A Body to die for

off?”
    Max, dear bunnyhead, was full of bright ideas. The only exercise I got was in bed with him anyway. I said, “Deal. Where should we start?”
    “We can start by strengthening our tongue muscles.”
    “The tongue doesn’t have muscles. It is a muscle.”
    “Correcting me is not a turn-on, Wanda,” Max said. “Do you want to talk, or do you want to burn calories?” I wanted to talk. Just kidding. We proceeded to tongue-lash each other clean in a very dirty fashion. When I came, a flash of blue exploded behind my eyes.
    Afterward, I did some math while Max snored. There are 3,600 calories in a pound. The average sex act burns about 150 calories (I learned this on “Oprah”). My sex with Max, however, was extremely energetic so I’ll jack that number up to an even 200. Therefore, eighteen bouts in bed will burn up one pound of fat. But—the big but —one load of Max’s mighty fluid contained approximately 60 calories (from Cosmo). Ergo, if I blow him and swallowed once every three sessions, I’d have to have sex with Max about twenty times to burn one pound of fat.
    If we had sex twice a day, every day, it would take three months to lose the necessary ten pounds without having to strap on some Lycra G-string leotard. (Or give up my tequila and/or one-Snickers-a-day habit. Not an option.) Inspired by my new sex-weight loss plan, I poked Max to wake him up. He wouldn’t budge, so I started sucking on his dick. That got him up all right. Three months, and counting.

    Alex Beaudine doesn’t walk. He sidles. He sways. If you couldn’t see his bright orange Chuck Connor high-tops, you might think he was on wheels. I’d called Alex after Max left for work and told him to meet me at the office with any info he could scrape together about Jack Watson. When Alex rolled into the Do It Right Detectives office that Wednesday morning at around eleven o’clock, he brought two cups of iced coffee, a cup of ginger tea for me, and some decent vibes. It was a pleasure to watch Alex settle into the plush arm chair I have for clients. He stretched out his legs and deposited his rubber heels on the corner of my desk. He smiled at me—gummy, with a hint of teeth—and said, “This place is a sty, but you look well plucked this morning.”
    Sty, my eye. The Do It Right Detective Agency wasn’t neat—that much I was willing to admit—but what’s a few dust bunnies and a full garbage can between friends? The square-shaped office was on the fourth floor in a nearly deserted office building overlooking fabulous Times Square. I had an orange carpet with decorative cigarette burns and wraparound windows (when the soot wasn’t too bad, I had a great view of the 100-foot Sony TV on the NewsdayBuilding). The big oak desk with one wobbly leg was the command center. Everything I needed was within my reach: the telephone, answering machine, a bottle of Amaretto in my bottom drawer, a stockpile of tampons, a change of clothes, a bunch of matchbooks to flip into a hat and the hat. I used to keep a carton of cigarettes in my top drawer, but I don’t anymore. Like a phantom limb, sometimes I still reach for them.
    Alex stirred his ice coffee with his middle finger. He wiped it off on his jeans. I said, “You know where the vacuum is.”
    “Let me ask you this: Would straightening up harm you in some way?” Alex asked. “Really, I’m curious. Would it cause an allergic reaction? Maybe temporary blindness or might you grow hair on your palms? Because I would never want you to suggest an activity that could jeopardize your health. You mean too much to me.”
    Smart guy, that Alex, has a problem with dirt. He’d never call himself compulsively anal. That’s what he’s got me for. I said, “I’ll clean up later.”
    Alex laughed and sipped his coffee. “I’m not going to fall for it this time, Wanda. I can sit here and have a meeting and not be distracted by that overflowing garbage can, for example. Or the inch of dust on the filing cabinet. Or, what is that mess on the carpet?” He pointed over my left shoulder.
    I was afraid to look. “Forget the mess, Alex.” I briefed him on the case: Jack Watson, dead Barney, wild Ameleth and rubber-made Janey. Alex had heard of Ameleth. He had also found out a thing or two about the ill-fated tennis career of Jack Watson.
    He said, “About Watson—I called my buddy Estoban at the Upper East Side Racquet Club. I’ve got some hot gossip,” he said. “Very