want you to know I appreciate it.”
They parted company in the hallway outside the stockroom. Pennington went back to his office and closed the door behind him. He took off his jacket, hung it over the back of his chair and started going over the morning mail. That done, he spent the rest of the morning working an the company’s ledgers.
Shortly before noon his phone rang. It was Sonia. She was at loose ends and wanted to know if he’d like to take tier to lunch. Pennington made arrangements to meet her at a little restaurant in Chinatown which was halfway between the Village where she lived and worked and the Wall Street area where his office was located.
Pennington arrived first. The restaurant was heavy on atmosphere-—which is to say it was darker than the inside of an inkwell. Still, he had no trouble spotting Sonia when she arrived.
Nobody else in the restaurant had any trouble spotting her either. Sonia’s entrance was spectacular. She poised at the top of the short staircase, peered into the gloom, took one step forward, missed the stair and hurtled into the lining area where she collided with a waiter carrying a stay heavy-laden with Cantonese delicacies. Egg foo yung splattered the patrons in the immediate vicinity and barbecued spareribs flew through the air like antipersonnel missiles. Those seated at the lower end of the bar were caught in a sudden drizzle of Wonton soup.
Pennington picked his way through the fried rice, and rescued Sonia from the middle of a scene with a waiter, a customer and the manager which had all the elements of an opening skirmish in a tong war. He guided her back to the booth and squeezed in beside her. With a cavalier flourish, he picked a fortune cookie from among the strands of her long, straight black hair where it had become lodged and deposited it in an ashtray. “How do you feel?” he asked solicitously.
“Like an Oriental Helen of Troy,” she answered.
“Is this the face that launched a thousand sampans?” Pennington quipped.
“It wasn’t my fault.” Sonia was defensive. “Why do you always pick such dark restaurants?”
“So I can do this without being seen.” Pennington bent over and delicately bit the tip of her large breast through the man’s workshirt she was wearing, “Mmm,” he decided. “Soy sauce.”
“Besides, I can’t help it if I’m nearsighted.”
“You could wear glasses.”