Looking for Gentry part 7 conclusion
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He was still waiting. I'd barely turned the car into her driveway, and he
out his door and halfway across the street.
"Ladies," he called. "A word?"
I felt Bobbie tense beside me. He stared at her a moment, then she turned
her back.
"I'm tired, I have things to do," she said.
"Bobbie," I whispered.
"Stay if you want," she said. "I don't care."
His hand lay on my elbow now, I couldn't say how it'd been there.
"That's fine," he said. "We won't be long."
She snorted and stalked up the stairs. He reached now for my other arm,
gently pulled me round to face him.
"You're looking nice," he said. "It's worth the wait."
"Have you been waiting?"
"Mmm," he said. "A little while. It's OK, I spend a lot of time just
waiting."
"It must get boring."
"Depends on who you're waiting for," he said.
We let that hang there for a moment. So here we are again, I thought. The
empty street, the wall of dunes and sea beyond. The purpling sky.
"My mother told me, watch out for strangers, lurking in a car," I said at
last.
"And I'm a stranger now?" he smiled.
I didn't know what I should say. He held me still, both wrists, quite
gently, but I felt powerless to break free from his grip. I wasn't scared
-- I told myself I wasn't scared -- and yet I felt on the edge of spinning
into danger.
"I need to talk to you, it's strictly business," he said, his eyes still
fixed on mine. "I waited here all afternoon, because we need to talk."
"I'm sorry," I murmured.
"No sorries needed. You didn't know. It's what I'm paid to do."
"A stakeout?" I thought a giggle would help here, but I couldn't get it
out. "Are you a cop?"
He raised his eyebrows just a bit, and smiled.
"Call me a fixer," he said. "I think for now, that's best." He gave my
arms a gentle tug, and nodded at his car. "Come on," he said. "I know a
place. We'll talk."
He kept his hand on mine most of the way, as if he thought I'd fly away,
or something. The place was 'way in empty, downtown Norfolk, abandoned for
the weekend by the bankers and the lawyers, a long block from the glassed-
in greenhouse on the wharf-side, with its shops and restaurants for
tourists.
The restaurant that he led me to was one of those stuffy, pricey places at
the bottom of a high-rise hotel, dark wooden panels on the walls and red-
shaded lamps to keep it dim. It tried too hard for an elegance that never
would be there; a place meant for out-of-town executives in a hurry. They
weren't in evidence tonight. Only a sleepy waiter, nodding by the
register.
"So you're looking for Dickie Gentry," he said, once the waiter sloped off
with our order.
I shrugged. I wanted him to talk. We tried to wait each other out, again.
"You're not his wife," he said, after a painful pause. A sudden little
shock. His wife? Me? No, I'm a ...
"I've seen the pictures," he continued. "A looker. Not that you aren't,
yourself. Are you a friend, perhaps? I kind of doubt he has a friend like
you. Not if he hangs out in that bar."
I took a breath to quiet down, and let the little secretary step in to
help.
"And how about you?" I asked. "Are you his friend?" I tried the knowing
little dip of voice he'd used, when asking me the night before about
Bobbie.
"What do you think?" He grinned. "I'd like to think you have a little
sense of that yourself."
"You're not a friend then."
"I don't think he has many, truth to tell. But no, I'm not his friend. Nor
yet his friend," the leering tone again. "I'm looking because someone
asked me to. How about you?"
I'd thought about this some, the night before, on Bobbie's sofa, trying to
settle in to this new person I was playing; if I was playing. Was I
playing?
"A little adventure," I shrugged, and paused. True enough, anyway.
He smiled, just a little. And kept waiting.
"My boss needed to find him," I said. "I thought, a three-day weekend on
the Beach, why not? Beats typing up another brief."
"But why the Beach?"
I'd thought about this some, as well.
"I called the bank already, of course. Left a message at his home," I
said. "That's usually what we do, a routine thing like this. He'll
probably call back on Monday, Tuesday."
He waited. I let him play me, think he played me.
"He'll call, I'll connect him to my boss. And then, that's it. I'd like to
do a little more, that's all. The accident was down here, maybe I can
trace him here. It was a slow week, my boss thought it was cute that I
wanted to try."
"Nancy Drew, girl detective?" He smirked, just as I'd pictured my
imaginary lawyer doing. I bite back a flash of irritation. "What
accident?" he asked.
