Simon Clark considered writing a letter home to his wife, merely to tell her he was alive, well, and living in Fort Lauderdale. But then he thought better of it; she'd have absolutely no interest in his health or whereabouts. Their childless marriage had deteriorated to the point that while they occupied the same domicile, they communicated mostly by notes stuck on the refrigerator door with little magnets in the shape of frogs and bunnies.
This sad state of affairs had existed for several years now, exacerbated by the long hours he had to work and her recent employment at a Michigan Avenue boutique. That resulted in her making many new friends, most of whom seemed to be epicene young men who wore their hair in ponytails.
So rather than write a letter, Simon mailed his wife a garishly colored postcard showing three young women in thong bikinis bending over a ship's rail, their tanned buns flashing in the south Florida sunlight. He wrote: "Having a fine time; glad you're not here," and didn't much care if she found it amusing, offensive, or what.
He had a gin and bitters at his hotel bar and decided to drive over to Mortimer Sparco's discount brokerage and check on the status of his investment in the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund. It wasn't listed anywhere in The Wall Street Journal, and Clark didn't expect it ever would be.
As he was about to enter the brokerage, a woman was exiting and he held the door open for her. She was a very small woman, hardly five feet tall, he reckoned, and seemed to be in her middle thirties. She swept by him without a glance or a "Thank you," and he had the distinct impression that she had been weeping.
Old men in Bermuda shorts were still watching the tape on the TV screen in the waiting room, and there was one geezer, presumably a client, sleeping peacefully in one of the wicker armchairs. His hearing aid had slipped out and was dangling from a black wire.
"Could I see Mr. Sparco, please," Clark said to the receptionist. "My name is Simon Clark."
"Oh, I know who you are, Mr. Clark," she said warmly. "But I'm afraid Mr. Sparco is in a meeting. He won't be free for at least an hour."
"All right," Simon said. "Maybe I'll try to catch him this afternoon."
He went outside, wondering if he should drive to headquarters and work on his weekly report to Anthony Harker. Then, realizing he really had nothing to report, he decided to goof off for a few hours, perhaps have some lunch, and return to the brokerage later.
He left his rented Cutlass where it was parked and crossed Commercial to the Grand Palace. He walked through the empty dining room to the Lounge at the rear. There was a table of four blue-haired women, all laughing loudly and all drinking mai tais, each of which had a plastic orchid floating on top. There was a single woman seated at the bar, the small woman Clark had seen leaving Sparco's brokerage. He stood at the bar, not too close to her, and ordered a gin and bitters.
As he sipped his drink, he examined the woman in the mirror behind the bar. If she had been weeping when he first saw her, she certainly wasn't now. In fact, she was puffing on a cigarette, working on a boiler-maker, and chatting animatedly with the bartender. Simon thought her attractive: a gamine with a helmet of short blond hair.
He waited until the bartender was busy making fresh mai tais. Then he stepped closer to the woman.
"I beg your pardon," he said, smiling, "but I believe I saw you at Sparco's brokerage, and I wondered if you're a client."
She looked at him, expressionless. "No," she said, "I'm not a client. I'm Nancy Sparco, the schnorrer's wife."
"Oh," Simon said, startled. "Sorry to bother you."
"You're not bothering me. Bring your drink over and talk to me. I hate to booze alone. People will think I'm a lush, which I'm not."
He took the barstool next to her.
"You've met my husband?" she said.
He nodded.
"A prick," she said. "A cheap, no-good, conniving prick. But that's neither here nor there. What's your name?"
"Simon Clark."
"Where you from, Simon?"
"Chicago."
"Nice town. Greatest shopping in the world. Married?"
"Yes," he said, "but I'm not working at it. Neither is my wife."
"I know exactly what you mean. My marriage isn't the greatest either." "May I buy you a drink?" he asked.
"Why not. Where are you staying, Simon?"
"At a hotel on the Gait Ocean Mile."
"Good," she said. "As long as it's not the YMCA."
Two hours and two drinks later they were in his hotel room. He thought her the wittiest woman he had ever met: vulgar, raunchy, with a limitless supply of one-liners, some of which went by too fast to catch.
When she undressed and took off her cork wedgies, she was positively tiny.
"My God," he said, "this is like going to bed with a Girl Scout."
"A Brownie," she corrected. "You'll notice my collar and cuffs don't match. But the lungs aren't bad-right? The best silicone money can buy. I'll never drown."
She showed him how they could manage, with her sitting atop him. He was amenable, but she wouldn't stop talking, and he was laughing so much he was afraid he couldn't perform. Finally he told her to shut up, for five minutes at least.
