Private Pleasures Read online

  I wish I could tell you that I was completely engrossed by the ZAP Project and thought of nothing else. But I must confess my personal problems had assumed such size and complexity that they interfered with my concentration on the task assigned me.

  I admit it.

  My confusion and indecision were compounded when Marleen Todd told me she was contemplating divorce as her only means of escaping an unhappy marriage. My immediate reaction-which I didn't voice to her-was that it might serve me just as well, ending a marriage I found and and mean.

  There is something else I should disclose, I had long harbored suspicion that Chester was not my natural son. I married Mabel because she told me she was pregnant and refused to have an abortion. Marrying her seemed the proper thing to do.

  It is true that I had sexual relations with her (once) prior to the time she discovered her pregnancy. But it is also true that at the time she was seeing other men, and I had little doubt that she had granted them the same favors she had granted me (once).

  I suspected it was quite possible she didn't know precisely who the father of her child really was, and she had picked me because my income and career prospects were the best of all the men with whom she had been intimate. I had been selected as a victim, the one man who would pay for the indiscretions of several.

  My reconstruction of what happened may or may not be accurate. But the uncertainty had soured my marriage from the start. Mabel and I-and eventually Chester-observed an armed truce, and what should have been a warm, loving relationship was spoiled by caution, inattention, and even rancor.

  Despite all this-and here's the part I truly did not understand-I could not hate Mabel, even if my suspicion was correct. She had acted in her own best interest, and to blame a human being for doing that is akin to blaming them for breathing.

  In truth, I believe I felt an odd affection for her, even though I rarely revealed it in word or deed.. She was not an illnatured woman.

  Prior to our marriage I had found her jolly, outgoing, and generous.

  Her present surliness, I knew, was due more to my chilly unresponsiveness than to her essential nature.

  She had put on weight in the past several years-she was now quite chubby-but I still found her physically attractive, and I knew other men did as well. She was an immaculate woman, and I could not justly complain of her skills as a homemaker.

  Recognizing all that, I suppose it was inevitable that my feelings toward her should be edged with guilt. She may have tricked me into marriage, but I bore some, if not most, of the fault for our failure to achieve a reasonably happy family life.

  My feeling of guilt was even sharper in my relationship with Chester.

  To be honest, I loved the boy and yet could not express or display my love. I thought him handsome, alert, and possessing a delightful curiosity and innate intelligence. Why I could not communicate to him how I felt, I just don't know.

  Finally I took up my pen again and resumed planning the ZAP project.

  It was a relief. Everything involved would be finite and determinable.

  But human relations are infinite, are they not? There is nothing concrete to measure, nothing to weigh. And too often what you conclude from your observations is tainted by your own ignorance and prejudice.

  I could study my caged mice, experiment with them, and record the results on videotape. But you can't do that with humans.

  Can you?

  On the ride home that evening I expressed to Marleen Todd some of my feelings about Chester.

  "I know I'm not a good father," I confessed. "And yet I love the boy.

  I wish I knew how to get closer to him."

  She asked if the two of us had ever done things together.

  For instance, had I ever taught him to ride a bike.

  No.

  "Taken him to a football game? Any kind of a sporting event?

  A rock concert?"

  "No," I said. "I really don't enjoy those things."

  "He might," Marleen said gently. "You could ask."

  "Yes, of course. But I have so much work… Oh, Lord, I'm using that as an excuse again."

  "Yes," she said, "you are."

  "I'm good with things," I said angrily. "I know I am. But with people I'm an absolute klutz."

  "Recognizing that is the first step," Marleen said.

  "Resolving to change is the next."

  "Change," I repeated. "I'm not sure I can."

  We were silent a long time. Then, "Will you help me?" I asked her.

  "Yes," she said, "I will."

  DR. CHERRYNOBLE. After I was divorced, I moved back into my parents' home-at their invitation-and resumed my maiden name. I had refused to accept alimony MY from Tom, a rather quixotic gesture, so the offer of a large bedroom, study, and bath in a comfortable two-story town house was welcome. The drive to my office took less than ten minutes.