"A month ago, six weeks," I said, hoping he would not check the lie,
suddenly seeing how dangerous it could become. "He was a witness, told the
police our guy ran a red, down on Atlantic. Not all that big a deal,
really."
That got his interest. He pulled a little notebook from his jacket pocket,
jotted a word or two.
"I didn't make him here, a month ago," he said. "That's interesting. So
why that bar?"
"Found the receipt in his car."
"His car?"
"Sure," I said. "Of course, I called the police here, gave them his plate,
asked what they had. I struck out on the Beach, but got lucky in Norfolk.
They'd towed the car, he'd left it by a bar up there in Ocean View. That's
when I asked my boss if I could look around down here."
"Not bad," he said. "Not bad at all. He must have been impressed."
I tried a giggle.
"I didn't tell him, silly," I said. "He doesn't want me doing stuff like
this; he needs a secretary. If I get lucky here, he'll never think to find
out why. I'm just a secretary, after all. A silly little girl. This
weekend, that's just Freddie playing big shot. A favor given means a favor
can be asked."
"Freddie?"
"That's his name," I said.
"Are you, um?"
I laughed, pushed a little dismissive wave across the table.
"Don't tell that you're jealous," I said, starting to enjoy myself -- and
trying all the same of how to get him off the track I'd led him to with my
carelessness. Or maybe, and, hard to admit this to myself, wanting to hook
his full attention. "Of Freddie? Well, maybe that's not funny, if you've
never met him.
"Still, nice work," he said. "Nice work."
I preened a bit. I'd told him way too much already, but I was having fun,
letting my little secretary enjoy her bragging, sip her wine too fast. And
then I thought, I'd throw him something else, something that might even be
true.
"That's not all," I said. "I went to check his car. And found this." I
handed Chet the note.
He read it slowly, frowned.
I lowered my voice, time for a little melodrama: "I think maybe..."
He cut me off.
"A good guess," he said. "I'll show you, if you're interested, some stuff
that makes it a very good guess. But Gentry's still alive. No question."
I nearly slipped, got too intense. I took a sip of wine I really didn't
need, leaned back and waited.
"Gentry picked up his car today, from Norfolk impound." he said. He smiled
a second at me. "I guess you were a day or two ahead of me."
"You know it's him?" I asked, my tone as light as I could fake it.
He nodded. "Signed the form, I saw it. Paid his hundred bucks and gone."
"And you're sure someone didn't do it for him?"
"They're pretty tight down there," he said. "They want to see your
license, see the cash. It was him. No question."
We sat a while, watched the waiter clear the plates. I thought I'd played
things badly; told him pretty much everything I safely could to distract
from a lie that could have exposed me. But what I traded for just left a
question that I had no idea how to answer: I knew who picked up Gentry's
car -- I was pretty sure I knew who picked up Gentry's car. I needed now
to scramble to be sure. And to beat Chet there. I knew if Chet started
tracing down that trail, trying to find Gentry, he'd end up back with me,
back with guy hired to do a job, a guy who wore a dress. I wasn't sure how
that would go, but there were lots of ways I knew it could go badly. I
wondered if I could steer him away, to give me space to work my case, and
space for other things I needed to explore right now. I tried to guess if
what he knew could move me farther. I worried what would happen if I
didn't try to break away and leave right now. I looked at him. He looked
at me. We waited for the next move.
And it was this:
He reached across the table, laid his hand over mine.
"You're pretty good," he murmured. "Maybe you can help me out, maybe I can
help you some. Like I said, I know a bit about our Mr. Gentry. I've got my
stuff upstairs. You want to see?"
I shouldn't. I knew I shouldn't. That's swimming out a bit too far.
But I just nodded.
He nodded, too, and led me out. The clicking of my heels echoed off the
marble floor, I felt my dress swing as I quick-marched to keep up with
him. Our reflections flashed in gold-tinted mirrors. Despite the deep red
walls the empty space felt bright-lit, exposed.
Waiting with him by the brass doors of the elevators, I told myself to
turn, and go, that going to his room led to just one destination. You know
what's going to happen, I told myself. You know.
A chime. The brass doors opened. He stepped in.
I followed.
Down a long corridor, that near-burnt electric smell of too much
vacuuming. A line of numbered doors shut tight.
Then his.
He had a stack of papers on the table by the window, some file folders on
the armchair. He swept them off, pulled out the chair for me. I sat, knees
pressed tight, back rigid. Tried not to fuss with the hem of my dress, or
touch my hair. He stood behind me.
