Iceberg Tempting Read online

Page 8


  “Uh, Maria, this guy is doing criminal things, you understand? What painting?”

  She sighed the weighty sigh, the one that said, Please, I don’t have the energy for this. “It was Dracula.”

  “What?”

  “I painted Tod as Dracula. Right after I told him that I wasn’t seeing him any more. I did him from memory, but I put in a bath towel for a cape, and gave him pointy ears. Around his neck was soap on a rope. And suddenly it was missing.”

  “So he let himself into your apartment.”

  “I know that he took a shower, stuff was out of place.”

  “The wet towel was probably a dead giveaway,” I said.

  “No, he brought his own towel, I think. It was just…damp in the bathroom, like from a long shower. And there wasn’t a lot of hot water for me. That was the first time.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Oh, yes. He came back another time and cleaned my bathroom. I mean he really cleaned it, and he left behind a box full of different soaps and scrub brushes, and a heavy-duty cleaner. I looked at the tiles, and he’d scrubbed the grout between them until the wall was white again, first time since I lived here. So I tried to look at it from the bright side, you know? Somebody was cleaning up my bathroom.”

  “Babe, do you think it’s okay to call the cops now?” I asked. “Between your bathroom and my zapped disks, he’s a menace, ya know?”

  “Honey, where’s your proof? Was anything stolen from you?”

  “Yeah! My stories are gone!”

  “But did he take them? Can you prove that he took them?”

  Good point. Going to The Law was an okay thing to do if one had proof of the crime and had the bad guy tied up and delivered him to the station, and had several witnesses right there to give statements. Then there was a chance that something could happen to the bad guy.

  Telling the cops that Old Tod, big marshmallow Tod, had committed a copy of my writing to the Ether, but that I still had everything, and that I thought but wasn’t absolutely sure that he had broken in, and even if he had, he hadn’t taken anything, well, that was bad enough. Then tell them that Tod broke into my girlfriend’s place and cleaned the tub. Say that and I’d have some angry cops on my hands for bothering them. The Chicago Police didn’t have enough time or people or room to house the real criminal element, the murderers and rapists and thieves, the muggers, the burglars, the hostile bad guys. So let’s just not start on the Tods of the world.

  So I pretty much lost that argument, if indeed it was an argument.

  ***

  Like Tod’s visits were an indication of things to come, the Cubs went into a dive. They lost seven of ten, and the St. Louis Cardinals were catching up to them, and I thought, Well, it was fun while it lasted, but what exactly did I expect here? Had I thought that they were going to win?

  What was I thinking?

  Chapter Eleven

  I was at Maria’s, and she was painting and I was writing. There. We can do this thing together, a little bit. Nobody said anything, and we each did the thing that we were.

  I went into her bedroom to lie down. She had a small television in there, and I turned it on, with the sound real low. Sometimes I put the closed captioning on so she could paint and I’d just catch the news or something before I passed out.

  Maria’s Cleaning Lady was on the news. “The University of Dayton issued a statement today that longtime Chancellor Sampson Ullrich has resigned over a dispute about a portrait.”

  “Babe, get in here!” I yelled.

  The cleaning lady’s portrait was on TV. The voiceover continued, “…Board of Regents at the university voted to accept a unique portrait, the work of a Chicago Area artist…” Maria was at my side, her eyes growing wider as she saw the portrait fill the television screen. “…Teresa Saba, the cleaning lady who had willed eleven million dollars to the school.”

  Yaaa factor up to nine, at least; Maria sat on the bed, her hands covering her mouth, a look of shock in her eyes. Then she ran out of the room, and down the hall. I heard her retching away in the bathroom, and followed her there, and I held her hair as she continued to lose her supper.

  “Babe, this is great!” I said. Now I didn’t have to feel bad about my influence on this painting, not at all.

  The phone rang. “Get it,” Maria said. She was still occupied.

