His head sunk to her partially exposed lap. Troubleshooter had a good ring to it. He drew in his breath deeply; Nivea was tropical, reminding him of their trip to Florida and Nassau. In a way he was testing out his nose. He would be underspoken and witty in the morning. She slid the backs of her knees over his shoulders.

Chapter 16

Someone yanked at his foot with a cool hand. Still within the grasp of sleep as he was, something stopped him from striking out with one of his not inconsiderable legs in the kind of heel-to-gut shot that can be fatal to all but the sturdiest enemies: an accurately propelled heel with two hundred pounds behind it can sink into a stomach until it blasts against the spine. An intestine bursts, spilling the acrid poison. There’s a very good chance of peritonitis. In auto accidents it is listed under the euphemism of “internal injuries.” It is the same method by which noble porpoises jelly the guts of marauding sharks, only they use their noses, lacking heels. The death that ensues is an accelerated form of rot and is not pretty. Luckily few know how to deliver the blow, or else no one would want to wake anyone up.

“Wake up. You can’t be late.”

“Uckfay ooyay,” he muttered in childish pig Latin, a language that seems to have lost its cachet among the young.

“Come on, Johnny. Here’s your juice.”

He slid his hand up her nightie, slowly and tenderly grasping her as one does a bowling ball. She squirmed a little, then was still to avoid spilling the glass of cranberry juice, his private nostrum to prevent kidney stones. She bared her teeth, crossed her eyes, and hissed.

“Not now!”

“Pourquoi, ma cul magnifique?” His French was unerringly lacking in accuracy and grammar.

“Later, porky. I don’t want one of your speed shots. When you get back, fine.”

“Okay, if we can get really dirty and weird?”

“As dirty and weird as you want, darling.”