Switch by William Bayer Page B

really all about. And, of course, you're just no fun at all. I mean you're so clumsy in the sack. Can't hack it. Make love like an aging ape."
    He was laughing then, and she started laughing, too. During her tirade she'd reached up once and lightly pinched his cheek. Now she straightened out, lowered herself, went down on him, stroking him with her fingers and teasing him with her mouth. And when he was hard she jumped up laughing, grasped up her Leica , switched on some lights, pointed them toward the bed and started taking photographs of him as he lay watching, hands clasped behind his head, his body naked and sprawled out.
    "What the hell are you doing?"
    "Getting the evidence."
    "Going to blackmail me?"
    "Sure. With proof that the old, beaten-up cop can still get it up, gets it up real good, in fact. Because that would ruin you, wouldn't it? I mean, your image of yourself, so sad and world-weary and, just to make the caricature complete, impotent besides."
    She took another shot, then set down her camera and sat beside him and took his hand. Then she flung herself against him, grasped him, held him tightly, and at that moment he felt as though no one had ever loved him as much.

Intersection
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    J anek was waiting for the beat. Sooner or later it would come, he knew—the beat that would establish the tempo of the investigation, tell him how long it would last and how hard the work would be. There were wonderful cases, quick cases where the information streamed in and a detective could become heady on the rush. Switched Heads (officially the case was Ireland/ Beard) was not showing signs of being one of those.
    The phone rang on Saturday morning. Janek glanced at his watch—nine A.M. Sal answered. "It's Aaron," he said. Janek punched his button and picked up. He had the feeling Aaron wasn't coming in and was calling now with an excuse.
    "You know those address books, Frank?"
    "The girls' address books?"
    "Yeah. Took them home last night. Got a match."
    "Great! Where the hell are you, anyway?" He could hear a strange sound in the background, a blend of music and verbal commands.
    "I'm at the point of intersection, Frank. We may be onto something here."
    Sal was gazing at his face, excited, alert. Three and a half days and nothing but theories. Maybe the case was finally going to jell.
    "Going to tell me about it?"
    "Give me a chance, for Christ's sake. I'm surrounded by distractions. This is a very peculiar place."
    He'd found the same number in both women's address books, but listed under different names. Under "Hazel Carter" in Amanda's book; under "X" in Brenda Beard's.
    "X? What the hell is X?"
    "I got excited about that myself. You know—like 'Mr. X' or 'extra' or 'extraordinary' or something, except it's none of those things. It's 'X' for 'exercise.' Hazel Carter is the name of this woman who runs a place where girls go to stay in shape. That's where I am now. I think you ought to join me. This is a very distinguished situation here. Lots of attractive broads, everyone suited up, faint tang of sweat in the air but nothing offensive. Better leave Sal behind. He could get excited, his being so young and all."
    Janek drove up alone. The gym was near Second Avenue on Eighty-sixth, a short walk from Amanda's place. There was an Indian restaurant at street level, and huge white-brick apartment houses on either side. Doormen in red tailcoats. Matching buildings named "Versailles" and "Fontainebleau." Marble and grandeur in the lobbies, low-ceilinged apartments upstairs. Pretentious and high-rent , Janek thought. Studios that cost a grand a month.
    The small commercial building which housed the Hazel Carter Fitness Salon was squeezed between these monoliths. It looked like a situation where the landlord had tried to hold up the developers, the developers had said "Screw" and erected their towers on either side. Now the tenants could gaze at one another across twenty-five feet of chasm, and the air rights to the