"May I groan?" she asked, but then was reasonably quiet while she rode him like a demented jockey.
When they finished, she took his wrist and lifted his arm into the air. "The winner and new world champion!" she proclaimed. "When's the rematch?"
"In about twenty minutes," he said. "Shall I call down for drinks?"
"Please," she said. "A whiskey IV. Mommy needs plasma."
Later in the afternoon, when they were just lazing around and sipping sour mash bourbon, she said, "Don't go back to Chicago, Simon. Not just yet."
"It depends," he said.
"You got any money?" she asked suddenly.
He wondered if she was a pro, and she caught his expression.
"Not for fun and games, dummy," she said. "I'm no hooker. I mean real money."
"I'm not rich, but I get by."
She sighed. "I've got this great idea for a new business. It would be profitable from Day One. So I go to my dear hubby for start-up cash, and the asshole stiffs me. He's loaded, but it's all for him, none for me."
"Maybe he wants to keep you dependent on him."
"Yeah, that's probably it. He knows if I ever had my own income, it'd be goodbye Mort."
"What's this new business you want to start?"
"An escort service," she said. "Covering the Miami-Lauderdale area. Listen, next to drugs, tourists are Florida's biggest cash crop. Men and women come down here on vacation and want a good time. But they don't know anyone. They don't know where to go, what to see. I'd provide escorts-young, good-looking guys and dolls-they could hire for an hour, an evening, a day, a week, to show them around, best restaurants and so forth. Keep them from getting lonely. What do you think?"
"Sex?" he asked.
She shrugged. "It wouldn't be in the contract, but if the escorts want to make a private deal, it would be up to them. As long as my agency gets its fee. I pay the escorts a percentage and pocket the rest. The escorts can keep the tips, if any."
"You know," he said, "it just might go."
"Can't miss," she said. "I could even arrange boat charters and things like that. And I'd screen the escorts carefully. All clean, tanned kids. South Florida is full of beach bums, male and female. I'd recruit a choice staff who have table manners, know how to dress and talk and dance and show the tourists a good time."
He poured them more bourbon. "What do you figure your start-up costs would be?"
"Twenty-five thousand at least. Possibly more. Because I want this to be a class operation. And listen, there are a lot of ways to make an extra buck. Like getting kickbacks from restaurants and nightclubs for steering clients there. Ditto for jewelry stores, hotels, and expensive boutiques. It could be a gold mine. You got twenty-five grand to spare?"
"I wish I did," he said. "As a matter of fact, I did have it a week ago. But then I met your husband."
"Mooch!" she jeered. "You can kiss those bucks goodbye. What'd he put you in-penny stocks?"
"For starters. But those made money."
"The old come-on. Did you see any of the money he said you made?"
"Well … no. It was reinvested, plus more."
"Uh-huh, that sounds like Mort. What are you in now?"
"Something called the Fort Knox Commodity Trading Fund."
"Yeah," she said, "I heard him talking on the phone about that. I don't know what it is, but all his buddies are in on it so it's got to be a scam. I call them Captain Crook and his Merry Crew."
"Your husband is Captain Crook?"
"Nah, he's just one of the crew. The Captain is a guy named David Rathbone, a handsome devil who hasn't got a straight bone in his body."
Clark did some heavy thinking. "Maybe I can get my money back from your husband," he said.
"Fat chance! Once he's got his paws on your green, it's his, to have and to hold till he croaks."
"If I could get it back," he persisted, "maybe we could talk some more about your escort service."
"Hey," she said, "that would be great."
"Tell me something," he said. "If I could come up with the money you need, would you leave your husband?"
"Is the Pope Catholic?" she cried. "I'd be gone so fast all he'd see would be palm trees waving in my wind."
"And move in with me?" Clark asked, staring at her.
She didn't blink. "I learned a long time ago, you don't get something for nothing in the world. You bankroll my business, and I'll do whatever turns you on."
"Okay," he said, "then we've got a deal. Give me your home phone number so I can reach you if anything breaks. You can always call me here at the hotel. Leave a message if I'm out."
She nodded, rose, and began dressing. "How soon do you think it'll be?"
"It may take weeks," he said. "Even a month. Try to be patient."
"I'm good at that," she said. "Meanwhile we can be getting to know each other better."
"It couldn't be much better than this afternoon."
She left, and he showered and dressed. Then he went downstairs to drive to headquarters. Now he had something to put in his report.
Something, but not everything.