Private Pleasures Read online

  Private Pleasures

  Lawrence Sanders

  Lawrence Sanders

  Private Pleasures

  I am thirty-nine years old and have been married for almost ten years.

  My wife, Mabel, and I have one child, a nine-year-old named Chester.

  It is not a happy marriage, and Chester is not a happy boy.

  For the past seven years I have been employed as a senior chemist at McWhortle Laboratory, Inc. McWhortle's was essentially a research lab, developing new products for a long list of pharmaceutical, industrial, and consumer-oriented companies. We obtained patents on our inventions and then licensed them to our clients for manufacture.

  Our specialty was biochemical formulas, including sedatives, stimulants, and synthetic hormones. One research section was devoted solely to the blending of new scents and fragrances for the perfume industry. And we had developed several chemical products for the U.S. armed forces. Those cannot be described here.

  After working for almost two years, I had succeeded in developing a new method of synthesizing testosterone, the male sex hormone. My process, for which a patent had been filed, was relatively inexpensive and could easily be adapted to mass production.

  This research was financed by a company that made and marketed personal toiletries and nonprescription drugs. The client hoped we would be able to isolate the element in testosterone that was responsible for one of the secondary male sexual characteristics, the growth of body hair. it was believed that if the project was successful, eventually an oral medication or injection might be a cure for alopecia (baldness) in both men and women. The commercial possibilities were dazzling.

  On the morning of April 27 I was summoned to the office of Mr. Marvin McWhortle, our founder and chief executive officer.

  He was seated in a high-backed swivel chair behind his massive desk.

  Alongside the desk, lounging in a leather armchair, was a tall, narrow gentleman whose age I guessed to be about fifty. He was neatly dressed in civilian clothes but was introduced to me as Colonel Henry Knacker. His branch of the service was not mentioned, nor was his official position.

  "Greg," Mr. McWhortle said, "the colonel would like to know more about our synthetic testosterone. You may answer all his questions."

  Without preliminaries, the officer began to query me as to the exact chemical formulation of our new product and the method of manufacture.

  It was obvious Colonel Knacker knew a great deal about testosterone.

  Suddenly his interrogation ended, and he stared at me a moment in silence. "You've worked for us before, Barrow," Colonel Knacker said flatly, a statement, not a question. "You signed an oath of secrecy.

  You're aware, aren't you, that there's no time limit on that oath. It is still in force. Understood?"

  "Yes, sir, " I said.

  "There is no doubt whatsoever about Greg's loyalty, " Mr. McWhortle put in.

  "Loyalty is one thing," the officer said. "Secrecy is another. This conversation never took place. Clear?"

  I nodded.

  "Good. Now let's get down to bedrock. Testosterone is what makes men aggressive. Agreed?"

  "It is generally thought so," I said cautiously. "But behavioral research is continuing to determine if testosterone is the sole cause of aggression or if other factors may be involved.

  These might include heredity, education, social status, and so forth."

  "I know all that cowflop," the colonel said impatiently.

  "But I also know that studies have linked high testosterone levels to men who are aggressive, intensely competitive, and seek to dominate.

  Correct? " "Yes, sir," I said. "But women can also be aggressive, competitive, and seek to dominate, even though their testosterone levels are much lower than those in men."

  "All to the good," Knacker said with a tight smile. "Since women now play an important role in the military and may soon find themselves in battle action. Capisce?

  Apparently Mr. McWhortle felt matters were not progressing rapidly enough, for he interrupted the dialogue between the officer and myself.

  "What the colonel has in mind, Greg," he said briskly, "is developing a testosterone diet additive pill, powder, or liquid-that would increase the combat efficiency of the average soldier."

  "Even if the effect is only temporary," Knacker said earnestly. "We'd like to give our boys-and girls, too, of coursean extra edge in a firefight. We call it the Strength-Action Power pill."

