Alderney Gardens is a small, gated community just off Brainerd Road. I gave the gate guard my name, and he opened the gates. It was five after five when I parked the car outside number nine, a one-story condo.
“You’re late,” she said once she’d opened the door. “I told you not to be late.” She was smiling.
“Five minutes.” I grinned back at her. “Just five minutes.”
She had changed, too. She was wearing a loose white cotton dress, no shoes, and not much else. I could see the outline of her body in the backlight of the window behind her.
“Well,” she said as she stepped aside for me to enter, “don’t you look nice? That’s so much better than the nasty black outfit you were wearing.”
I wasn’t wearing a whole lot myself: tan slacks, a blue golf shirt, loafers with no socks.
We entered what I assumed was the living room. It was nicely furnished but not out of the ordinary, with a large picture window that overlooked the gardens.
“This is nice,” she said, as she turned to face me.
She put her hands on my forearms, came up onto her toes, and kissed me.
No, I wasn’t shocked, nor was I surprised. In fact, I’d expected it.
For several minutes, we stood together, arms around each other. She smelled faintly of lavender. I couldn’t quite believe what was happening.
Finally she broke away, took my hand, and silently led me into the bedroom.
She pushed the door closed, walked over to the bed, turned to face me, and stood with her feet together, one knee slightly bent, like a model. She reached behind her and pulled something, and the dress slid to the floor. She was naked.
My throat went dry. I couldn’t help it. I licked my lips, for God’s sake, like a damn cat.
Everything, I mean everything, was exactly where it was supposed to be. She played tennis all right, and not just because of the instructors; she was fit. She had a six-pack that rivaled mine. She was tanned, and she was… waiting.
She was breathing quickly; her breasts were rising and falling.
“Oh please, come on. Forget the gloves and the damn rules. I want you.”
Gloves? Rules? What the hell is she talking about?
She took two steps toward me, stood up on tiptoe, and crushed her lips to mine. She grabbed my belt buckle, undid it, ripped the shirt out of my pants and over my head. I didn’t need any help with the pants, the boxers, or the shoes, and I am not one damned bit ashamed of what I did next. Put it down to research, if you like. I was on the job and this was a woman who didn’t take no for an answer.
So I suffered in silence… well, not really in silence, and I sure as hell didn’t suffer any, but you know what I mean. Finally we lay there, on the bed, on our backs, staring up at the ceiling, and my brain was in overtime. I had questions, and I needed answers.
Gloves? Rules?
“What about your husband?”
“What about him?” She looked at me quizzically; her head tilted to one side so that she could see me.
“Isn’t he likely to walk in on us?”
“Hah.” She laughed. “No, of course not. This is my place. He never comes here, nor do I go to his.”
“You live separately?”
“No, silly. We have a home on the mountain. He has one, too, you know.”
“One what?”
“Pendant, of course.” Four! With her husband’s, that’s four of them.
“Pendant?” I raised myself up onto my elbows, twisted toward her, and took her pendant in my fingers. “You mean this?”
“Yes, of course. What did you think I meant?”
“I don’t know. I found mine. I was curious when I saw yours. What does it mean?”
“You found it? Oh my God.” Her laughter echoed off the ceiling. “Darling, when you found that pendant it was your lucky day, not to mention mine. That pendant will open up a whole new and very exciting world for you.”
She looked up at me, her eyes full of mischief, and said, “Come on, Harry. One more time, pleeease.”
“Why don’t you tell me about the pendant?” I asked, changing the subject. “What does it mean?”
“Harry, when you hand your pendant to someone, like you handed yours to me at the club, or if someone simply shows their pendant to you, it’s an invitation.”
She looked at me through half-closed eyes.
“Go on.”
“Okay. It all started with OM. Have you heard of OM, Harry? No? Well OM is all about Orgasmic Meditation. It’s a business, perfectly legitimate, and they provide sex therapy, something for people who can’t get off, mostly women. It’s unique. Women, and men, so I’m told, buy into a fifteen-minute meditation session in which they take off their panties, or boxers, as the case may be. Then they lie down in a nest of pillows and have their… well, you know, stroked in very specific ways, usually by a man, but it could be a woman, wearing latex gloves. The stroker is called a research partner, a practitioner. But there are rules, no touching the research partner being the main one.”
She was absently trailing her fingers along my chest and abs as she continued, “Harry, I have to tell you, it was wonderful, at first. It did me a world of good, but then… well it is, after all, a business. The fifteen-minute sessions cost a fortune, and there was something missing. It doesn’t go quite far enough. Then some bright soul, to whom I shall ever be grateful, came up with a new version. It’s free. Yes, it has rules, but they’re just guidelines pirated from OM. Touching… is optional. Are you with me so far?”
I nodded.
“So now we have Mystica, a version of kundalini, a club, if you will, which is represented by the pendant. Two serpents. Kundalini is a Sanskrit word that means coiled like a snake. Kundalini is said to be spiritual energy, the energy of the consciousness, that the gurus believe resides within the sleeping body. Access to it can only be achieved either through spiritual discipline or by spontaneously bringing about a new state of enhanced consciousness. They say that kundalini opens new pathways in the nervous system, that it’s an awakening of a hidden treasure within. In our version, enhanced consciousness is achieved through, well… you know. Now do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“Oh I know you do,” she said. “You sure as hell achieved advanced consciousness with me, and I know I did.” She was laughing at me, and I couldn’t help myself. I laughed, too.
“So you found it,” she said, “the pendant. I was wondering why you weren’t wearing it. It was a lie, wasn’t it? The swimming thing?”
I nodded.
“The pendant is an open invitation to an invitation. Had you been wearing it, I could have invited you… and I would have. So… one more time, please!
I was done, and I said so. She pouted, then grinned, flopped back on the pillows and closed her eyes.
“Olivia. Tell me about the members. How many are there? Who are they? Is Congressman Harper a member?”
“Oh no. We’re not going there. You didn’t get your pendant legitimately. I’m not giving away secrets to a private dick.” At that, she giggled uncontrollably. “Besides,” she gasped. “I think I want to keep you all to myself.”
“Thank you, I think. But tell me, how did you get yours?”
“Oh, come on, Harry. Don’t keep on… Okay, I was given mine by a founding member. It’s the only way you can get one. Membership is restricted and includes some very important people.”
“Such as?”
She rolled over, looked at me, and said, “We’re sworn to secrecy, Harry. I don’t want to lose my privileges.”
We dressed, had a couple of drinks and, try as I might, I couldn’t get another word about Mystica out of her, and try as she might, she couldn’t get me back into bed, and she did try. Oh, how she tried.
It was after eight when I left her condo. I drove out of the gates, turned left onto Brainerd, and spotted the silver Honda SUV as it pulled away from the curb behind me. I slowed to give it a chance to catch up with me, but it turned away and disappeared at high speed.
Mystica? It’s a damned sex club. I couldn’t help but smile to myself. And then I thought of something else: Kate. Dammit! I really screwed up this time… Research, that’s what it was, research.