"I'm going to get it," said Remo.
"I don't know where that child lives. This was his final day in school. His family moved and he was transferring. I think he went to New York."
"Terrific," Remo said.
"New York or Los Angeles," said Ms. Kaufperson. "I really don't remember."
"Great," Remo said. "Let's try this one then. The kid who was in the office when Pell got shot. Who is he?"
"I'm not permitted to give out that information, I told you."
"And I told-you I'm going to get it."
"Then take it," she said and she flaunted her chest, resting her hands on her strong hips, whose outlines thrust wide through the coarse woven shirt. Remo could smell her wanting him and he pressed her to him and carried her to the blue-and-white Rya rug on the floor, where his hands busied themselves under her skirt, bringing her close to the edge but not over.
"The name of the kid," whispered Remo.
"Give it to me, you bastard, give it to me."
"Give me what I want."
"You bastard," she groaned, soft whines coming from her throat, her groin moving in want, ready for him.
"The name," said Remo.
"Alvin Dewar, nine, 54 Wilton Street, an under-achiever. Give it to me, you bastard."
And with the slow meticulous grace of his body, Remo put the groaning, crying woman over the edge, Padoom. She dug her nails into his back and pressed him to her with her legs, pressing, praying he would again and he did again, wonderful.
"Oh, that was good. Goody, good, good," she said. "What's your name?"
"Remo."
"I love that name. What's your last name?"
"Spit."
"What a fantastic sexy name. Remo Spit."
"I've got to go. Thanks for the name."
"Wait. Do you want his file? I know everything about that Dewar kid. He's what we call a peer-alienated functioner."
"What's that?"
"A shithead who can't get along with anyone else."
"I've got to go."
"I'll go with you."
"I work alone," Remo said.
"You don't go unless I say so."
Remo smiled and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"Bye," he said.
He felt her lock her ankles. She smiled.
"See if you can get out," she said. "I have extraordinary muscle control everywhere. Over all my body. Don't be frightened if you can't remove yourself. Some men panic and hurt themselves. Go ahead. Try."
What Ms. Kaufperson knew was a simple double pin that used her legs on the small of Remo's back to pull him into her.
"No one's ever been able to break it," said Ms. Kaufperson, a bubble gum grin spread on a whipped cream happy face.
With two light presses into her throat, Remo popped out.
"Ooooh, that was good. In many ways," said Ms. Kaufperson.
There was something strange about the apartment that Remo could not quite fathom. It was a modern design, with chrome lights butting into black-and-white leather furniture, thick rugs and paintings framed in gold wire that looked like smears surrounded by gold braid. Incense wafted from five silver goblets. The chairs looked like polished sculpture with small leather pads for those who were able to figure out they were chairs. Something was wrong about this place and Ms. Kaufperson.
"You've got to let me go with you. I can tell you all about the Dewar kid."
Remo shrugged. "C'mon. Get dressed and we'll go."
As soon as her skirt was buttoned around her waist, Sashur-as she loudly proclaimed her new name-expounded on her ability to cope with the inferior male psyche. "For thousands of years, men have used women as sexual objects. Now it's our turn. You're just a thing to me."
"What was your old name?" asked Remo.
"You mean my male-oppressed name?"
"Yeah."
"Roberta Kaufmann."
"Were you ever married to an accountant?"
"Yes. A pig. He's dead."
"How recent?"
"Couple of days ago. Probably murdered by the capitalist conspiracy of which he was such a grubby part."
"You seem to do all right."