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  She saw the look on my face and laughed.

  “Look at you,” she said. “I was kidding!”

  “You were kidding?”

  She laughed some more. “Of course! You think I’d drag you all the way here and bring a grieving widow with us to a make-out party?”

  “I hope not!”

  “It’s too bad you feel that way, because Chris has a huge crush on me and asked if we could have a threesome at her place later tonight.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Again, I’m kidding. Only this time you didn’t seem as upset. You think I’d share you with another woman? Are you crazy?”

  “At this point, I’m not sure what to think.”

  “Good. That means I’ve got you right where I want you.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Confused.”

  “I’m definitely confused,” I say. “So, are we going to the bowling alley or not?”

  “We are. At least, I am. I do need to visit Chris. But just for two minutes. And no, she’s not coming with us!”

  Zander directed me to the bowling alley, had me pull around to the back of the building, park by the employee parking sign. She got out, knocked on the door, and a young lady opened it, waved at me, then let her in. I remained in the car as directed, and have been here about five minutes.

  There are no cars out front, so either it’s a dying business, or they’re not open yet. Chris must have inherited a Ford 150 from her husband’s estate, because that’s the only other car here.

  Another five minutes pass quietly, then Zander comes out and climbs in the car.

  “Everything okay?” I say.

  “Peachy.”

  “Good. How do I get to the make-out spot?”

  She laughs. “You mean the riverbank?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Keep going straight till I tell you to turn.”

  I follow her directions.

  Ten minutes later, we’re one of a dozen cars on the side of the levy, angled nose-down, toward the river.

  “We’re not alone,” I say.

  “In two hours there’ll be thirty cars and trucks here. People come from miles around.”

  “To drink?” I say.

  “Drink and fuck,” she says.

  “I like it.”

  She opens a jug of wine, tilts it to her mouth, swallows three times, then hands it to me and smiles.

  “Now you drink some, so we’ll taste the same.”

  I take three sips.

  It’s rancid. Like someone started with a bad jug of wine and pissed in it to improve the flavor. But I’m careful not to wince. I don’t want to offend this young, good-looking girl while parked in a sacred place where people come from miles around to drink and fuck.

  She takes another chug, then leans over, kisses me, and says, “How far does this seat recline?”

  “I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.

  33

  It’s a rental car, so I have no idea how far the driver’s seat reclines. Nor do I know which button makes it happen. So I start pressing buttons like crazy till I find the right one. When I do, I hold it down till the seat stops moving. By then it’s touching the back seat.

  “Lie back and close your eyes,” she says.

  “What are you planning?” I ask.

  “You’ll see, soon enough.”

  I know what you’re thinking.

  But who cares? Just let it happen, okay?

  “I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.

  34

  Zander unbuckles my belt, pulls my pants down to my ankles.

  “There goes your first line of defense,” she says. “Now all that’s between your body and my mouth is your underwear.”

  “What if someone walks over to the car?” I say. “Or pulls up beside us?”

  “That won’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “People around here carry guns. You sneak up on another car, you’re begging for bullets.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Trust me. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, I remember!”

  This seems too good to be true.

  I’ll grant you that.

  But remember, I hand-picked these women because they claimed to be sex-obsessed.

  You might think Faith Hemphill was a bust, but she had a sexual plan for me that included introductions and an aphrodisiac. I declined her advances. True, Faith’s appearance was shabbier in person than online, and Zander’s exactly as she appeared online. But is it that big a stretch to believe Zander might find me attractive enough to offer a blow job so quickly?

  I hear a sound, like she’s rummaging around in her handbag.

  “Keep your eyes closed,” she says.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for a condom.”

  “You won’t need that.”

  “I won’t, huh?”

  “I’m clean. Seriously.”

  “You know how many times I’ve heard that?”

  No. And I don’t want to. But now that the thought has been placed indelibly in my head, I can’t shake it. It’s like telling someone not to picture a banana, or a giraffe.

  There’s no way around it.

  Images and questions flood my brain. How many guys has she blown on the riverbank? Has she been treated for STDs? How many times? Sobering thought: oral sex is a pipeline for gonorrhea and herpes. Does Zander have herpes? Aids?

  My eyes are still closed, and I’m trying my best to ignore the doubts in my mind, but I’m suddenly feeling a lot more room in my underwear than there was a moment ago.

  Zander notices it too.

  “What’s happened?” she says.

  I open my eyes, lift my head slightly as she does what I wanted her to do seconds ago, except that now it’s humiliating.

  She pulls my underwear down.

  But instead of caressing my manhood, she stares at it.

  And frowns.

  I shake my head, trying to will myself larger. I close my eyes. Lie back. Try to think sexy thoughts.

  But all I can think is how she’s staring at me, wondering where my dick went.

  “Gideon?” she says.

  “I’m working on it,” I say, but we both know it’s a lost cause.