  I confess I did not immediately question the morality or ethicality of what he proposed. My first reaction was astonishment at the name of the product.

  "Strength-Action-Power?" I repeated hesitantly. "Colonel, the acronym of what you suggest is SAP. If news ever does leak out about the program, I'm afraid it would arouse a great deal of amusement in the media. That might even result in the cancellation of the project."

  "Good lord, colonel," Mr. McWhortle said. "I never thought of that.

  SAP just won't fly."

  "Suppose you name the diet additive Zest-Action Power," I suggested.

  "ZAP is easy to say, easy to remember, and it implies moving swiftly to attack."

  The officer looked at me admiringly. "I like the way you think, Barrow," he said. "ZAP it is! Now tell me, Do you think a testosterone pill to improve battle performance can be developed?"

  "Possibly," I said warily. "But it would require a great deal of research, including animal testing followed by trials on human volunteers. The dosage would have to be very carefully calculated, and even then the long-term side effects might prove dangerous. We're dealing with an extremely powerful hormone here, and the ways in which it affects human behavior are still not fully understood."

  "But do you think ZAP is possible?" he repeated. "One little pill or maybe a tasteless powder mixed in field rations? It could mean the difference between victory and defeat. It could be of vital importance to your country, Barrow. Concur?"

  "Yes, sir," I said. "I think such a diet additive could be developed.

  Not overnight, of course. It would require an enormous amount of work."

  "And I might add," Mr. McWhortle said quickly, iian enormous budget."

  "Let me worry about the expense," Colonel Knacker said.

  "You guys worry about inventing a pill that'll make every American line doggie eager to charge into the cannon's mouth. How soon can you get started?"

  I looked at Mr. McWhortle.

  "As soon as funds are made available," he said smoothly.

  "They're available right now," the officer assured him.

  "Get cracking-and remember, this involves national security."

  "Of course," Mr. McWhortle said. "No problem. The entire project will be conducted in total secrecy. Am I correct, Greg?"

  "Yes, sir," I said.

  And that's how it all began.

  Greg was driving that week, and the moment I climbed into his old Volvo I knew he was in a down mood. He usually greets me with a cheery "Good morning!" But on that day, April 27, he barely mumbled a hello.

  "Well, don't you smell nice," I said, hoping to give him a lift. "It's the new after-shave I asked you to try, isn't it?"

  He nodded.

  "Like it?"

  "Yes," he said. "Woodsy."

  "That it is," I said, "and the client loves it. They're going to call it Roughneck. Isn't that a hoot?"

  He didn't reply, and I didn't say anything until we had left Rustling Palms Estates and were on Federal Highway, heading for the lab.

  "How was your evening, Greg?" I asked him, thinking perhaps he and Mabel had had another run-in.

  "Mercifully quiet, " he said. "Chester went upstairs to do his homework, Mabel watched one of her travelogues on TV, and I worked
in the den."

  "Greg, do you have to bring work home every night?

  "It's preferable," he said, and I knew what he meant.

  He didn't speak again until we were through town and out in the country. "And how was your night?" he asked. "Did Herman come home?"

  "Eventually," I said as lightly as I could. "Smelling of Johnnie Walker. Black Label, I believe. He said he was at a sales meeting.

  He went directly to sleep, and Tania and I played a game of Chinese checkers. Then, after she went upstairs to bed, I finished my needlepoint pillow. And that was my exciting evening."

  "is this all there is?" Greg said wonderingly, and I looked at him.

  And that was the extent of our conversation until he pulled into the underground garage and parked in his numbered space. I started to get out of the car, but suddenly he said, "Chester called me a wimp this morning."

  "Oh, Greg," I said, "that's awful. Why on earth did he say that?"

  "It was a silly thing," he said, "but significant, I suppose.

