A Perfect Crime Read Online Free PDF Page B

the world all you got to do is ask.” He turned to her. She was stunning. He could smell her. That was stunning, too. What sounds would she make, coming and coming? His mouth dried up.
    She was watching him, squinting just a little, possibly from the cigar smoke, or maybe she’d forgotten her glasses. “You’re the one wanted a date, right?”
    Whitey swallowed. “A date,” he said, liking the sound of that. “Yeah.”
    “You wanna finish your beer first?”
    “Beer’s a no-no.”
    She rose. He went with her to the back of the lounge and out a back door. “We’re leaving?” Whitey said.
    “Know what a liquor license costs?”
    She led him into an alley, around a corner, and into a hotel. The sign said HOTEL , but there was no lobby, just a beefy guy behind bulletproof glass, his head on a desk. The woman went by it, up a flight of stairs—oh, following her ass up the stairs, that was something—into a room with a bed and a sink in it and nothing else.
    “Mind washing off?” said the woman, nodding to the sink. “Can’t be too careful these days.” She was still stunning, despite the harsh strip lighting in the room. Her pimples or whatever they were didn’t bother him at all, and he was used to that kind of lighting.
    Whitey washed off. When he turned to her, she was sitting on the bed, yawning. “ ’Scuse me,” she said. “Okay. Suck is twenty-five, fuck is forty, suck and fuck fifty.”
    Whitey didn’t know what to say, couldn’t have spoken anyway, his mouth being so dry. He tried some calculations. Suck and fuck was clearly a deal, but fuck alone was what he wanted—to be deep inside her, to make her make those Melanie Griffith sounds—and all he had was thirty dollars, minus what he’d paid for the beer and the Pepsi. Christ! He couldn’t even afford suck.
    “But since you look like a nice guy,” she said, breaking the silence, “I could maybe do you a little discount.”
    Whitey tried to say something, could not, put all his money, even the change, on the bed. She stared at it. He leaned over her, smoothed out the crumpled bills.
    “Oh, hell,” she said, scooping it all into her sparkle-covered purse, “let’s not . . . what’s the word? Starts with
D
.”
    Whitey didn’t know. He just knew that he was going to get laid after all. The knowledge turned on a kind of buzzing inside him, a buzzing he hadn’t heard for a long time, not since—but best not to think about that. He put his arms around the woman and pulled her close, knocking her head awkwardly against his belt buckle.
    “Easy,” she said. “Take your pants off.”
    But Whitey didn’t have time for that; he made do with just pulling them down below his knees. Meanwhile the woman lay back on the bed, hiked up her skirt, pulled off her panties, and he saw that other sex, the lips and hair, all real, right there, as the buzzing grew louder. She stuffed the panties down the side of her boot. Whitey fell on her, shoved himself inside.
    Not quite inside, perhaps against her thigh. She reached down between them, took his penis in her hand—“Dicker,” she said, “that’s the word I was looking for”—and guided him in.
    “Oh, God,” Whitey said, “oh my God.” He thrust himself in and out, almost drowning in the buzz, about to come any second, when suddenly he remembered Melanie Griffith. Slow down, big guy, slow down, he told himself. He had to hear those female sounds. He slid his hand down her stomach, into the wetness, found her clit, or something, and started thrumming it back and forth, fast as he could.
    “Knock it off,” said the woman.
    Whitey froze. His hard-on went droopy inside her, just like that. The buzzing stopped. In the silence he heard some little animal behind the wall. The woman made a hitching motion with her hips.
    “You stupid bitch,” Whitey said.
    “Huh?”
    Everything was going sour, like the last time. Where were the smart women? His needs were simple and this one was supposed to