Free Fresh Disasters by Stuart Woods

five-thirty sharp, Bernard Finger left his office in the Seagram Building on Park Avenue at Fifty-second Street and stepped into his waiting limo. The driver closed the door and got in while Finger settled himself in the custom leather backseat. He pressed a button, and the window between himself and the driver lowered a foot. “You know where,” he said, then he raised the window and picked up the telephone beside him, pressing a speed-dial number.
    “Hello?” She sounded cheerful.
    “Hello, dearest,” Finger said. “How was your day?”
    “It was okay; I did a little shopping.”
    This was not the time to call her on her shopping addiction. “Dearest, I’m headed to a client meeting out of the office, and then I’m going to have to take him to dinner, so you’ll have to count me out for this evening. I’m sorry.”
    There was a long, deadly silence. “Bernie,” she said, finally, “you’re fucking somebody.” It wasn’t a question.
    “You’re absolutely right, dearest; I’m fucking the guy who’s suing my client. It’s what I do.”
    “You’re out three or four nights a week, Bernie, and I know you too well not to think that you’re following your dick somewhere.”
    “I’m just following the money, dearest, which is what keeps you in such style, isn’t it? If I were home for dinner every night, you’d have to close half a dozen charge accounts.” She thought in shopping terms; she’d understand that.
    She sighed. “All right, but you remember that we have the theater tomorrow night. It’s a benefit performance for Beatrice’s charity, and there’s dinner to follow. That means black tie and in the car at seven thirty.”
    “I’ve already cleared the decks for that, dearest; I won’t disappoint you.” He certainly wouldn’t; that would create a marital nuclear event, whose shock wave would break windows in New Jersey. “I’ll try not to wake you when I come home.”
    “You do that.” She hung up without saying good-bye.
    He replaced the phone in its cradle, poured himself a short single-malt Scotch and tossed it down. He wanted his blood flowing freely by the time the elevator reached the penthouse and the lovely Marilyn.

16
    B ob Cantor snapped to attention. He had been half dozing, but a movement on the terrace below had caught his eye.
    One of the sliding glass doors had opened, and now a tall blonde, wearing a floor-length robe that appeared to be silk, swept onto the terrace. He recognized her immediately. It was Marilyn, the masseuse.
    Marilyn set down a drink on a little table next to a double-width chaise longue, made a motion with her shoulders and the robe fell in a puddle at her feet, revealing a lithe, naked body with high-hung breasts. She pulled something from her hair and shook it loose.
    Cantor grabbed the camera and sighted through the long lens. The low afternoon sunlight washed over her pale body, turning it gold, as he focused and fired off a couple of shots. He checked the screen on the back of the camera to be sure he had it right. He had it right. The girl was now rubbing some sort of lotion on her body, and Cantor was getting an erection.
    Suddenly, Cantor’s erection wilted. Bernard Finger stepped out onto the terrace with a drink in his hand. He was stark naked, and it was not a pretty sight. Marilyn did not leap up to meet him but patted the other side of the chaise. Finger sat down, they clinked glasses and began to chat.
    Marilyn was doing more than chatting. She had her hand in Finger’s lap and was kneading his genitals. Cantor clicked away. The lens was the perfect length; he might as well have been sitting next to them.
    Marilyn rolled over and buried her face in Finger’s crotch, and his face took on an ecstatic grimace, which Cantor preserved in digital code. Then they changed positions, and Finger was doing the work in her lap. He was on his knees, his buttocks pointing to the sky. Cantor was almost as ecstatic as Finger. He continued