  My mother and father were in their late seventies and in excellent health, for which I was thankful. They were careful to respect my privacy, but always ready to provide companionship and counsel when asked. It really was a delightful household, and I considered myself fortunate.

  "Would you like to visit my home?" I once asked Chas Todd.

  "I think you'll like it. A nice view of the ocean. I can borrow my father's old station wagon, your wheelchair will fit into that."

  "No," he said. "Thanks, but no."

  I told him that after listening to eight or more hours of human pain, it was a relief to drive home to the peace and security of my parents' home. I could only wish all my patients had similar sanctuaries.

  "I do," he said, but I didn't believe him.

  My work was going well, my income was increasing, I was able to keep up with recent research in my field-so why wasn't I content?

  Please notice that I use the word "content" rather than "happy." I have always felt that contentment is a more feasible aim than happiness. To be contented is to be satisfied with one's life.

  Happiness is something else.

  "Physician, heal thyself." But in my case it was, Psychiatrist, analyze yourself. I did, frequently, and the reason for my discontent was not difficult to recognize. I lacked a man in my life.

  I know there are those, including women, who will scoff at such a lament. Indeed, there are many women who lead productive and contented lives without men. But I am not one of them. I felt the absence of a man as a hunger.

  Some of it was physical, of course. That was part of the craving I felt, the need for a naked male body pressed to mine.

  The other part was an emotional need, I wanted desperately to love and be loved in return. Not affection, not devotion, but love, mutual and complete. A romantic psychiatrist, you smile? Well, why not?

  And so on a Saturday afternoon, I drove out to visit Chas Todd.

  He unlocked the door for me, then wheeled over to switch off his word processor. His housekeeper had obviously been there that morning, the barny studio was as clean and ordered as it could ever be.

  "Were you working, Chas?" I asked. "Sorry to interrupt." " "That's okay," he said gruffly. "I wasn't really working, just reading over what I wrote last night."

  "How is it coming?"

  "I like it," he said, and laughed. "And I think you will, too. It's a love story, Cherry."

  "I like it already," I told him.

  "Between a boy termite and a girl termite. My God, you look great today. A luscious bouquet!"

  I was wearing a flowered sundress. The back was wholly straps. I twirled in front of him. "You approve, Chas? " "What's not to approve? How about a gin and tonic? " "Only if you'll let me make them," I said and went into his tiny kitchenette. "I know what I'll get you for your birthday, a set of decent highball glasses. I'm tired of drinking out of jelly jars. When is your birthday? " "You've got it in your records, doctor," he said.

  There was an edge to his voice, but I let it pass. I handed him his drink and sat in one of his spindly kitchen chairs. We raised glasses to e
ach other but made no toast. He took a deep gulp, then grinned at me. What a handsome hulk he was! A damaged hulk.

  "Feeling all right?" I asked him. "No nightmares? No depression? "

  "Nothing I can't handle," he assured me. "I'm fine. What have you been up to?"

  "Work mostly. Plus an hour on the beach this morning and maybe another hour or two this afternoon."

  "Yeah, you're getting a tan. But no serious mischief?

  "No," I said. "No mischief. How about you?" I saw his expression and added hastily, "I'm asking as your friend, not your shrink."

  He shrugged. "Friend or shrink, no mischief to report. "

  "Drinking?"

  "Of course I'm drinking," he said testily. "And smoking up a storm.

  And thinking lewd, lascivious thoughts. Okay?

  "The last part is," I said.

  "You never give up, do you?" he said, shaking his head.

  "No," I said, "I never do. Tell me more about the boy termite and the girl termite."

  "He meets her, loses her, finally gets her. And they live HEA. That's trade talk for happily ever after."

  "How does he lose her?"

  Chas gave me a crooked smile. "Because the poor schlumpf can't get it up. Even termites have problems."