  We finished breakfast, and I got up to leave for work. Mabel told me to take my umbrella. She said the radio had predicted possible showers. I explained as patiently as I could-not for the first time, I assure you-that I would enter the car in our garage, drive directly to the lab, park in an underground garage, eat lunch in the employees' cafeteria, and then drive home in the evening. I would not brave the elements a single moment during the day, so an umbrella seemed unnecessary. But she just said, Take it. You don't know what's best for you." So to avoid an argument, I carried my stupid umbrella. I was leaving the house when my son called me a wimp."

  He was silent then, obviously troubled, and I didn't know what to say.

  "Marleen," he said, almost desperately, "you don't think I'm a wimp, do you?"

  I put a hand on his arm. "Of course, I don't, Greg," I said.

  "I think you are a very sensitive, caring man with many, many fine qualities, and I hope you stay just the way you are."

  I left him then because he looked so woebegone that I was afraid he might start weeping, and I didn't quite know how I'd handle it. I took the elevator up to my office, thinking of Greg's problems and thinking of mine. I wondered about the two of us, wondered if it was a case of misery loving company or if there was more to it than that.

  I sat at my desk and reread my final report on the development of Roughneck. The client would be responsible for design of the bottle and label, so I was finished and could get to work on my next assignment.

  It was a proposal from Darcy amp; Sons, one of our oldest clients, for a new perfume, cologne, and eau de toilette. As usual, the description of what they wanted was somewhat vague, but I was used to that. The saying in our trade is, "I'll know it when I smell it," and my job was to create a scent that would convince the client they had received exactly the product they had envisioned.

  Darcy amp; Sons, believing that women's tastes and manner of living were returning to traditional ways, wanted a fragrance that gave the feeling of romance, intimacy, and warm understanding. They did not want anything too strong, spicy, or sexually aggressive. They were seeking a "quiet" fragrance that would recall a woman's first kiss, her wedding day, the birth of her first child. They wanted a soft, sentimental, and nostalgic" scent that might bring back memories of happy days and enchanted nights. The key to the new product, Darcy's proposal stated, should be "love" and not "passion." And it had to be as attractive to men as it was to women.

  They even had a name for this new perfume. It was to be called Cuddle.

  I read this prospectus, then sat back and pondered how it might be converted into reality. In the art of blending perfumes, a good "nose" must be able to identify as many as two thousand different scents, to distinguish frangipani from ylang-ylang with one sniff. Even more important, a "nose" must remember the evocative characteristics of scents and how they meld or clash with others. An expert perfumer is not unlike a composer of music, disparate notes are combined to produce a melody.

  I left my office and went into our aromatic lab where two other "noses" were already at work on their own projects. They were seated at individual tables, dipping small strips of blotter into vials of essences and then passing the sample beneath their nostrils for a quick initial sniff. The scented strip was then clamped to a rack to dry, for a dry scent is often quite different from a wet. Neither of the noses" looked up as I entered the lab.

  I went directly to our "library", rack after rack of corked bottles, jars, and flacons holding oils, resins, and liquids containing the condensed scents of plants, flowers, tree bark, herbs, nuts, fruits, and a few rare animal products. No one had actually counted but it was believed we had more than ten thousand different smells in the library.

  I walked slowly along the rack holding flower fragrances, glancing at labels. After reading the Darcy proposal, it seemed to me that a meld of lavender, lilac, and violet might be desirable. Or would that be too old-fashioned for a modern woman who yearned for a return to traditional values? I returned to my office intending to scribble possible formulas that might fit the required specifications.

  A small stack of trade magazines had been left on my desk.

  All McWhortle employees were expected to keep up with the most recent advances in chemical research, but few of us had time to do more than flip the pages of these technical journals, reading only those articles that might affect one's own specialty.

  My eye was caught by an article in a periodical devoted to behavioral neuroscience. The title was "The Cuddle Hormone," and I remember smiling because Cuddle was the name Darcy amp; Sons had selected for their new perfume. I began reading.

  On the drive home that evening, I asked Greg, "Do hormones smell?"

