Free Making Love by Norman Bogner Page A

and shuffled his feet, waiting for her to move away from the door so that he could leave.  
    â€œI'm runnin’ a little late, so if you don't mind....”  
    â€œI'm sorry, it's just that I was interested.”  
    â€œWell, maybe, to be continued if you're around.”  
    He extended his hand and shook hers firmly. They were large hands with uneven nails, thick fingers with a college ring.  
    â€œWhere'd you go to school?”  
    â€œFlorida Tech. Little before your time. What about you?”  
    â€œI'm a junior at Saranac.”  
    â€œThat's one helluva good school.” He opened the door. “See you, kid.”  
    She stood in the middle of the room with a growing sense of perplexity. Before making any kind of decision she had to see her father, for whom she maintained a limitless tolerance despite his total inability to involve himself in her life. He was a sweet, harmless child who had played amateur golf for twenty years, collected dividends on his stock, and for all she knew never experienced a woman's love. Neither war, the Dow Jones average, elections, nor riots and strikes could elicit more than a feigned interest from him. He lived for one thing: Surviving the cut in a tournament qualifying round. God, where was Napa, California? Somewhere near San Francisco, her mother had said. Why the hell hadn't her parents divorced years before? She couldn't accept her father's explanation: “We don't get divorces or legal separations; we just avoid each other.”  
    Mel was on the phone making a reservation at El Morocco. The new all-in package had caught his eye in the paper. But he'd have to keep the girls away from the à-la-carte menu. Twenty-one was sudden death; he still had that big bill to settle there. Let them send all the lawyer's letters they liked. He had lawyers too—on retainer.  
    â€œI'm sorry, Jane, that it turned out like this. But this is what I have to contend with. Where have all the Harrimans, Lehmans, Loebs, and Drexels gone? Gentlemen, a handshake, respectable, a pleasure to do business with. I wind up with the Salkinds of the world or with fund managers who'd steal the pastrami sandwich out of your attaché case. All is not lost: Elmo, followed by a choice of Nepantha, Numero Uno, Le Club, or Salvation.”  
    â€œI'd like to stay in,” Jane said.  
    â€œ'Mel can get you a date if you don't want to call someone you know,” Conlon suggested.  
    â€œI can handle both of you if you like. I'll dance you silly.”  
    â€œCome on, Jane, please.”  
    â€œChrist, you don't have to treat me like a child. If I wanted to go, I'd say I did.”  
    Jane removed her shoes and sat on her ankles, exposing a lot of leg, which wasn't wasted on Mel, whose eye for special situations and thighs were renowned. He wondered if he could make them both together. Dangerous thought, which he rejected, because he had once before tried a similar experiment with a pair of sure things and wound up alone.  
    â€œI've got the solution. After dinner, Conlon'll call you and tell you where we'll be. You might change your mind.”  
    â€œWill they let me in with trousers?” Conlon asked.  
    â€œJust bring money,” Mel said, closing the discussion.  
    She sat on the edge of the bed pondering her next move, then called United Airlines to make a reservation for the afternoon flight to San Francisco. This task accomplished, she put on her coat and left the suite.  
    She hailed a cab. The driver demanded to know her destination, gave her a sobriety test, and at last agreed to take her. She gave him an address on Fifth Avenue. Her first lover—the cherry thief, as he was known in Fairfield County—had written to her the previous week and advised her of his divorce, also extending an invitation for a drink. He was a young man of much means and dubious accomplishment who, despite his