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My collar was itching badly, that last morning in February. I stopped eating breakfast long enough to work a fingernail under the metal and scratch, which caught Fritz's attention.
He looked up from the list he was writing. "I am planning the shopping for this next fortnight. Will you be hosting a dinner? If so, you may wish to consider your menu." Fritz Brenner was my Boss's chef and major domo, and he knew that most bondsmen throw parties once their contracts are done, ones sponsored by their former Bosses. Here's your fancy get-together and no hard feelings about the seven years of legally enforced servitude. Nuts.
None of this was Fritz's fault, so I settled for saying, "No. No dinner."
He frowned reprovingly. "Archie. You should celebrate. And you would not wish others to think he does not care."
Fritz never treated me as anything other than the private secretary Wolfe said I was, but he wasn't stupid, either. He knew how much I wanted my collar off. He also knew what I owed Nero Wolfe.
Shrugging, I said, "Wolfe agrees with me. After I'm cut loose, the two weeks in Florida will be on his tab." My first vacation in seven years should last long enough to darken the fish-belly skin my collar now covered. The calluses would need a lot longer to disappear. The scars never would. "You might want to cut back on portions while I'm gone, or he might try to take up the slack."
With a nod, Fritz made a note. Then he got up, went to the stove, and flipped one last griddlecake onto the plate I held out. Putting my plate back down on the table, I reached for the jar of wild thyme honey.
People would say I got lucky with Wolfe, and most days I would agree. Although I didn't inflate Wolfe's ego by telling him so, he was probably as good a Boss as a guy in my fix could get. He hated legal servitude and worked out that hatred by treating me like a normal citizen. He let me say what I thought. He even tried to rein back his natural behavior from time to time, for all the good that did.
I couldn't quit and Wolfe could only fire me by selling my contract, which he refused to do. That means we had to get along somehow. Mostly, we did. What had gone wrong wasn't due to any of Wolfe's self-selected vices. My problem arose from his virtue.
After breakfast, I went into the office to take care of some morning chores while Wolfe was still up in the greenhouses on the roof brooding tenderly over his ten thousand orchids. He could afford the display. In the years since he started collecting, he had built on his old reputation as a genius private eye to become one of the fixers who solved problems for the high-class, deep-pocketed characters running everything these days. This was why a bondsman like me was licensed to carry the .38 Worthington I was cleaning. I had used it to defend him before and might do so again. Life is like that, especially during the past decade.
Sure, we were better off now than we had been in '33, right after Roosevelt was assassinated and things fell apart. With the economy finally showing faint signs of life, there was even some talk of repealing the Federal Labor Compensation Act, since bondsmen were tough competition for your average worker. After all, the unions were mostly dead, and the Unemployment Relief rolls were almost empty. People had decided swapping seven years of hard work for seven years of family Relief was a sucker's deal, given the typical fates of bonded laborers. These days, the poor would rather starve when they could. Most of those now bonded were petty criminals, and they had no choice.
I hadn't had a choice. I shot two guys who were trying to rob the pier I was guarding and discovered too late that the pier's owner wasn't interested in paying my fine for the firearms offense from the gun he had given me. Most of the men in my holding pen on Rikers Island ended up in the Public Labor Pool. A lot of them died in the East River Tunnel collapse. Of the two guys I met who were sold into private service, one ended as a runaway shot over in Jersey by a suspicious storekeeper who'd spotted his calluses when he tried to buy soap. They didn't press charges. The other turned up mutilated and floating in the Hudson. No one was ever arrested.
As for me, Nero Wolfe felt obligated to purchase my bond contract because he had just let the senior wharf rat I shot run loose in order to see what he would do about some interest of Wolfe's. When Saul Panzer told him about my difficulty, Wolfe anted up.
I can still remember the first time I saw his fat face, when he stood up, scowling, in that cramped and dingy courtroom after a bored bailiff had announced the amount of my bond and asked if there were any authorized buyers. I'd looked at him then and wondered what I was in for. Even at eighteen, I knew enough to come up with some possibilities that I did not like. In fact, only one of my suspicions was right and not in any way I understood back then. But most of my suspicions proving wrong wasn't the end of my trouble.
