shooter, too.”
“This is no joke,” she said.
“I know it’s no joke. But what I don’t know is what happens to me if I give you your answers.”
“You won’t be hurt,” said Gianni. “We’ll leave you in thebasement. When we’re out of here, we’ll let the police know where you are.”
The agent was still staring at Mary Yung. When he spoke, it was directly to her. It was as though Gianni had left the room.
“Killing me won’t get you your answers,” he said. “Neither will hurting me. I can take as much of that as you’ve got. So that
leaves you only one way to get what you want.”
“What’s that?”
“Giving me what
I
want,” said Bentley. “And that’s half an hour in bed with you.”
Mary Yung’s face showed nothing. “Are you serious?”
“I’ve never had a chance at a woman as beautiful as you, and probably won’t again. Why wouldn’t I be serious?”
“Because if I agree and you don’t come through, I’ll kill you.”
Gianni shook his head. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“Why?” Mary Yung said. “Is it that offensive to you?”
The artist looked from her to Bentley, as if measuring the distance between them. The centers of his eyes had widened.
“Listen, Gianni,” she said flatly. “My body’s not sacred. I’m thirty-four years old and I can’t even remember the names of
half the men I’ve fucked. What can one man more or less do to me? Especially if it gets us answers that could save our lives.”
“There are other ways to get answers.”
“How? By torturing a man half to death? You think that’s better? More moral?”
Gianni was silent. He was not even close to figuring this woman. For the moment, he had stopped trying. Somehow, he could
not help comparing her to Teresa. They were that different. Or was that what fascinated him?
“All right,” Mary Yung said to Bentley. “It’s a deal.”
She turned to the artist. “Gianni, you’re going to have to give us a hand with this.”
It wasn’t that simple a situation. Logistics and security were involved, so it took some figuring. But the end result was
at least workable, leaving Bentley on his back in Mary Yung’s bed with both wrists handcuffed to the brass headboard. A man
on a sexual cross.
And Mary Chan Yung?
To the artist she had a separate set of expressions for each passing scene in her act. It was little different from watching
her doze last night. At moments, she seemed to draw cupidity out of the air, a whore’s knowledge that wore the sour look of
multiple betrayals and disappointments. Then that ridiculously tiny nose would sniff the same air and all would change, leaving
her an uncertain child fearful of getting caught in some dirty act she didn’t really understand.
Then Gianni’s part in the arrangements was finished and he started to leave the room.
“Hey, Garetsky,” said Bentley from the bed.
Gianni turned.
“Don’t you want to stay and watch?”
The artist stood there. The windows were closed and the air was full of burgeonings that might have carried their own sly,
bright fever. Mary Yung looked at him and her face was quite apart from her now, with that special female look that said everything
in sight was hers and if you didn’t like it, too bad.
He left the room and closed the door behind him.
Not wanting to go back to what was waiting in the living room, Gianni sat with a cigarette in the study. He tried to keep
his head empty and simply stare out the window at the streaks of sun that had just broken through the trees and onto the grass.
But he kept thinking of the two dead men lying on the living-room floor, and of what was happening on Mary Yung’s bed.
Occasional sounds came from the bedroom, and Gianni made a great effort not to listen by thinking about his wife and how it
had been when they made love. But he might as well have been thinking of two other people. No. Another species from another
planet. Neither
“This is no joke,” she said.
“I know it’s no joke. But what I don’t know is what happens to me if I give you your answers.”
“You won’t be hurt,” said Gianni. “We’ll leave you in thebasement. When we’re out of here, we’ll let the police know where you are.”
The agent was still staring at Mary Yung. When he spoke, it was directly to her. It was as though Gianni had left the room.
“Killing me won’t get you your answers,” he said. “Neither will hurting me. I can take as much of that as you’ve got. So that
leaves you only one way to get what you want.”
“What’s that?”
“Giving me what
I
want,” said Bentley. “And that’s half an hour in bed with you.”
Mary Yung’s face showed nothing. “Are you serious?”
“I’ve never had a chance at a woman as beautiful as you, and probably won’t again. Why wouldn’t I be serious?”
“Because if I agree and you don’t come through, I’ll kill you.”
Gianni shook his head. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“Why?” Mary Yung said. “Is it that offensive to you?”
The artist looked from her to Bentley, as if measuring the distance between them. The centers of his eyes had widened.
“Listen, Gianni,” she said flatly. “My body’s not sacred. I’m thirty-four years old and I can’t even remember the names of
half the men I’ve fucked. What can one man more or less do to me? Especially if it gets us answers that could save our lives.”
“There are other ways to get answers.”
“How? By torturing a man half to death? You think that’s better? More moral?”
Gianni was silent. He was not even close to figuring this woman. For the moment, he had stopped trying. Somehow, he could
not help comparing her to Teresa. They were that different. Or was that what fascinated him?
“All right,” Mary Yung said to Bentley. “It’s a deal.”
She turned to the artist. “Gianni, you’re going to have to give us a hand with this.”
It wasn’t that simple a situation. Logistics and security were involved, so it took some figuring. But the end result was
at least workable, leaving Bentley on his back in Mary Yung’s bed with both wrists handcuffed to the brass headboard. A man
on a sexual cross.
And Mary Chan Yung?
To the artist she had a separate set of expressions for each passing scene in her act. It was little different from watching
her doze last night. At moments, she seemed to draw cupidity out of the air, a whore’s knowledge that wore the sour look of
multiple betrayals and disappointments. Then that ridiculously tiny nose would sniff the same air and all would change, leaving
her an uncertain child fearful of getting caught in some dirty act she didn’t really understand.
Then Gianni’s part in the arrangements was finished and he started to leave the room.
“Hey, Garetsky,” said Bentley from the bed.
Gianni turned.
“Don’t you want to stay and watch?”
The artist stood there. The windows were closed and the air was full of burgeonings that might have carried their own sly,
bright fever. Mary Yung looked at him and her face was quite apart from her now, with that special female look that said everything
in sight was hers and if you didn’t like it, too bad.
He left the room and closed the door behind him.
Not wanting to go back to what was waiting in the living room, Gianni sat with a cigarette in the study. He tried to keep
his head empty and simply stare out the window at the streaks of sun that had just broken through the trees and onto the grass.
But he kept thinking of the two dead men lying on the living-room floor, and of what was happening on Mary Yung’s bed.
Occasional sounds came from the bedroom, and Gianni made a great effort not to listen by thinking about his wife and how it
had been when they made love. But he might as well have been thinking of two other people. No. Another species from another
planet. Neither
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