  It was Channel Eight, verifying Maria’s identity, requesting an interview. “I’m her spokesman,” I told them. This was the exact point at which I started to run interference for her. Jeez, how was this going to alter her life, if she had sudden fame? If this was her fifteen minutes, let’s make sure that it was a good fifteen minutes. “Tomorrow,” I told them. “Six o’clock, come to this address.” It was my place in Bucktown. We’d keep Maria’s location low profile for now, if we could.

  I hung up. The phone rang again. It was the CBS local station, same request. Within half an hour, all of the big ones and a bunch of the small ones had called for interviews, ‘Come to our station,’ and on and on. No, I told them, you come to Bucktown and meet Maria. All I had to do was to stand poor Maria up, let them all fire away for a few minutes, run interference, don’t let them get too carried away with her.

  Maria didn’t sleep that night, not at all. “Are you sure about this?” she asked me.

  “Honey, this is your time. Get through this. You’ll see, it’s the best thing in the world for your art.”

  ***

  We drove to Bucktown, for Maria to meet the world.

  Forty years ago the Chicago Blackhawks hockey team had a goalie named Glenn Hall, and he used to throw up before every game, just from the stress of it. Then he went out there and stopped damn near every shot put at him, and was an all-star for years and years.

  Just give Maria a chance to throw up first, and she conquers the world. Lights, and cameras, and questions, all of the usual, the who, what, where, when and why of the portrait of Teresa Saba.

  “Why the feather duster?” the woman from Channel Eight asked.

  Maria smiled, and the cameras embraced her. “That’s who she was.” Couldn’t have said it better myself.

  “Any more commissions? What’s next for you?”

  “More portraits,” she said. “I want to paint portraits every day for the rest of my life.”

  That evening she was all over the TV. The medium had made her its own. She was a heroine, and suddenly all of Chicago, and throughout the nation, knew about her.

  ***

  I bought an answering machine, and in that way we could monitor the phone calls. Sometimes it was the media, but that quickly passed, as I thought it would. But for days afterward, weeks, actually, it was all manner of people calling. They all wanted Maria to paint them, or do a close relative, and please put in that personal touch, the brilliance that separated a Maria painting from any other portrait.

  Things would never be the same, not for Maria’s art, or for Maria, or for me. Here’s the place where I get to say, watch out for what you wish for.

  ***

  Now I can appreciate Tom and Nicole, Bruce and Melanie, Sonny and Cher, Lucille and Charl.

  Sorry, that fourth set were my parents, who never had fifteen minutes. Not of fame, or time to themselves, or that many minutes of peace in twenty years, raising four kids in tiny apartments all over the North Side of Chicago. Lucille and Charl are still going strong, I’ll have you know.

  So I ask, what is worse, a small apartment full of kids, or success and a tiny bit of fame? I always thought those last two were supposed to be fun things.

  ***

  I was at the gym and Jimmy the Lifter dropped some serious weirdness on me.

  I was bench-pressing medium weight, and he was spotting me, making sure that I didn’t crush the life out of myself with that ‘just one more.’ “Steve,” he said, “I want ya to be on the alert.”

  I went it one more, pressed that last one, and he saw that it was too much. As I struggled, he grabbed the bar and p
ulled up, the assist, not taking the weight away so much as helping me to do it myself. “Whattya mean,” I asked, breathing a bit harder from all of that.

  “Watch out for your car.”

  “Do you know something?” I asked.

  “I just got a vibe, is all.”

  “Hey, thanks.”

  For the rest of the day, I tried to decipher the message. It was a message. Of course it was a message.

  ***

  Man, this relationship really must be serious. I asked Maria, “When we fool around, what would you like me to do?”

  Momentarily bewildered, she said, “I don’t think any guy ever asked me that before. Lemme think for a minute.” Gears meshing as her brain went into overdrive. She smiled. “I love when you bite on my nipples, it sets me on fire. I feel it all through my being.” Her eyes were sparkling now. “I could almost come like that, with your mouth on my breasts.” She squirmed just that little bit, and I knew just talking about it was getting to her. “I usually like it when you’re clean-shaven, but…” she hesitated, as though she was afraid that she was revealing too much, like I would take this information and use it against her. “Rubbing your nubby face against my nipples. So rough. So, uh, manly, I guess.”