The sound of Wolfe's private elevator rumbling down from the roof rescued me from wrestling with my memories. He came into the office a few seconds later. After arranging the fresh orchids he was carrying in the vase on his desk, he settled into his custom-built chair. "Good morning, Archie."
"Good morning, sir."
Instead of checking that his fountain pens had been filled or ringing for Fritz to bring him a beer, he scowled at me. "Tomorrow."
"Uh-huh. The big day."
"I ask again. Are you sure you wish to continue working for me once you are free to choose?"
I gave him a look. Then I shook my head. "I won't compare you to a stuck record only because I don't hear you making that scratching noise over and over. Yes, I do wish, even for the three hours it'll take for me to quit or for you to fire me."
"You may be overestimating the time we'll need. Did the letter from General Ingram arrive?"
Wolfe could have leaned forward and thumbed through the stack of opened and sorted mail on his desk, but that might have been too much for him, seeing as how he was also ringing for beer. "He thinks you're paranoid about the Silver Shirts getting together with the Bund."
"He's a nincompoop, and I refuse to leave Augeas's stable waiting for some political Hercules. I'll need you to put through some long-distance calls to Washington D.C."
So much for our talk about my contract expiring, until lunchtime. While Wolfe made his usual production out of savoring Fritz's squabs, I tried to ignore the mastication in favor of my own food. He finished maneuvers with his tongue and lips before picking up the conversation again. "Now that you'll have both a vote and your freedom, you might wish to shift your position on the tax bill."
I looked at him with my brows up. "Why should I? The facts won't change just because I'll be paying taxes rather than having taxes paid on me."
"Indeed. Clear reasoning and due constancy."
Ignoring the usual extra thump of my heart at his praise, I said, "One to a hundred I won't change much after the collar's off."
"I wouldn't take that wager." There were a few seconds of silence before he said, "Archie."
"Still here."
"Are you going out tonight?"
"I've seen all the movies I'm interested in right now. Otherwise, there's nothing to do tonight that wouldn't be better done tomorrow."
"With one exception. Saul will be delivering a pair of metal shears this afternoon." No one would sell that kind of tool to a bondsman. "I thought you might prefer to have it--" he gestured with his chin at the collar, frowning in distaste, "--removed before you sleep tonight, and in private."
"You thought right."
Wolfe said nothing. Instead, he waited, his brown eyes watchful behind half-closed lids. After seven years, he knew me as I knew him, and we both had our suspicions about what could happen. He wouldn't crowd me while I chose.
I said, "Let's do it in your bedroom. I'm in no mood for a public ceremony."
"Very well."
We left it at that, and I went back to typing. Or, at least, I meant to type. Mostly I stole glances at Wolfe while my mind tried to sort out the past seven years in seven hours, not helpful.
The man who had bought my bond contract proved to be stubborn, petulant, egotistical, more eccentric than Emperor Norton and Nikola Tesla put together, and a persistent pain in the national behind. Too bad none of these vices were ones I needed from him. Not even the realization that Wolfe did like the view better when I was around kept me out of trouble in the end.
Most people won't get this, but life would have been easier if Wolfe had decided to slobber and cop the occasional feel. Even if he'd pushed past that point, my feelings would have been less complicated. The harder he pushed, the harder I could have pushed back, if only with unspoken hate.
But Wolfe, who I watched want me in the worst way, had done his best for me. Even my own father wouldn't have spent the money to buy my bond; he often claimed I was an insolent brat who needed to be taught a lesson. Wolfe stepped up to the plate without any duty of blood or expectation of reward. I wished my reaction to this had ended at gratitude. It didn't.
After a few years, I realized that Manhattan's hippo version of Mycroft Holmes could race my pulse merely by saying "satisfactory." Worse, every time I caught that certain glint in his eyes before he hid it, my mouth went dry, and not with revulsion. Railroaded into servitude, I just had to develop a twisted taste for a Boss who kept his mitts off.
That was my problem. Each time Wolfe didn't touch me, I wanted it more. Every time he tried to push me away toward freedom, he only pulled me closer. It was damned well annoying. I'd been running like a rat on a wheel in a cage for years now, waiting for the door to open, so I could do...something.
I was glad to dump the introspection when the hour reached midnight and Wolfe headed up to his bedroom sans the normal goodnights. Better to get the collar off and see what would happen next than waste more time with brooding.
