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“I got the Today Show on there. Is that all right?”
“Fine,” Matt said.
“Is there really such a thing?” Charley asked.
“As what?”
“As a nymphomaniac.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“How come I never met one?”
“They only go after men whose dicks are longer than two inches,” Matt said.
“Then I guess you never met one, either, huh?”
In point of fact, I have. Or at least it could be argued that Helene’s peculiar sexual appetites might, using the term loosely, qualify her as a nymphomaniac. But somehow, Charley, I don’t think you would approve if I told you about her.
“One works downstairs,” Matt said. “Brunette. Name of Jasmine.”
“No shit?” Charley asked, fascinated, and then saw the look on Matt’s face. “Bullshit.”
“There was one when I was in junior high school,” Officer Hartzog said. “They caught her fucking the janitor. They arrested him and sent her off to a girl’s home someplace.”
The door buzzer sounded.
“Who the hell can that be?” Charley wondered aloud.
Hartzog got up and went to get his shotgun, which he had leaned against the wall at the head of the stairs. Charley went to the intercom in the kitchen.
“Who’s there?”
“My name is Young.”
“What can we do for you?”
“I’d like to see Matt Payne.”
“What for?”
“Am I speaking with a police officer?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“This is Special Agent Frank F. Young of the FBI. Would you let us in please?”
“I know him, Charley,” Matt called. “Let him in.”
Hartzog went down the stairs, two at a time, carrying his shotgun.
There was the sound of multiple footsteps on the stairs, and then Young appeared, followed by another neatly dressed, hat wearing, clean-cut man who didn’t look any older than Matt or Charley.
“Hello, Matt,” Young said with a smile. “I see you’re in good hands.”
“How are you, Mr. Young?”
What the fuck do you want?
