The next morning, about ten, a cross-town courier showed up with the papers on the Victory Warehouse complex, just as I wanted them. There was a hand-written note from the geezer thanking me "for my patience". A two hundred dollar blowjob had saved me ten grand, and had gotten a two million dollar renovation project going. If that isn't great "risk management", I don't know what is. I filed away the tactic for future use and called my partners with the good news.
I was so wrapped up in the details I had almost forgotten about Friday night, when Carla called.
You see, every second Friday of the month there's a meeting of a monthly sci-fi book club. Not a true Star Wars vs. Star Trek geekfest, but a more serious, intellectual study of the real literature of science fiction, from Mary Shelley onwards (Okay, there have been pointed ears, on occasion, and the rare prop lightsaber, but only in the interest of examining the genre's impact on greater popular culture. No Tribbles or Ewoks were harmed in the creation of the group. Honest.). There were five of us, and each picked a book in turn, read it, and then discussed it in detail and ad nauseum. It was a thick and heady intellectual atmosphere, dealing with high concepts and deep questions, a kind of Oprah Book Club for hard-case nerds. This month was my month to host.
Randy Corbett was the founder of the group, a rotund ("Big Boned") systems analyst with one of the universities who had no girlfriend, no wife, and way too much free time on his hands. Scott Coleman was a bench chemist doing QA at a drug company, was tall, gawky, and had the thickest glasses you've ever seen, and a set of rabbit-like teeth that would scare away any woman who wasn't a lust-crazed orthodontist. Nolan Palmer was a kind of geek's geek; like me, he had invested his dot com profits wisely, and now was a lead programmer and major shareholder in a company that makes MMORP games infrastructure. He also builds and fights robots for fun. Since he looks like he builds and fights robots for fun, he was as dateless as the Pope. And lastly there was Perry Howell, a brilliant mind in an unfortunate body. He could discuss the intricacies of ringworlds and wormholes, dark matter and nanotechnology, galactic disc formation and the mathematical certainty of a cataclysmic meteor strike. But he was socially retarded. I'd known him since college, and I had never seen him even speak to a woman, much less date.
I must confess, while part of me loves the intellectual stimulation of the group, another part of me knows with a certain amount of guilt that, next to these giants of geekitude I looked like fucking George Clooney. I had probably bagged more tail in the last month than all of them put together. In their lives. To my knowledge, poor Perry was a virgin, at thirty six.
I had taken it upon myself to rectify that.
Carla called me Thursday evening to confirm our date. That left me scrambling to put together the requested costume in a hurry on Friday, and otherwise make preparations. Carla came by around seven, already pleasantly coked up, her long brown hair slightly askew – as if it had been somehow clasped between a pair of hands, I noted. I let her in with a secret smile and offered her a drink while she changed.
"Good job the other night with old man Foster," I told her when I handed her a scotch. "He gigged. I got the paperwork done, and we're ready to roll. He give you any trouble?"
"Just this nasty taste of old-man cum," she said, making a face. "He was easy. In, out in ten minutes, two hundred bucks. Easy money. What the--?" she asked, confused, when she saw the get-up on the bathroom counter. "Am I getting married?"
"Not tonight, sweetheart – although you could do worse than one of these guys. Issues of hygiene aside, they all have money, jobs, and absolutely no prospects of cheating on you." I pulled out a picture and shoved it towards her. "Now go in the bathroom and get changed and make yourself up the best you can to look like this."
She took the picture and her eyes widened in horror. "You are shitting me!" she accused.
"Nope," I said, smugly. "That's what I want."
She looked at the picture, then at me, and back again. "This is some sick-ass shit, Coop," she said, shaking her head. "I mean, I know sick-ass shit, and this . . . dude, are you sure you don't want the 'naughty nanny'? Or the 'naughty nurse'?"
"No challenge," I dismissed. "C'mon, Carla, cash money. You might think it's beneath your dignity, but so was sucking dick behind convenience stores, once upon a time."
"You are one crazy fucker," she said, slightly irate. But she took the picture and the outfit and went into the bathroom with her drink.
"The boots are in a box on the chair! And don't forget to learn your lines!" I called after her. "They're on the back of the picture!" Carla swore even more, but I just grinned.
This was going to be an eventful evening.
***
"Gentlemen," I said, an air of formality about me. The pizza had long arrived, and we had each grabbed a beer. "I would like to propose that we postpone our discussion about Roger Zelazny's incredible Lord of Light, and subsequent inevitable discussion about whether Stephen Brust is purely derivative or merely plying variations on Zelazny's theme and style. I know you are all disappointed, but I think I have an alternate proposal that may well interest you."
"Good," grumbled Randy. "I didn't finish the book."
"Well, I did," Nolan said. "And if we weren't going to discuss the book, I wish someone would have informed me before I drove all the way across town," he whined.
"Dude, you live like ten minutes away," Scott said, confused. "Get over it."
"I'll defer to your judgment," Perry said, doubtfully. "But this had better be good. I love Zelazny."
"Who doesn't?" I agreed. "But I have a very . . . special opportunity for you, tonight."
"Is this why we can't use the bathroom?" Nolan complained.
"Yes. Now shut up, I'm trying to build a mood here. Gentlemen, I feel that I know all of you pretty well – we've been meeting like this for a few years, now. And I also think that I can say without fear of argument that none of you has had the opportunity to really enjoy the comfort of a woman in . . . a while."
"Shit, is this about porn?" demanded Nolan. "I can get porn at home, Cooper! I came here for—"
"Shut . . . the fuck . . . up," the usually mild-mannered Scott said, annoyed. The truth was that Nolan was about the most annoying man alive. In this county, anyway. Even Scott had his limits, and the mention of women had dropped his considerably.
"Thank you," I acknowledged. "Tonight, gentlemen, I have prepared a special treat. The fulfillment of a fantasy that every boy of our generation has carried close to his heart and gonads since the dark years of our common adolescence."
