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figured it out. You’re not wearing any clothes, and you’re headed into the most intimate act a man and woman can perform, but somehow you can’t bring yourself to say, “Here, do this.”
    She was a lot of girl, and she fit against me perfectly. I kissed her and caressed her and rolled her nipples between my fingers until she was groaning for me to get inside her. I must have done my job, because she had her first orgasm on my way in. Her second came a few moments before my own, and if it was half as intense as the sounds she made, we had done well together.
    Afterward, as we lay in each other’s arms, she said, “I’ve never been made love to by this much man before.”
    To which I naturally replied, “Shucks, ma’am, it’s not that big.”

4
    Benny Joe and the Dobermans
    When I awakened, sun was streaming through the windows. I glanced at the clock. 8:46. Kim was still dead to the world, so I eased out of bed, slipped into a pair of swim trunks and went out to the pool.
    I start every morning swimming a mile—fast. For me it’s the best workout and the greatest high you can get. Every time I see a jogger struggling up a hill, I’m happy he’s exercising, but I’ll put my endorphins up against his any day. In college, I swam butterfly and the IM, and there was a moment in time when I was almost world-class. But there was that tenth of a percent of talent that wasn’t in my chromosomes, and no matter how hard you work, you can’t train into it.
    For years, I did my morning swims in the ocean because it’s a harder workout, but I got tired of plowing through things I didn’t recognize—or worse, did. Put an ordinary person on a body of water, and he can’t wait to start heaving shit over the rail. So when I bought this house, I had a lap pool added to one end of the main pool, creating a fat blue T that never fails to elicit comments from my houseguests.
    When I climbed out, Mallory asked me if he should getbreakfast started, but I told him to wait a while. I went into the pool house, which doubles as my office, took a long hot shower, shaved and dressed in some cutoffs and a Polo shirt. Then I sat down at my desk.
    I’m not a genius with a computer, but I can make it do what it’s supposed to. More importantly, I’ve got friends around town who seem to like me enough to take my calls and answer a question or two. After some cruising around the Internet and working the phone, I went back to the main house. Mallory met me on the patio with the Sunday L.A. Times and a strong cup of coffee. I told him I was starving, and he headed for the kitchen while I sat down at the big outdoor table under the bougainvillea-draped trellis and started through the paper.
    It didn’t take long to find the account of the accident. A picture of the now-deceased driver of the red Lamborghini—a semi-famous music producer—was on the front page under the headline

    EARTHQUAKE CLAIMS MUSIC LEGEND
    I supposed the earthquake part was technically correct, but it would seem that reckless driving and the cocaine dust they found on his upper lip might have been contributing factors. As for being a legend…well, I’m not sure one Top 40 hit is enough for me, but in a town where Pee-wee Herman has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and Harvey Keitel, the second-best actor of the twentieth century, doesn’t, the legend label probably now applies to my dry cleaner. Ten years, and he’s never lost a pair of pants.
    Inside, on page twelve, there was a shot of the Lamborghini lying on its top like a dead turtle. Whoever had taken it had been standing on the opposite side of the freeway, and sure enough, there were the blue van, the white Caddie and the hood and windshield of my Rolls. The rest was obscured by the center divider and the back of the van.
    I went into the kitchen, rummaged around in a drawer until I found a magnifying glass and went back outside. I was studying the picture when Kim came up behind me.
    “Happy