  She waits patiently for minutes while I strain to achieve an erection. But I’ve killed the mood. To her it’s as romantic as waiting for her constipated grandfather to push a pellet into the toilet at the old folks’ home.

  “Maybe if you touch it,” I say.

  She sighs.

  I wish she hadn’t sighed. Now I feel like a charity case.

  God, I hate myself sometimes!

  I had it made!

  She uttered one lousy comment about wanting to use a condom, and I suddenly imagine all sorts of terrible things about her. What the hell is my problem? Did I think I was her first?

  I sit up.

  We look at each other.

  This is as awkward as it gets.

  “Maybe you just need to pee,” she says, cheerfully.

  Bless her heart! She’s given me a graceful exit. I can pee, or pretend to, regain my composure, come back aroused, ready to roll. She understands this.

  “Is there a bathroom nearby?” I ask, pulling up my pants.

  She points to a stand of trees a hundred yards away and says, “Boys go there.” Then she uses her thumb to indicate a spot behind us and says, “Girls use the bushes on the other side of the hill.”

  “Do you need to go?” I say. “I’ll be glad to wait for you.”

  “I’m trying to decide if I need to or not.”

  She closes her eyes a second, then says, “I think I’m okay. I used the bathroom at the bowling alley a little while ago.”

  “Okay, then,” I say. “I’ll be back in three minutes.”

  “You want to take the keys with you?”

  It dawns on me for the first time the car’s been running since we
parked. I check the temperature gauge. It’s fine.

  “I don’t want you to get too hot,” I say. Then laugh.

  “What?”

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if you stole my car?”

  “No. It would be terrible. And why wouldn’t the thought cross your mind? You don’t know me that well. You should take your keys. I’ll be fine till you get back.”

  “I trust you completely,” I say.

  “Thanks, Gideon. That deserves a kiss!” she says.

  I kiss her and say, “Thanks, Zander.”

  “For?”

  “You know.”

  She smiles. “Hey. It can happen to anyone. We’ll make up for it in round two.”

  I kiss her again, then get out of the car to pee. It takes a minute to find a secluded area, which I need, because I actually do have to piss. Guess I was too excited to notice.

  Halfway back to the car I can already tell she’s gone.

  She’s either bailed out on the date or decided to pee after all.

  I go with the good thought. After all, she could have stolen my car, and didn’t.

  She’s gone up the hill to pee. I’m sure of it.

  Otherwise, why give me all that encouragement, and offer a kiss? If she planned to bail, she’d just bail.

  Back in the car I consider pressing the button to raise the seat, but decide against it because I want to be ready when Zander returns.

  I’m more comfortable with the riverbank scene now. I think part of my problem was worrying someone was going to walk up on us, despite Zander’s reassurance to the contrary. But as I look around I can see that all the cars and trucks are maintaining a respectful distance from each other.

  I lie back and close my eyes. Try to imagine Zander naked, but it’s not helping me. She hasn’t given me enough to go on yet, nudity-wise, so I let my thoughts drift to Trudy Lake. I didn’t see her naked, either, but I touched her partially and she touched me thoroughly. I remind myself I had no problem staying erect with Trudy working the controls.

  These thoughts of Trudy are doing the trick. I allow my hand to graze my crotch.

  I graze it again.

  I feel my plumbing start to work, and help it along with a gentle bit of rubbing.

  I’m interrupted by a sharp tapping on the window. I grin, expecting to see Zander, proud of what I’ve accomplished while waiting for her.

  But it’s not Zander, it’s a policeman.

  “I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.

  35

  “Great gobs oF goose shit!” the cop shouts. “What the fuck do we have here?”

  My first thought is to hide the wine, in case we’re out of the city limits. But I don’t see the wine.

  “Don’t just lie there, tryin’ to coax the fillin’ outta your Twinkie!” he roars. “Sit the fuck up and roll down the window!”

  I press the window button, but nothing happens.

  It suddenly dawns on me the car isn’t running. I glance at the steering column.

  The keys are gone.

  As is Zander’s giant handbag.

  I open the door.

  “Get to your feet and lean against the car, maggot.”

  I do as he says. He pats me down.

  “Empty your pockets onto the roof.”

  I reach into my pockets and realize they’re empty. I pull them out so he can see.

  “Where’s your driver’s license?”

  “Back pocket.”

  “Reach back and pull it out.”

  I do as he says.

  He takes his time, but finally gives it back to me and says, “Does this look like Pee Wee Herman’s Fun House to you?”

  “No sir.”

  “What kind of doctor comes to the riverbank to pull his pud?”

  “I wasn’t-”

  “Are there any more of you? Please don’t tell me an army of New York doctors has chosen my beloved city to host a circle-jerk!”

  “There was a girl.”

  “A girl? I don’t see a girl. Is she in the trunk?”

  “No sir.”

  “You know what I see, Dr. Box?”

  “What’s that, officer?”

  “I see a peter-pumpin’ pecker-puller.”

  “I bet you can’t say that five times,” I say.