  Yow. What a great excuse not to shave. I was getting a hard-on, but what she was saying was so good that I didn’t want to stop her. We could fool around later. I wanted to hear her words. “What else?” I asked.

  “Are you gonna put this in a book?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Then write this. I love when you go down on me. I love it when you put your tongue on my button, and rub all around it. I love your wet, hot tongue almost as much as your, uh, your penis.” She still had a hard time talking about my dick, something inhibiting from her childhood, but right this minute that hesitation was just charming, that and Maria’s attempts to rise above her inhibitions.

  I put my hand on her thigh, felt the fabric of her thin dress, and the sweet skin and muscle beneath.

  Breathing just a little harder, she continued, “I love it when you take me from behind. No guy ever did that to me as thoroughly as you do. Not that I ever had so many men, you know. Bubba, you just make me feel like an animal when you do that.”

  I had to have her. Hand drifted upward, under her dress, feeling silk, the silk of her skin, the silk of her panties, the silk of her labia. “How do you want it?” I asked. “Right now. How do you want me to make love to you?”

  “Right now?” Evil grin. “Oh, we can’t make love right now. I have to work now.” She watched me. “Just kidding! Wow, you should see the look on your face.”

  Lifting skirt higher, I turned her over. “That’s it for you, Missy,” I said, intending to grant her wish, take her from behind.

  “Slap me,” she said.

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Uh, slap my butt.”

  “Seriously?”

  She turned her head around. “Look, Wise Guy, you asked me what I liked, so just do it!” Tentative, I gave a little slap to her right ass cheek. “Harder,” she said.

  “Not sure I can do that,” I answered.

  “Okay, then just a little harder.” Like we could work this in increments or something.

  So I did. I spanked the young lady, not hard, but not particularly softly, either. And as I did, I saw Maria’s hand find her pussy, and she fingered herself. Wow, this was beyond my fantasies of her, or of any woman. I spanked, and she fingered, and soon she moaned her Mona moan, that series of Uh uh uh, this time to each slap on her buttocks. Then a low wail, almost like a siren, “Ooooooh!” And she came all over the bed, about as big a climax as I’d seen from her. Then she slumped down on the bed.

  I was so much in shock, I’d forgotten to put it in. I just sat next to her, rubbing hot buttock, trying to soothe that red spot on her ass.

  “Lufffff,” she said, muffled face in a pillow.

  “What?”

  She picked up her head. “Learn something new every day.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nobody ever did that to me before. I’d been, uh, thinking about that for years.”

  “Well, how was it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “My guess is we could do this from time to time.”

  Maria picked herself up. “Okay, Buster, now it’s your turn. What do you like?”

  Wow, here was this beautiful woman asking me the ultimate question. How did I get this lucky? Several fine kinks flew through my brain, but what I really wanted from her, right that minute, was to jump on her, feel her tightness, feel those athletic legs crushing my ribcage. “Right here. Right now,” I said, and pushed her down on the bed. My cock had been ready, oh, for half an hour or so by this time. It needed no guidance, and Maria was so wet from her spanking. Ahhh. Nice fit.

  I watched her face as I stroked slowly, and I saw need. This was another kind of sex for her. “Talk dirty to me,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “That’s what I’d like. Talk dirty to me.”

  So she started. “Your, uh, your penis.” Hesitant. “Your, uh, cock! Ow!”

  “Am I hurting you?”

  Eyes wide, “Oh, no! Your cock, your big delicious cock. Cock cock cock!”

  Now I got it. This was Maria letting go, saying the word she had seldom allowed herself to say. And that was dirty talk enough for me.