Of course it was too much of an effort for him to carry a pair of metal shears into the elevator, so I had to lug them upstairs. When I knocked on his bedroom door, he let me in, still dressed in his three-piece blue serge suit and yellow silk shirt. In a fit of wild informality, he had lost his tie.
He scowled at me, wide lips pressed thin. "I had to telephone the Labor Board three times to obtain the combination once I had your certificates of Contract Completed and Release from Bond."
I put down the shears on a table. "Did you leave me a copy of the certificates?"
"Two each, so you can carry one set with you when you travel. Sit, if you would."
He had moved the ottoman away from his armchair and to the center of the rug. I sat.
"Those officials were inept. You had best call tomorrow to make sure your release is on the public record." The first brush of his big fingers against the skin on the back of my neck made me want to shudder, but I suppressed it. "Although I added your name to the weekly list in the classified sections of the Times and the Gazette, I wouldn't trust that caitiff, Inspector Ash, to admit he can read."
Having gotten some purchase, he tried the dials on the lock. After seven years, they were stiff. His tugging kept pulling the collar back against my windpipe, but I didn't feel like complaining. Instead I said, "You might need some lubrication. There's gun oil down in the office."
I expected him to complain about the mere suggestion of going downstairs. Instead he muttered, "This object is barbaric." His breath was warm against my skin.
"Sure. It won't cooperate and you don't like it. So let it give you an aneurysm. That'll show it who's boss."
His fingers stopped. "Don't. Call me--"
"Sorry. Keep going." He did, and I said, because he deserved to hear it, "You're not really a Boss."
His grunt was one of the cryptic variety, the kind I can't sort out without seeing his face. As he fiddled some more with the lock, deliberately designed to be difficult, I kept my hands firmly on the knees of my trousers, gripping the wool a little. Wolfe was still using that geranium shaving soap. I would be loose soon. Sure enough, I was starting to go hard. Nuts.
After what seemed like another seven years, I heard a click. He tugged on the collar, pulling away from the combination lock on both sides. His pulling slid out the metal extension strips, thin enough for shears to manage, from the protection of the lock unit. The pressure of the collar lessened, and, instinctively, I reached up to scratch.
"Don't," he said, his big hand suddenly gripping mine, stopping me. "At least, not yet." He let go. Part of me wished he hadn't. More of me, damn it, really enjoyed his leaving me the choice. I squashed an urge to shift around on the yellow silk brocade of the ottoman and concentrated on picturing dead shad on ice down at the Fulton fish market, while he picked up the shears from the table where I had left them.
He eased the shears into place around the metal, cool and slightly rough along my neck. "Hold very still." I felt a brief touch as he got some hair out of the way.
It took muscle to snap that strip of metal in one go, but Wolfe is stronger than you'd think. With a huff, he squeezed together the handles of the shears, from the feel of it using both hands. Metal gave way. A jagged edge scraped across my skin, but it didn't get through the calluses.
Wolfe grunted, annoyed, before moving on to sever the other extension strip. I really wanted to see him sever it, but that was pointless, so I stayed still. Even so, I seemed to feel that final cut like a flare of heat spreading from my gut right down into my thighs and back again. The collar lock fell loose, bounced off me, and thudded down onto Wolfe's rug. I bit my lips.
"Done," Wolfe said, his voice a little husky and a lot grumpy. He stepped away from me, a floorboard beneath the rug creaking with his weight.
Reaching up, I got a grip on the collar with both hands and tugged. It was a lot looser now, but still not loose enough. Taking my time, I rotated the ring around my neck until the gap from the missing lock unit was in front. Nothing scraped too badly.
I told him, "You'll have to widen this gap somehow. I can't see what I'm doing, and I don't want to cut my throat by mistake. Irony's not that appealing." If Wolfe moved to stand in front of me, there would be no way to hide my arousal, but we were both good at ignoring distractions when there was a job to be done.
After he shifted around me, my eyes were at a level low enough on him that I could have checked to see if his libido was also strained. Instead, I looked up at his face while he got a grip on each end of the gap. Now I wanted to push into the pressure of his knuckles against my neck.
