Good Lord, Deliver Us (11 page)

"Ah ... I ...."

"Yes?"

"I ... that is ...." Z stopped to
gather his scattered thoughts. Found he was warmer than the
temperature of the room. "That is ... with one camera in the other
bedroom and a camera in the living room ...."

"What you're trying to ask
is, where are
you
going to sleep?"

"Could sleep in my car, but
...."

"You couldn't protect me from
there."

Z could see her faint
smile, even in the unearthly glow of black light. "Look. You're a
regular guy, right?" Z nodded. "A straight guy?" Z nodded again,
hoping, in the generalized darkness of the pulsing, blue light that
she couldn't see him blush. Young and fresh as she was, how could
she know that her question about him being "straight" sounded like
.....? "And I agree. This bedroom is the only place for
both
of us to sleep if
you're to do your job."

Turning, she pointed. "The mattress is
dirty, but that won't matter. I'm used to spending time in places
like this so I brought my sleeping bag to have a clean place to lie
down. Opened up and spread out, the bag's big enough for two to
sleep on. But I'm afraid its so padded it's a little hot for
summer. Even when you leave it unzipped and use it for bedding, you
still sink into it. So hot, we'd have to strip to get any sleep at
all."

Jamie Stewart turned back to Z; paused
as if waiting for him to say something. Which, as usual, he didn't.
"The way I see it, the first night, we'll start off with me lying
on my half of the bag, you on yours. That's after you promise not
to take advantage of me, of course. But sometime during the week,
while you're dreaming of your girl, you'll roll over and bump into
me. Thinking I'm Susan, you'll nestle close, put your arm around me
and ....." Again, that unfathomable look. "What I'm thinking is
that, since it's going to happen anyway ....."

And Jamie Stewart, girl
ghost hunter, was in Z's arms, loving Z with her full lips and
flashing tongue above and with her
very
clever hands below!

* * * * *

Something had made him wake up. ...
The phone. ... Still ringing.

He tried to move and
groaned.

Without having to think about it, Z
reached over to the night stand to get the aspirin he always kept
there. By feel, shook some into his hand, palmed them into his
mouth, and chewed them, the sour taste helping to wake him up a
little more.

Good!

The phone had stopped ringing. Good,
in the sense Z couldn't have answered it if he'd tried. Bad,
because it was probably someone he'd want to talk to.

Z didn't get many calls at home, an
unlisted number necessary for someone in an occupation that made
enemies. An additional benefit to a silent number was it cut down
calls from aluminum siding people, the lawn care folks, the "free"
dance lessons people, insurance salesmen, banks with a credit card
offer, stock salesmen, the window replacement company, or the
latest charity asking for the latest donation for the latest worthy
cause.

What time was it? Z tried to focus his
eyes on the single window by the bathroom door. Saw it was light
outside. Morning or afternoon, he couldn't tell.

He tried to move again. ... Was a
little better, though his body felt like he'd been in a fight.
Battered. Bruised. But ... why? ......

Oh ... yes. Oh, yes!

Z groaned again, this time
from remembered pleasure. Contrary to expectation, Z's physical
labors had
not
been finished after helping Jamie set up her ghost
traps.

Funny. "No pain, no gain," didn't
apply to lovemaking like it did to other physical activity, Z never
feeling a twinge during the act itself.

Lovemaking. And lovemaking. And more
lovemaking. A little of this and a lot of that.

Thinking about last night, Z was still
shocked by what that young woman knew, to say nothing of what she'd
wanted him to attempt.

And like sex after the prom, it hadn't
happened by accident, the whole "affair" planned by Miss Jamie
Stewart.

When had young girls
started carrying rubbers, for instance? In Z's day, that was what
the guys did -- but just one; in its foil wrap; in the back of your
billfold. What was he to think of a girl who carried ...
dozens
?! In different
brands? In different
colors
?

Shocking. No other word for
it.

But, my God, that girl was cute. Even
with her clothes on. Without them ... my God!

Z took a deep breath and moaned it
out. Given the night he'd had, it could be afternoon. Early
afternoon, he speculated after raising his head to get another look
at the window.

Jamie Stewart. A teacher at a Catholic
girls' school, no less. Maybe there was some truth to the rumor Z
had heard from his high school buddies, that being repressed too
long by an over-strict religion made Catholic girls hot stuff, a
line of thought leading to the punch line of a joke about the
promiscuous Sunday school teacher telling her class that, from her
own experience, she could assure them they didn't have to smoke or
drink to have fun.

Z was feeling ... better.

Cautiously, he sat up, pulled off the
sheet, swung his legs over the side of the bed, put his feet on the
floor.

Linoleum. Though an ice-cold hell in
winter, pleasantly cool in summer. Sleeping naked also suited the
heat of summer more than the cold of winter. (Z had considered
wearing pajamas, but could never get himself to do something that
unnatural.)

Gathering his courage, Z stood, then
set out on the twelve-foot trek to the bathroom (able to limp as
much as he wanted in his own apartment,) eventually making it,
pausing there for every morning's necessities.

What had Jamie said? They
would be spending every night together for at least a
week
? Perhaps Z should
give his unlisted number to the funeral home.

Out of the bathroom, Z felt ...
warm.

Taking another fuzzy look at his
watch, it seemed to him that both the big and little hands were
lurking near the twelve, a reading that fit the
temperature.

Time to turn on the twin
window-mounted air conditioners on either side of the front door
and get the day's fire going in the fireplace.