"Gentry's an interesting guy," he said. "Take a look, see for yourself."
He handed me a stapled, three-page letter. "Carolina P.O. -- probation
officer ..."
"I know," I muttered, reading fast.
"Look close," he said.
A sheriff down near Fayetteville had stopped him, found some dope in his
car. The judge wanted to check up on a record; it didn't look like too
heavy a charge, just police court. Gentry wasn't clean, but wasn't a heavy
hitter, either. Bad checks, really. Two Carolina charges, one dismissed,
one suspended. A juvie charge, it looked, from West Virginia. An old one.
The date looked wrong; it would have put him over 40. I flipped back to
the first page, to check the date of birth.
"The date's not right," I said.
"No," he replied, "Look again."
I'm bad with phone numbers, never sure I get my own Social Security number
right when filling out a form, but the P.O. seemed to have Gentry's down,
from what I could remember. Then I saw it: The name was Robert Gentry.
"It's someone else," I said. "What's the point of this?"
He leaned over me, looming on the fringes of my vision, and reached to
grab another piece of paper, handed it to me. He didn't straighten back
up, his body blocked the lamplight.
"Birth certificate," I said, scanning fast. "OK. Robert Gentry. Looks like
he's 39, 40."
"Now look at this," he said. He leaned low --closer this time -- handed me
another copy of the paper. "Look closely," he said. "Check the date."
It was Robert Gentry's certificate, dated five years later; a two was now
a seven.
"So who's this Robert?" I asked. "I'm looking for Richard Gentry."
Another paper: Virginia marriage license. Robert R. Gentry. Joan Holland
Smith -- Mrs Gentry was a Smith, I now remembered. Uncle Jim was James P.
Holland, M.D., small town big shot. Member of the bank board. Signature on
my retainer check.
Another paper: R. Richard Gentry, B.S., finance, Class-of-when-a-34-year-
old gets out of college.
"That one doesn't check out," he said. "Just in case you're curious."
The documents were all copies, naturally. The originals, all but the first
certificate, were back in Gentry's home, or maybe in his office: Mrs.
Gentry only let me take a glance or two, enough to recognize what I was
seeing now. Chet had access somewhere where Gentry had sent the copies.
Heavy duty access: passport file, job application. Access to the kind of
records check I'd have to ask a contact with the cops to run, if I had a
contact connected enough.
"Who are you?" I asked. "What's your interest in Gentry?"
He shrugged.
"Let's say he owes someone a lot of money."
He propped a hand, palm down, on the table, I saw his forearm muscles
tense, taking his weight. Felt him looming, waiting.
"And you're the guy who breaks the kneecaps?" I tried not to squeak, to
sound as scared as I was becoming, aware, to think how big he was, how
thick his arm beside my face.
He laughed at that. I couldn't see his face, he was still behind me. I
tried to edge the chair back, he didn't take the hint.
After a long minute, I heard him sigh.
"OK," he said. "I'm not going to tell you much. I'll tell you this: It's
nice to know a banker if you need to launder money. It's not necessarily
nice to be the banker. Gentry's in a lot of trouble -- not just from me, I
don't break kneecaps. Not literally. Like I said, I'm an accountant. Maybe
a little more. But I'm with the good guys."
"FBI?" I asked. "Treasury?"
"Well, you know, I don't think I'm going to say right now. Official,
unofficial; with this stuff, it doesn't really matter," he said. "Let's
just say I'm part of the mileau."
He straightened up at last, let me slid the chair a bit, gave me a hand.
"You could be too, you know," he said. "Give me call, you ever get up to
D.C."
I stood, one hand still in his, and waited.
"You don't need to be typing briefs forever," he said. "You can live a
little larger, do more things than that. I think you may have what it
takes; you'll never know, though, till you jump. You wanted a little
adventure, and so you went out. Like it? Want adventure?"
He pulled me slowly towards him.
"Ready?"
I felt myself sink in his arms, my body pressed to his. He slid an arm
down to my lower back, the other, just below my shoulders, held me close.
I lifted up my face, he bent his down. I felt his lips brush mine, then
lightly kiss my cheek, touch one closed eye, the other, and my lips again.
He retreated, just a fraction of a nothing much. I advanced. Our lips
touched. Something seemed to melt, my mouth eased open, I felt his tongue,
I touched it, let him push into my mouth. I felt a glow rising up from my
belly, and raised my hands, one just behind each of his ears, to keep him
there.
