The Eighth Commandment by Lawrence Sanders

agree. I don’t like him.”
    “I can’t see how it’s possible that he could have lifted the coin, but I get bad vibes from that guy. There’s something phony there; he doesn’t ring true.”
    “I can’t just call him and ask him to take me out to lunch.”
    “I know that,” Smack said, “but there must be some way you can work it; you’re a brainy lady. Think about it and see if there’s any way you can talk to him in private. Did he come on to you?”
    “Maybe,” I admitted. “But maybe that’s the way he treats all women.”
    He nodded. “Think about it,” he repeated. “If you decide to do it, give me a call, and we’ll talk about what we want to get out of him.” Then, out of the blue: “Would you like me to stay the night?”
    I glared at him. “No, I would not like you to stay the night.”
    “Okay,” he said equably. “If you don’t ask, you’ll never know—right? You got a guy, Dunk?”
    “Several,” I said, lying in my teeth.
    “I wish you’d add me to the list,” he said. “I’m single, own a Jaguar, and know how to make Beef Wellington.” Again that warm smile that melted my knees. Oh, God, he was so handsome! “This has nothing to do with our business, Dunk. This is between you and me.”
    “Oh, sure,” I said.
    He drained his drink and stood up—steadily. So much for my plot. Did I want him to leave? Did I want him to stay? If he planned to confuse me, he was doing one hell of a job.
    “I’ll get your bottle,” I told him.
    “Oh, no,” he said, “that’s for you. Maybe you’ll invite me in again for a drink.”
    “Anytime,” I said. Was that me talking?
    At the door, he turned and kissed me. On the lips. It was nice.
    “Out you go,” I said, gasping.
    “Sure,” he said, staring into my eyes. “Don’t forget about Vanwinkle. I’ve got a feeling there’s something there.”
    Then he was gone. I locked, bolted, and chained the door. I was still shaken by that kiss. The swine! The lovely swine!
    Undressing slowly, I pondered all the happenings of that eventful day: the meeting at the Havistocks’, lunch with Al Georgio, dinner with Al in Little Italy, and finally the set-to with Jack Smack.
    I found myself grinning. Because I had been living such a placid existence and hadn’t realized how lonely and bored I had become. Now I was meeting new people, becoming involved with strong passions—and I loved it. Suddenly my life seemed cracked open, full of emotions I had never felt before. I suppose it was the normal process of learning, but at the time it seemed to me a delightful revelation—like tasting caviar for the first time.
    Before I went to bed, I had a little bit of Jack Smack’s vodka with grapefruit juice. Just what I needed, because later, warm and snug, waiting for sleep, I reflected, giggling, that with two tall, good-looking New York guys wanting to jump on her bones, little ol’ Mary Lou Bateson of Des Moines was doing okay.

9
    T HAT MORNING WITH NETTIE Havistock was one of the most discombobulating experiences of my life. When I finally got through (her private number at the Havistock apartment was busy for more than an hour), she said she’d be “charged” to see me, and suggested we do some shopping together and then have lunch. She told me to meet her at the toiletries counter of Saks 5th.
    She showed up in a costume that threw me for a loop. From bottom to top: scruffy Adidas running shoes, heavy knitted leg warmers over baggy jeans, a T-shirt with SLIPPERY WHEN WET printed on the front, and over that a denim vest festooned with ribboned military medals. A man’s fedora, sweat-stained, was crammed atop her fuzzy blond curls. And over her shoulder hung a leather, Indian-type bag with buckskin fringe, decorated with beads and shells.
    “Hi, hon,” she said blithely, ignoring my wide-eyed stare. “I’m not looking for anything in particular. Just thought we’d mooch around and see what’s new.”
    So I tagged after her, all