  "But you said that eventually he gets the girl. How did he solve his problem?"

  "Did you put any gin in this?" he demanded, holding out his empty glass. "I couldn't taste it."

  I mixed a fresh drink and brought it to him. "Chas, you didn't answer my question, How did the boy termite solve his problem?"

  "I was kidding, for chrissake," he said. "Let's just drop it."

  "All right," I said.

  He looked at me. "You never argue, do you?"

  "Would it do any good?"

  "No," he said, "it wouldn't. Tell me something, doc, Why do you waste your time with me?"

  "I don't consider it a waste. I enjoy being with you." "You do? " he said, sounding surprised. "I can't think why.

  I don't particularly enjoy being with myself."

  I regarded him thoughtfully. For some time I had been wondering if shock therapy might cure his impotence, which, I was certain, was psychic in origin. I decided, at that moment, to try it. But it would have to be framed as a request rather than a question he could kill with an explosive "No!"

  "Chas," I said quietly, "I'd like to make love to you." it was the first time I had ever seen him blush. His naturally ruddy face took on a deeper hue, and I saw how shaken he was.

  "What the hell is this?" he blustered. "is this a new kind of treatment? Something you provide all your hung-up patients?"

  "You know better than that. This is something for me."

  "I don't believe it."

  "Believe it," I said, confused by my own motives.

  "It's impossible," he said hoarsely.

  "Let's find out," I suggested.

  "No!" he cried. "I don't want your pity."

  "I want yours," I told him. "Please."

  He sat there, face twisted, and I could see how this struggle was roiling him.

  "No," he repeated in a softer voice. "I can't. I'm afraid.

  "Of what?"

  "Failure. Leave me alone, doc."

  I finished my drink and rose. "You'll think about it after I go," I said. "I know you will."

  "You think you know everything," he said furiously. "Get the hell out of here and don't come back." I left, wondering if that line from Hamlet could be correct. "I must be cruel, only to be kind."

  WILLIAM K.

  BREVOORT

  That evening a florist's box was delivered to my home. inside was a luscious bouquet and a brief card from Chas, "Come back." don't care how smart you are or how rich you are, if you haven't got The Luck you've got nothing, zip, zilch.

  Now take me, I've always had The Luck. All my life.

  Like I was running a small crib out in

  Denver.

  Nothing flashy, but clean.

  I had four girls three white, one black and a boy.

  None of them dopers. I also had a police sergeant on the pad, a nice enough guy who was as straig lit as a crooked cop can be.

  One night Phil comes up to my place and I poured him a Chivas which was all he drank.

  Willie," he says, "I think you better get out of town."

  That was all he had to say.

  I closed up shop and caught a plane the next morning.

  My kids got away, too.

  I read later the Denver vice cops had made a sweep the afternoon I was flying east.

  All the skin peddlers I knew got cuffed, and some of them ended up doing time.

  See what I mean by having The Luck?

  I went to Miami and looked up some wiseguys I knew to see if I could work a deal. But they were all in heavy stuff like drugs and guns.

  Not my style. So I went to Fort Lauderdale and located Big Bobby Gurk who was my cell mate once when I did a little bitty stretch in a Frisco clink.

  Big Bobby had a good thing going. He was a bookies' bookie.

  Like if a street bookie had a real heavy play on a horse or a football team, he could lay off some of his bets with Bobby. For a fee, of course. Gurk was like a reinsurer and doing okay. But he had no place for me in his organization.

  "But I heard of something you might like, Willie," he said to me. "I got a client and his brother-inlaw is in the tile business. Floor and wall tiles. It's Italian stuff and expensive. This guy has got a competitor who sells the same tiles at a discount and it's killing him.

  The same importer sells to both of them and swears he charges both the same, but my client's brother-in-law don't believe him. He wants someone to crash his competitor's office and swipe the guy's invoices so he can find out what the guy is paying the importer for the tiles.