As for breakfast, Z wasn't sure. To be
more accurate, his stomach wasn't sure.

Z's mind now functioning well enough
to give the day its early direction, he shuffled into the living
room, veering left to snap on the air conditioners, the old
machines lumbering into life, the stiff breeze through the buzz of
their directional vents feeling good on Z's bare body.

The phone rang. The same caller as
before?

No one around to see him in the buff,
Z sagged down on the butt-sprung divan and picked up the
receiver.

"Z."

"It's Susan. I tried to call you last
night. And again this morning."

"Case."

"Something that keeps you out all
night?" Z thought of black-haired, long-legged, dark-eyed,
full-figured Susan and felt a flash of guilt that he had ... no
desire for her at all.

"Yes."

"I'm sorry I got you up. I
know, after being out all night, you need your rest." She didn't
know
how
much
rest -- and, with luck, never would. "But you can go back to sleep.
Should, go to sleep." Susan's voice was at its sexy best, a fact,
given Z's anemic condition, that did nothing but make him hurt in
all the wrong places. "I called because I learned yesterday that
American Insurance is in financial trouble." A lie, if ever Z heard
one. Since when did
insurance
agency's have financial trouble? And if so, good!
Ever since "Swindle Insurance" reneged on his father's policy, Z
had been quits with all of them. "I don't think it's anything
serious," Susan continued. "What's really wrong is fear that
something
migh
t
go wrong. But anyway, the top
officials decided they needed to get together with the branch
managers. As you know, we're heavily into health insurance. With
the government looking into ways to regulate the cost of health
care, that's got everyone worried. So, there's an emergency meeting
called for all executives for next week. At Tantara." Typical, Z
thought. When having money troubles, do your worrying at an
expensive resort at the Lake of the Ozarks. "And that means that
working stiffs like me get some time off. Oh, we've got to stay at
our desks during the day. But there won't be any night work with
the big boys out of town. I might even be able to slip away for an
afternoon. So I thought we could get together tonight and tomorrow.
And maybe a couple of afternoons next week."

Z almost groaned into the phone -- a
reflex Susan was certain to have taken wrong, a reflex, under the
circumstances, impossible to explain. Of all times for Susan to
suggest "getting together," this wasn't one of them.

Z and Susan generally saw each other
on weekends, either Saturday or Sunday; sometimes not even then.
Susan had work commitments. Then, there was the time-consuming
college class she'd taken last winter.

Normally, Z would have
been
delighted
at
the prospect of seeing more of her -- figuratively
and
literally -- but not
now."

"Love to, but can't," Z
said. "Got to work tonight. Every night. Days, too." The "days,
too" was fiction, of course, the Zapolska code allowing Z to lie in
matters of life or death. In this case,
his
life or death.

"That's ... too bad. I've been missing
you, Z."

"Me, too."

"No way you can take a
break?"

"Not this time. Could be two
weeks."

"Two weeks? Can you tell
me about it?" Susan always wanted to hear about Z's cases. But what
was there to tell? Even this time, when interesting things
had
been happening,
there was nothing to tell.
Especially
this time.

"Later."

"OK. Take care, Z."

"Yeah."

After Susan hung up, Z
felt guilty -- not that he had any reason to. What had happened
with the ghost hunter wasn't his fault. (Which wouldn't be the case
if he'd been a girl -- girls having less sex drive than men.)
Screwing a good-looking girl in the circumstances in which he'd
found himself was something a
real
man
had
to do. The code of the hills said that, when a
good-looking girl came on to you like that, you had to prove
yourself or be called a queer.

Viewed that way, Susan
should be
happy
that Z was all man. (Best not to mention the incident to her,
though, women tending to be irrational about unimportant things
like an occasional piece on the side.)

Then, too, the first time (the first
few times) he'd had sex with the ghost girl was because she'd taken
him by surprise. Now that he'd been warned about her sexual
appetites, he could say with certainty he would never make love to
that girl again. Z's exclusive love for Susan was safe once
more.

Finding the solution to last night's
problem, Z was feeling virtuous once more, virtuous but ... cold.
... Because the air conditioners were rumbling at full power;
because he hadn't built his usual fire to counteract their blast;
because he was sitting on the divan buck-naked.

Taking the need to get warm as his
motivation, Z dragged himself up; even managed to steer both halves
of him to the bedroom and into some gray summer slacks and a blue
dress shirt.

Not that he was feeling well enough to
make a fire or to eat a peanut butter and jelly
sandwich.

Thinking about his lack of appetite,
could the fact that he hadn't eaten be contributing to the empty
feeling in his stomach?

After he'd put in an appearance at his
office to see if he had anything on his answering machine, he'd go
out for something. (He used to be able to dial his office answering
machine from his home -- just another phone feature that no longer
worked.)

If he could only remember where he'd
put his shoes ......

* * * * *

Driving the Cavalier with all the
windows down, everything between his apartment and the office a
blur, Z rallied his forces to get the car lined up in its slot in
the gravel lot behind the overpass.

Outside his car and into the
patched-up building, he keyed himself into his ratty office at the
back of the first floor.

Closing the flimsy door behind him, Z
flipped on the wall switch -- to no avail -- and not for the first
time.

Leaning over the secretarial desk, Z
jiggled the loose lamp cord where it went into the base of the
table lamp; heard it sputter as the wires made solid connection,
the lamp then coming on.