Two Much! by Donald E. Westlake

in a while in the turbulent life of man it becomes necessary to lubricate the ways, and on one such occasion in Daddy’s bed I’d reached for the night table drawer, on the dim chance there might be some K-Y jelly in there. Pawing away left-handed, while the rest of me was occupied elsewhere, I suddenly became aware that I was clutching a gun. ‘Yike,” I said, and lifted the thing out to stare at it A revolver, shortbarreled, grayish-black metal, surprisingly heavy. “Good God,” I said.
    Betty, naturally, screamed; anyone would who found herself in bed with a naked man clutching a gun. The scream startled me, my hand flew open, and the gun dropped out of sight into the drawer again. I slammed the drawer, and would have stammered out something about the true object of my search except that Betty cried, “Be careful with mat! It’s loaded!”
    â€œLoaded! Good Christ, what for?”
    â€œWe don’t know how to empty it,” she said, and looked at me hopefully. “Do you?”
    â€œThat’s the first gun I ever touched in my life,” I said.
    â€œIt was Daddy’s,” she said.
    So much for Daddy’s sex life. And, for a while, so much for mine. But within a few minutes we both got back into the spirit of the enterprise again, and succeeded quite well after all without the help of the petrochemical industry. And I gave not another thought to the gun in the drawer. Of course, it didn’t occur to me then that anybody was ever going to use it.
    However. Apart from that one bad moment with the arsenal, Bart’s life that week at Point O’ Woods was as sweet as an Armenian dessert. Romp romp romp with Betty in and around Father’s bed, late dinners out under the stars, and rest periods here on the beach. What could be better? Even Betty’s insistence on wearing a one-piece yellow bathing suit with a little skirt couldn’t dampen my spirit. Nothing could.
    â€œHere comes Liz,” Betty said.
    â€œMm?” She hadn’t been around all week. Lifting my head from the sand—it was weighted down by both glasses and clip-on sunglasses—I looked off to the southwest, and here from the general direction of Dunewood came Liz. In a bikini, by God, a gleaming white one; suddenly I could hardly wait to be Art again.
    But who was that with her? Squinting, I saw it really was Volpinex, the creature from the mummy case, slithering across the sand like an oil spill. His beach apparel was everything he’d worn in the office, minus the suitcoat and tie, and plus large dark sunglasses that made him look like a Greek millionaire’s hatchet man.
    Betty and I got to our feet, and Liz smirking as though at some private joke, made the introductions. I have not met this man before . “Glad to know you,” I said.
    He gave me a cold dry hand to shake (which I immediately gave back), and said, “I suppose your brother told you about me.”
    Surprise and shock suddenly lit my features. “Ohl You’re the man who thinks I’m a fortune hunter.”
    His smile turned sour; he hadn’t expected so direct a response in front of the ladies. His mistake had been in thinking I was another smart aleck like Art. Nevertheless, he was game, saying, “Not a fortune hunter .” With a nod toward Betty, who was blinking in delayed comprehension at the both of us, he said, “A fortune finder , I would say.”
    â€œErnest!” Betty cried, in outrage and astonishment, while Liz chuckled her dirty chuckle and said, “Ernie, you do have a knack.”
    â€œAnd a responsibility,” he told her, his smile oozing around the words.
    â€œErnest,” Betty said, “are you accusing Bart of, of …”
    â€œNot accusing,” Volpinex assured her. Lifting one finger, as though making a point he particularly wanted the jury to think about, he said, “I consider it a possibility only. But given my