"Princess, when you were in college, did you ever take a course in psychology?"
I wondered where Sly was going with this question. He'd never before asked me about my educational background. His interests had heretofore always been limited to my body and my sexual performance. My mind to him apparently was a nice accessory, but important only to the degree it helped me to satisfy our clients.
Obviously, I'm talking about sex.
That's what our business is, after all. Sly's my managing agent and sales representative, while I'm the customer satisfaction department (and the sole product). Anyway, that's how I prefer to describe our little two-person corporation. It may sound silly to you, but it's important to me to consider myself a professional. Helps me to take pride in my work, in keeping with the way I was brought up in an upper-class family of professionals. My dad always encouraged me to take pride in my talents and abilities; he just never could have imagined how that seed would bear fruit.
Of course, neither did I, until Sly blackmailed me into servicing him and a few of his buddies, whereupon we both discovered my previously unrecognized talent. Sly may be a tough product of the mean streets, but he knew a good thing when he saw it, and he made me see it too. In the months since, we've parlayed my abilities and his shady contacts into a nice little side-line. I often smile when I watch my co-workers at the law firm where I work during the day, wondering what they would make of my night job.
"Funny you should ask. Yeah, I did. It was a distribution requirement. Why?"
"What's a 'distribution requirement'? Oh, wait, I really don't give a shit. It's just that I've got a prospective client who's a psychologist who thinks he can use your help with a patient."
"Sly, what in the hell are you talking about? You do remember what we do, right? How in God's name is that related to some psychologist's patient?"
Sly smirked his knowing smirk. He takes a wholly inordinate delight in winding me up.
"Okay, Princess. Keep your panties on (for now, anyway). I'll explain it for you.
"Seems that this psychologist's patient has pretty much resigned from the world. He's rich, has tried everything, and sees no reason to go on. He just sits around all day, won't talk, won't get up except to go to a bar and drink himself unconscious. His wife's hired this high-priced psychologist to get him out of his funk. The psychologist is desperate to earn his big bucks, so he's hit on a last-ditch scheme to get the guy to re-enter life. And that's where you come in."
"Holy shit. That's gotta be the wildest you've ever come up with. Look, you said the guy's tried everything in life. What makes you think I can reach him?"
"Hell, Princess, I've watched you in action. You're the best."
"Flattery isn't going to do it, Sly. What if I can't make it work?"
"Christ, where's your self-confidence, Babe? Hey,
I'm
willing to bet on you. But whether you deliver or not, the psychologist has agreed to pay through the nose to have you try. He's already paid, up front, too. Maybe more if you pull it off."
"Great. I can just imagine what you told him about my abilities to get
that
deal out of him. So tell me, how much 'up front' are we talking about? It'd better be damned good for me to risk taking that kind of a hit to my self-image if I don't come through."
Sly smiled and showed me a very thick wad of bills. Y'know, I never get tired of seeing Ben Franklin's face. Amazingly handsome guy. Heck, given that pile, I figured maybe I
could
live with trading my self-image for Ben's, at least this one time.
Besides, I really do like a challenge. And, after all, in my profession you have to know a little psychology. It comes in handy.
"Well," I said, "I guess if you've already committed me..."
"I always know I can count on you to do the right thing, Princess."
I made an appointment with the psychologist. I've read some military histories and I know that no campaign was ever successful without some pre-planning and a working knowledge of the terrain.
I dressed in my professional persona (the daytime one): hair up, tailored blue blazer, white blouse, modest skirt, neutral stockings, and mid-level heels. No, I don't much like pants suits; I've got long and very nicely shaped legs, and I think that if you've got an asset, you're pretty dumb to hide it unnecessarily.
The psychologist's office was in the upper seventies across from the park, announced discretely, like so many other offices in that block, by a small brass plaque. His name was Donaldson. He was rather good-looking, probably in his early forties, and very well dressed. I introduced myself and sat in the chair across from his desk. I crossed my legs.
Dr. Donaldson seated himself and spent some time looking me over, his gaze lingering on my breasts and winding up on my legs, seemingly stuck there.
"You are certainly beautiful," he told my legs. "Your agent's description of you, while somewhat earthy, was remarkably accurate. Umm, perhaps another time..."
"I'm sure it would be my pleasure," I said with a smile. "But for now, I'd like to learn more about our mutual client."
"Um, oh, yes, of course. Mr. Anders."
I watched with clinical interest as with visible effort he changed from biological male to neutral professional. His eyes finally met mine. Professional to professional.
As we talked, I learned that my client's client, Anders, was thirty-five, very wealthy, and had seemingly devoured life up until recently. Sky diving, safaris, mountaineering, etc. etc. Abruptly, a few months ago, he lost all interest in life and was content to vegetate. His wife, who clearly loved him, was desperate. I did pick up on two salient facts I thought I could use: one, he had been an enthusiastic chess player, and two, his frustrated wife threw him out of the house most days at around nine o'clock in the morning, hoping that maybe something out there would reach him, or maybe she simply couldn't stand to see him sitting motionless in his chair all day.
Anders lived in a lovely brownstone in the upper fifties, across from a little pocket park. For several mornings I watched as the door opened and he listlessly crossed the street and sat on a bench. He'd stay there for a couple of hours, unmoving, and then wander off. I followed him. He usually wandered into Central Park and just strolled around aimlessly until the local bars opened, after which he headed for the nearest one and spent the afternoon there, until he knew that his wife would let him in again.
I planned my approach. The next morning, I was sitting on one of the benches in the pocket park, dressed casually in a shortish skirt, cardigan sweater and low heels, no stockings, when Anders appeared as usual around nine, wandered over and sat on a nearby bench. He totally ignored me. I waited a few minutes and then got up, walked over to his bench and sat down next to him. His eyes never looked at me, something, I must say, that I was unused to having happen with men. It was a little disconcerting, though I suppose not completely unexpected.
He continued to ignore me as I took out my tablet and opened up my newly installed chess app, I started to play. Still Anders paid no attention. I pointedly ignored him, too, and continued to play.
"That move is incorrect."
Anders spoke in a dull, robotic tone, not looking at me or my tablet.
My gosh, the sphinx speaks!
"You're wrong," I said, not because I knew better, but just to keep things going.
"It is not. You are going to lose your queen in three moves."
"Bullshit. Show me."
He moved closer and proceeded to run out the next few moves on my tablet. Of course, he was right. Not, however, the relevant point.
"Amazing," I said. He continued to look straight ahead. I needed to follow up on this opening.