  “You better get the fuck outta my town, Doctor. Because if I catch you within five miles of a school yard I’ll bring you to room temperature before you can say hard-on!”

  He gives me a long look.

  “Got it, officer. Sorry.”

  He shakes his head in disgust and leaves.

  I wait five minutes until I’m sure he’s gone, then look around for the keys, give up, then head up the hill to find Zander.

  “I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.

  36

  As you may have guessed, Zander is nowhere to be found.

  I try to call her, but get a recorded voice message.

  “Zander!” I say. “Please call me back! I don’t blame you for leaving, and I’m not upset about the money. I just need my car keys.”

  I take my life in my hands by approaching a parked car. “Please don’t shoot!” I say, loudly. “I need some help. A young lady’s gone missing.”

  I see a flash of hairy ass and then a guy rolls down the front window and says, “How young?”

  “Early twenties.”

  “Fuck off!”

  I go back to the car, call Zander again, get no response.

  I face the fact I’ve been robbed.

  It’s okay. I’ve still got my wallet. I’ve also got another fifteen grand in my medical bag.

  I play it in my mind. When she pulled my pants down and rummaged around in her handbag she wasn’t looking for a condom. She’d already emptied my pockets. She was stuffing my cash in her bag.

  Why did she take the wine with her?

  Who knows? Fingerprints? DNA? Maybe she really likes the wine.

  Where did she go?

  I think about it.

  She probably had it planned in advance with whoever dropped her off at the junk yard. Maybe Chris, from the bowling alley.

  Or her real boyfriend.

  I sigh.

  She left me my wallet. All things considered, that was damn nice of her. She certainly didn’t have to do that.

  So why did she take my keys?

  I think about it a few minutes and come up with this: she had to walk up the hill carrying the handbag. Probably thought I might turn around on my way to pee. If so, I would’ve seen her. Maybe she was afraid I’d drive up the hill to save her the walk. And maybe I’d catch her climbing into her boyfriend’s car, or Chris’s truck.

  Then I start thinking about the policeman.

  It dawns on me he just showed up.

  He didn’t drive up in a police car, he just walked down the hill and chewed me out. Then he walked back up the hill.

  Did he visit any of the other cars?

  No.

  So either Zander ran into him on the hill and told him I was jerking off in the car…

  Or he’s the boyfriend.

  I think he’s the boyfriend.

  Because if he really thought I was a pervert, wouldn’t he have arrested me?

  I get a sudden sinking feeling, remembering how long he had my wallet when I was leaning against the car with my back to him.

  He probably copied all my information in a notebook.

  Name. Address. Driver’s License. Credit cards, including the security codes.

  Shit!

  Since he didn’t take me in, and didn’t have a cop car, he’s probably not even a cop.

  I call the rental car agency in Nashville and report stolen keys.

  It takes ten minutes to convince them the car is safely in my possession.

  “Why didn’t you say so?” the lady says. “We’re hooked up to satellite. We can start your car for you. When you get where you’re going, call us back and we’ll turn it off and
lock it. When you’re ready to go again, call us and we’ll unlock it and start it up for you again.”

  I’m amazed, but it seems like a lot of trouble to go through.

  “Is there an easier way?”

  “You could download the key app and do it yourself from your cell phone.”

  “Why didn’t you say that in the first place?”

  “The key app costs ninety-nine cents.”

  I shake my head. Like I’d spend a hundred-fifty a day to rent the car, but wouldn’t spend another buck to make it work. “I’ll spring for it,” I say. “How do I find the app?”

  “I’m not cleanin’ this mess up by myself,” she says.

  37

  The phone app to start the car is amazing. The sort of thing I wish I’d invented. When you bring it up it looks exactly like the remote control that was built into the key. There are four buttons. The top one locks the car. Bottom left unlocks it. Bottom right unlocks the trunk. Center button starts or shuts off the engine. I press the center button, and the engine starts. Like I say, amazing. I put the car in gear and make my way up the riverbank. When I get to the top, I park while deciding what to do next.

  I think about driving to Zander’s house, but realize I don’t know her address. I consider filing a police report, but apart from a wounded ego and the loss of what to me is a small amount of cash, it would be a complete hassle.

  There are two women still in the mix: Trudy, who probably doesn’t want me now that she’s independently wealthy, and Renee Williams, the thirty-year-old kindergarten teacher whose husband ran off with her best friend. Renee being my sure thing.

  Given the choice, I’d take Trudy over Renee in a heartbeat. Except that I’m ninety minutes from Starbucks, where Trudy lies in a hospital bed, currently unable to have sex.

  I call Renee.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi Renee, It’s Gideon Box, from Manhattan.”

  “Kansas?”

  “New York City.”

  “Gideon Box?”

  “The doctor. We met on the dating site?”

  She pauses a beat.

  “Omigod!” she squeals. “I’m so sorry! You’re Dr. Box! Yes, absolutely! Hi! How are you?”