  She moaned, “Biggest cock in the world! Your cock inside of me, driving me crazy!” Her hips thrust upward, and again. She was in need. “Cock, cock, cock! Your cock!” And then the moans, uh, uh, uh with each thrust. My God, I’d never seen anybody get so crazy.

  And here it came. “Aaaaagh!” from me.

  “Kaaaaaaaaaaaaak!” Her New England accent on full display as she thrust against me, consuming me, crushing my ribcage, and I just rode it out, mine and hers, the old simultaneous climax. The big one.

  Yow.

  Later, she said, “So I guess this means I have to kill you. You’re definitely gonna write about this, aren’t you?”

  “I’d be a fool not to. But,” I reassured, “I’ll change the names.”

  “I feel so much better, knowing that,” she said.

  ***

  After, Maria and I were having a quiet evening at my place, laying there without many clothes on. No painting, no writing, except for the art in our heads. It was after dinner that we heard the sirens.

  In Chicago there were very distinct sirens. You knew the cops by their intermittent wail, and by the blue light special flashers on the roofs of their cars. Ambulances had about four different sounds, changing and wailing and frightening you until you pulled off the road. Fire trucks had a continuous loud scream of a siren, and man, you just did everything in your power to duck, get out of the way, let them get by to do their job.

  It was the Fire Department, two trucks, half a block down, sirens finally slowing like a frantic bagpipe out of wind. But the flashers continued, and we saw the red reflections through my front window. Maria and I put on just enough clothes to look out the window. Hoses were snaked all over. There were a dozen firemen, at least. Which house was on fire?

  It wasn’t a house. It was a car that was burning. Shit, the fire is close to my car. Better get down there, might have to move it or something.

  Maria and I dressed quickly, and ran down the stairs, and toward the fire. I didn’t see any more flames, though. They’d subdued it, maybe not finished it off, but the fire was under control.

  It was my car! Fire had consumed the interior of it. The firemen had managed to stop it before the flames hit the gas tank, which was good, Lord knows an exploding gas tank could’ve killed somebody. Speaking of killing somebody, I knew who did this, and I would’ve tried to whack Tod the overweight bastard on the spot.

  Maria hung on to my arm. She knew what I was thinking. We stood and watched as these heroic guys went about their business.

  The car was a total loss. It sat there, charcoal under whit
e foam, surrounded by a few inches of water. It stank of burnt rubber and shorted electrical wires and melted fire-resistant fabric. I wasn’t sure if my insurance would cover an act of vandalism. It’s not like I had a lot of money for stuff like this.

  I went up to the guy in the white helmet. I thought he might be the chief. “That was my car,” I said. A cop was also standing there.

  “Pretty sure it’s arson,” the fireman acknowledged.

  The cop said, “Did you have anything to do with it?”

  “No, but I know who you might talk to. Tod.”

  “Tod who?” the cop said.

  I turned to Maria. “You know Tod’s name? His last name.”

  “No,” she said.

  Aw, fuck.

  “Can’t help ya much, Bud,” the cop told me. “If you ever see him again, give us a call, file a report, you know the drill.”

  “Unfortunately, I do,” I said. Like a day was ever going to come that Mr. Clean would get prosecuted for burning up my car.

  They towed my car away. “You’ll get a bill in a month or so,” the fireman said.

  Great. On top of everything else, I get to pay for the barbeque, too.

  ***

  There was a new question to be asked of anyone who wanted a portrait painted by Maria: how long were you willing to wait?

  Funny thing about the arts. There was never anything that resembled ‘steady.’ Or the mythical ‘even keel.’ Or ‘reaching a plateau.’ Before the Regal Cleaning Lady, Maria had so few commissions that she worried about ever making it as an artist. Now she suffered from prosperity; so many people wanted paintings that Maria was in constant panic over how to do this. She didn’t know how to say no. She didn’t want to say no, not to anybody. To her, no offer was too small or frivolous or inconsequential, so she gave equal weight to another commission from the University of Dayton, for five thousand dollars, and to her neighbor’s kid, for two hundred dollars.