He yanked hard, and muscles stood out beneath all the fat and fine clothing. Face flushed, he grunted, this one expressing nothing but effort. All at once, metal yielded and bent.
Wolfe carefully worked the collar free from my neck, his touch firm and sure. Then he tossed it away, not checking to see where it would fall. That was his equivalent of stomping it into scrap metal with hob-nailed boots.
"I'll just have to pick it up later," I told him. When I reached for my neck with both hands, I changed my mind and rubbed.
Wolfe scowled. "I anticipated this difficulty. On Doctor Volmer's advice, I sent Fritz to purchase some lotion." Pulling a small jar out of a pocket, he offered it to me.
I studied him, his face still a little flushed as he breathed hard from his effort. My gaze dropped. Or maybe not from his effort. "You could rub it on for me."
"Bah."
"Nope. No bah."
"Gratitude is--"
"No gratitude. You deducted the amount of the bond plus fees from my wages. I know; I keep the books. Free citizen, free to commit more illegalities. Lotion?"
The first touch of his slick fingers on my skin was relief and torment, both at the same time. I let my eyes drift closed even as he muttered, "There are some small cuts here, and signs of galling. You'll need to see Doctor Volmer before you leave for Florida."
"Sure."
"Not that you're incapable of making your own appointments--" And he was off, launching into the kind of detailed tribute to my abilities that he'd rather drop dead than roll out in public, even as he slowly worked the lotion into my skin where the collar had rested so long. He had to know the effect all that private praise and gentle touching would have on me, the fat bastard, and I didn't bother trying to hide my response. It was his turn to pretend nothing was going to happen even if his body was arguing otherwise.
He was done, his dark eyes as hot as lit charcoal. Then he was turning away, and I grabbed his arm. "Don't get rid of the lotion. Or shift back the ottoman."
"You're certain?" I could tell he already knew I was, but his question came from the same strange mix of rudeness and politeness he had used while I was still collared. Wolfe had always talked as if I were free.
The reminder was inspiring. I answered him with a grin. My hands dropped to my belt buckle.
We didn't need much of a pitch after all that wind-up. Enough to say, his hands were as warmly firm as his hips were harshly emphatic, and the contrast took care of my problem in short order. I cussed at him a lot, and from the sounds he made, he took it personally and with pleasure. He didn't let me loose, though, and I didn't want him to. Instead, he tightened his grip, which was what I needed. A few more thrusts, my mind whited out, and I was freed from everything but pleasure.
I could still feel the results of his efforts when I straightened up to check the ottoman's upholstery, and I would for a while. "That'll need sponging." I turned. "So will your trousers."
"Shut up." He handed me a handkerchief.
I acceded, given the need for good grooming. However, after I finished hoisting my own trousers, I noted, "There's something to be said for undressing first. Have you ever considered getting the artist's perspective on me? I'm free to take requests now, and I've always fancied myself au natural plen air."
His eyes narrowed. "You were right earlier. Even after this, you won't change. I should have grasped the implications."
"That's fine. You understood everything else without talking it into the ground."
On a whim, stepping close, I found his lips with mine. The kiss was meant to be one more acknowledgment of an odd itch scratched and no harm done, but it didn't turn out that way. Instead, we lingered in the clinch for a while, proving we both knew how to neck. When we pulled away at the same time, he looked as bemused as I felt.
So the strange urge had survived round one. Fine. The collar was gone, my body was cheerful, and Wolfe was right down the hall. This didn't have to be a problem. Warily, I said, "Okay, good."
"I should think so." Wolfe looked away, down at his rug. Then he scowled at the collar still lying there. "Would you dispose of that thing?"
"Easy. A simple chore. I can carry it off to tuck away in my hope chest, all wrapped up in white linen."
Wolfe's snort was rude, rude enough that I was forced to mention how I had told him that I would end up being the one to pick up the collar. As I might have expected, subsequent debate cost me a couple more hours of sleep. At least I'd made my point about the undressing part.
This just went to show how useless brooding is. I should have stuck to noticing what Wolfe's actions were telling me, those seven years. All things considered, Nero Wolfe will never make any kind of proper Boss. Like me, he's too fond -- in various odd ways -- of freedom. But I suppose he might do okay, now the collar's off, as the guy who's in charge.