  He treated my question seriously. Greg very rarely laughed.

  "I doubt if there is one hormonal scent, but I know my synthetic testosterone has an odor. It smells faintly of walnuts.

  Why do you ask?"

  "Just wondering," I said. "Are you still working on the baldness remedy?"

  "No," he said. "I was taken off today. It's been turned over to Steve Cohen."

  "Oh? And what are you doing now?"

  "Something else," he said shortly, and I knew better than to ask for details. Greg sometimes works on classified projects for the government. Hush-hush stuff. But it's not poison gas or anything deadly. Greg would never do that, I know.

  "Would you and Mabel like to come over tonight for bridge?"

  I asked.

  "Thanks, Marleen," he said, "but I'm afraid we'll have to pass. I'm bringing a lot of work home. Some other time."

  "Of course," I said, knowing there would never be another time.

  We came off Federal Highway, and he slowed before turning into Hibiscus Drive, the curving access road that led to our adjoining homes.

  "You know what I'd like to do," he said in a low voice. "Just keep driving. Anywhere."

  "With me?" I said, half-teasing.

  "Yes," he said, and I could hardly hear him. "With you.

  On April 27, Thursday morning, I had a session with Dr. Cherry Noble.

  It was only my third, and I still wasn't sure she was going to do me any good. But she was a female therapist, and I didn't want to Confess All to a man. Greg made no objection when I told him I was going to a shrink. He just looked at me.

  I had the wrong idea. I thought I could ask questions, and Dr. Noble would give me the answers. Not bloody likely. She'd ask questions, I'd answer, and she'd say, "Mmm." For instance, I told her I liked to watch travelogues on TV.

  Other women watched sitcoms and soap operas, I enjoyed looking at Patagonia and Swaziland. Why was that?

  "Why do you think it is?" Dr. Noble asked.

  "I don't know,', I said. "I guess I want to see foreign places. Learn how other people live. Do you think it's like, you know, I'm trying to escape?"

  "Mmm," she said.

  Silence.

  "Sometimes I do strange things," I confess
ed. "I know they're weird, but I can't help doing them. Like this morning.

  I told Gregory to take his umbrella. The radio did say possible showers, but he never goes outside during the day. I knew that, but I insisted he carry an umbrella."

  "Why do you think you did that?"

  "Because he makes me feel so goddamned stupid, that's why.

  I had to assert myself. My husband is a very educated man, but he never talks to me about his work. I know he thinks I'm brainless.

  Believe me, I've got a brain. Maybe I'm not a research chemist, but I've got a brain. He ignores me. So I told him to take his umbrella."

  "And did he?"

  "Oh, sure. He'll do anything to avoid an argument. Because if we argued, that would make us equal, you see. I think he hates me."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "He brings work home almost every night so he won't have to talk to me."

  "What do you want to talk about, Mabel?"

  "Dopey little things. Like what the butcher said to me or how Chester is doing in spelling or silly stories in the news.

  Anything. But there's no communication. I'll bet he talks to Marleen."

  "Who is Marleen?"

  "Marleen Todd. She lives next door. She's married to Herman. He sells insurance. They have a little girl, Tania.

  She's one year younger than Chester. They take the bus to school together."

  "Chester and Tania?"

  "Yes. Marleen is a chemist at the lab. Like Greg. She makes perfumes.

  Greg drives one week, and then Marleen drives the next. They alternate. So they spend a lot of time together."

  Silence.

  "I don't believe there's anything going on there, doctor, if that's what you're thinking. Marleen is okay, very pleasant, but she's plain.

  No tits, no ass. I'm sure there's nothing going on there. They probably just talk shop.

  Besides, Greg isn't really interested in sex."

  "Not at all?"

  "Only occasionally. Like it's a duty. And if I turn him down, I think he's relieved. Once I gave him a funny birthday card that said, Use it or lose it,' but he didn't think it was funny. He hardly ever laughs.