  Know what I mean? "

  "I follow, Bobby," I said. "I'm no B-and-E guy but there may be another way to work it. What's he offering? "

  "He says he'll pay a grand, but I think he'll spring for two."

  "What's his name and where do I find him?"

  It took me a week to cozy up to the competitor's secretary.

  She was a spacey broad who was saving up to put the down payment on a white Caddy convertible (used).

  For five yards she delivered to me photocopies of all her boss's recent billings from the importer of Italian tiles. I delivered them to my client and collected my two grand.

  The Luck again.

  Anyway, that was my first caper in what I learned later was called industrial espionage. It was like spying but no one got hurt, and the take was so good I bought myself a condo, a new Infiniti, and more clothes than I had ever owned before -suits and dresses. if that stops you, I might as well confess I've been into cross-dressing most of my life. Now, in the bucks, I've got women's shoes, silk stockings, pantyhose, lingerie, evening gowns, sweaters and skirts, even a mink stole.

  There are a lot of guys with the same hobby, and I stay in touch with some I've met all over the country. We mail each other Polaroids of ourselves all dolled up. There are cross-dressing clubs in every city I've ever been, and we have cocktail parties and fashion shows with prizes for the most attractive outfits.

  You're probably not going to believe this, but none of us are gay or have had sex-change operations. We're just normal, average guys who happen to enjoy wearing women's clothes. Hey, it's not a crime, there are no victims.

  I've met several good clients at cross-dressing soirees, and one I met about a year ago-wearing an absolutely stunning strapless silver lame sheath-was the CEO of a company that sold cosmetics, grooming aids, suntan lotions, and stuff like that. I told him I was in the commercial information business, and he was very interested in what his competitors were having developed at the Mcwhortle Laboratory. He asked me to find out.

  The Luck!

  I tailed Marvin Mcwhortle for a week and discovered he was keeping a bunny named Jessica Fiddler. I ran a trace on her, and she had the specs of
a sharp hustler. I figured she'd play ball, and she did. She sold me so many Mcwhortle secrets, including samples of new products, that I had three different clients buying information on perfumes, pharmaceuticals, and personal care products.

  But when she told me about the ZAP Project to produce a testosterone pill that would make soldiers more aggressive, I knew immediately I was on to something that was too good to sell to a client for five or even ten big ones. Instead I went back to Big Bobby Gurk and treated him to a twenty-four-ounce steak dinner.

  "Bobby," I said, "years ago you steered me into a new career, and I appreciate it. I owe you one, and now I'm going to pay you back."

  "Yeah?" he said, chomping away. "How?" I told him about the ZAP pill and how, if it worked, it would make a Rambo out of a Milquetoast.

  He stopped scarfing for a moment. "Hey," he said, "that's inarresting.

  But what's it got to do with me?"

  "Look," I said, "you're in the gambling biz. Maybe you don't book bets yourself, but your clients do, and everyone says you're the best man in Florida on odds, points, and spreads."

  "Maybe not the best," he said modestly. "Harry Finkle in Sarasota is pretty good."

  "And you got connections all over the country," I went on. "Right?"

  "Yeah," he admitted cautiously, "I got a few contacts."

  "Well, how about this…? Suppose, just suppose, the ZAP pill works, and I can glom on to a sample. We take it to a private chemist and he does an analysis. That's how we find out what's in the stuff. Once we know what's in it, we can have the chemist make up a supply."

  "I still don't get it," Gurk said.

  "Look, say there's a heavyweight title fight in Vegas We go to the challenger's manager and tell him we got a pill that will make his boy a tiger. The manager wants to win, his boy wants to win, and we want to win-especially if the champ is heavily favored and we've bet a bundle on the challenger who gulps a ZAP pill."

  "Now I get it," Bobby said slowly. "Or like there's a football team, a bunch of palookas with the odds against them.

  We play them heavy all over the country, and then we get the pills into their pizzas."