He stayed. Both arms now round my waist to hold me even closer, my hand
deep in his hair, holding his face to mine. A tiny moan: whose, I couldn't
say.
And so, hearts pound, skin warms, blood flows. The middle of a kiss is not
the time for looking, clear-eyed, at one another. Not the time to say I'm
not sure I really like this guy, not the time to wonder what's that
pressing on your belly. Not the time to ask yourself what on earth you're
doing. Or with who.
So what comes next flows easily from what's happening right now. Not even
a sudden cool, a tiny draft below your neck, the scratchy little buzz of
zipper being pulled. A long sound, my zipper, not his. My hands fall to my
side, he slides my dress down. I step free, he bends to pick it up, and
lays it neatly on the chair. I stand there in my slip, watch him look me
up and down, see his hands rise and undo the top button of his shirt. I
know, somewhere down deep inside me, it's time to jump back into safety.
Another button. He's watching me. Another.
It's just a little step I need to take now. To turn, to maybe blush, an
awkward moment, maybe more, but then it's over. Just a little step to
take. A little one.
I step.
I lay a hand above his heart. I feel its heavy beat underneath my palm. I
smell a tang, a long day in the sun, the salt air, a smell of musk. He's
holding still now, watching. I trace a little circle with my palm,
another. I feel how firm his muscles are, and how he fills his skin,
almost to bursting, tracing my widening circles on his chest, and now his
stomach. His shirt has fallen off now: Did he, did I? He steps to me. Lips
bush again. Retreat. Advance. His tongue, again.
His hands slide on my slip, mine on his stomach, hard and warm. My fingers
scrape his trouser waist. Once. Twice. Then slip below.
I'd felt him already, belly pressed to belly. In the hot, close space, my
fingers trace the length of him, root to tip and back. I feel his velvet
skin, the hard shaft just before. My fingers circle round. I feet him
shiver.
He kisses, harder now. His tongue probes deep. Enclosed within his arms, I
feel him press still closer.
Want him still closer.
My other hand undoes a button, zipper. I tug, now both hands tug. I feel
his arms lift for just a second from my back; kneeling slowly, I ease his
trousers down with me as I sink.
For moment, a long moment, I just kneel and look. I'm in a place I'd never
been before. A day ago, a week ago, a lifetime past, if I'd have thought
of it at all, it would have been my pants piled on the floor, a girl I'd
just picked up poised on her knees before me, the hot purple-brown pillar
of me in her hands, there by her red, now-parting lips. The man I used to
be could never have imagined being there or what was bound to happen.
Kneeling there, satin rustling as I bend closer, hair lightly brushing
shoulders, shivering a little in a new skin, the glow within suffusing me,
I could imagine nothing else.
I lightly touch my lips to the very tip of him. Somewhere deep inside I
hear a tiny, fading voice cry no, and no, before it dies away. My hand
slides to the root of him, and just below; what dangles there now gently
captured, mine to hold. I bend still closer, felt the length of him brush
my cheek, a little scared still. The circle of my index finger, thumb, the
tips just touching, stroke up, stroke down; I bend to follow, down and
down. I graze a moment in his hair, and with a tiny flush of courage, dare
to let my tongue ease farther out, until it touches.
And so again I trace him, root to tip. And once again, and once again. And
still I know this new me needs something more. As I had thrilled, when his
arms slid along my satin, to be enclosed by him, I need, too, now to
enclose him, to feel him inside this new skin I wore, the heat of him, the
throbbing. My tongue traces him to the tip once more, and just as if
relaxing for his deepening kisses not that long ago, my lips slow ease
apart, and hold him.
Then I slowly take him deeper, slowly let him mostly free. And once again.
This time I let him slip from me, ease my head back just an inch or two to
look again. I kissed, my tongue dances a tiny circle. Again my lips part
and I sink into his heat.
A moan. His? Mine? A shivering. A pounding heart . Again, and once again.
A shudder.
I hold him deep inside, my hands trace frantic circles on his hips, his
belly, his butt.
This time the moan is mine.
I felt him push, he's moving now, we're moving together. I can't stop now
to think what I am doing, he can't stop now. It's just too late.
I feel the urgent pumping, then the musty, salty flood. I have to swallow,
if I am to try to fill the hollow space inside that drives me now.
If I am to breathe.
to be continued
Sherry
- 07.03.2021
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