The Erection Set

Walt inclined his head to the comer of the room where the blonde I had met on the way in was perched on the arm of a chair, talking to the pumpkin of a man who was one of the bigger paperback book publishers. “That one. Little iron pants. A sexual Molotov cocktail and nobody can get a match to her fuse.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Tiring is the word. Even the experts gave up on her. One was a psychiatrist and even he couldn’t reach a conclusion. Right now she has Raul flipping his lid. Until he tangled with her he thought he was the epitome in conquering maleness.”

“I heard her take him down. Everything she tell him true?”

“Everything. I can vouch for it. She left me hanging on the ropes too. Come on over and say hello. Let’s see what kind of impression you can make.”

“Let’s not. She’s a little young for this dog.”

“Consider it a change of pace.”

“Suit yourself.”

The pumpkin publisher acknowledged our introduction and left to chase down his newest acquisition who had come in like a summer storm surrounded by effete young men.

Walt said, “Sharon Cass, Dog Kelly. I’m making it formal.” He smiled in my direction. “Sharon objects to casual associations.”

Those big, brown eyes looked into mine with a twinkle and she held out her hand. “Walt’s always running me down, Mr. Kelly.”

“Call me Dog. It’s easier.”

“He tell you about my iron pants yet, Dog?”

“Why sure.”

“He’s a real squealer. It’s better when they find out for themselves.”

“Watch it,” Walt said. “One day somebody’s going to carry a can opener.”

She took her hand away gently and tilted her head at me. “Someday.”

Sharon Cass was beautiful. She was different. The beauty was as much internal as physical, but the one inside her seemed to be carefully repressed. Her hair was a tinted blonde that shimmered in soft waves around her shoulders, accentuating the full maturity of a lithe, sensual body. The miniskirt over her crossed legs ended at midthigh, lush offerings shaped to perfection, unashamedly exposed. She was frank and direct, not coming at you like most women would, and I had to laugh at her. “Walt said you’d be a change of pace.”

“Not very flattering of him.”

“Why don’t you guys talk,” Walt broke in. “I have to go play host.”

We watched him leave, then Sharon toasted us with her cocktail and said, “I think Walt deliberately sicced you on me, Dog.”

I looked at her, puzzled.

“Earlier I conned him out of five million dollars for a coproduction movie deal with Cable Howard Productions.”

“Just like that?”

“Like a lamb to the slaughter. My boss expected it to be a matter of intrigue, with the deal to be consummated in Walt’s silken-sheeted bedchamber.” She let out a little-girl giggle. “Instead, he was very nice about it. Now I think he’s avenging his actions.”

“What the hell kind of business are you in?” I asked her.

“Skin and celluloid. Cable Howard makes movies. Good ones, bad ones, but all money-makers. Walt knows he’ll double his investment.”

“And you have to put out to con in the investors?”

“It’s not a new game, Dog. Anyway, I play it by my own rules.”

“Damn!”

“Don’t tell me you’re a moralist,” she said softly.

“I don’t buy into anything under those conditions.”

“And how do you buy in?”

Her expression was one of open curiosity.

I felt my teeth showing in a tight grimace. “Forget it. Maybe I am a moralist. I have my own rules too.”

“Will they work?”

“What?”

“I understand you’re one of the Barrins.”

“Word sure does get around,” I said.

“Secrets don’t last long in this place,” Sharon told me. “By tomorrow you’ll be exaggerated into a mythical European multimillionaire financier come to capture Barrin Industries for yourself. The stock market will reel under the impact of the news.”

“Bullshit,” I said.

“Why, Mr. Kelly.”

“I have ten grand coming, that’s all.”

“So Lee mentioned, but it’s more fun making it millions. When do you collect?”

“I won’t. They’ll beat me out of it. My maternal grandfather left that money subject to certain conditions that make it almost impossible.”

“I like that word ‘almost,’ ” she said. “Can you make it?”

“Nothing much else to do.”

“Your smile is too gruesome, Dog. What’s up your sleeve?”

“A long arm that would like to carry you out of here.”

She put her glass down and stood up. The top of her head came up to my mouth and when she tilted her face up her eyes were shining and her lips were wet.

“All you have to do is ask,” she said.

“I’m asking.”

“Then let’s go.”

The rain had turned her into a spring blooming flower, dewy with glistening droplets of moisture. She wore no hat and let her hair tangle in the wind, not caring when she sloshed through puddles at the curb. She laughed at the night, her arm linked into mine, and the few people who passed huddling under umbrellas looked at us strangely and smiled.

We ate in an offbeat Italian restaurant, walked another six blocks to a bar where the only occupant was a bored bartender, but we ordered our drinks, excluded him politely to go back to his television and sat at the end, watching the city bathe.