Clean Slate (Kit Tolliver #4) (The Kit Tolliver Stories) by Lawrence Block Page B

works. With sluts, it looks to be more complicated.”
    Another thing that complicated it, someone said, was if the woman in question had a significant other, whether husband or boyfriend. If she didn’t, and she hooked up half a dozen times a year, well, she certainly wasn’t a slut. If she was married and still fit in that many hookups on the side, well, that changed things, didn’t it?
    “Let’s get personal,” one of the men said to one of the women. “How many partners have you had?”
    “Me?”
    “Well?”
    “You mean in the past year?”
    “Or lifetime. You decide.”
    “If I’m going to answer a question like that,” she said, “I think we definitely need another round of drinks.”
    The drinks came, and the conversation slid into a game of Truth, though it seemed to Jennifer—these people knew her as Jennifer, a name she seemed to have picked up again, after having left it behind months ago in New York—it seemed to her that the actual veracity of the responses was moot.
    And then it was her turn.
    “Well, Jen? How many?”
    Would she ever see any of these people again? Probably not. Kansas City was all right, but she was about ready for a change of venue. So it really didn’t matter what she said.
    And what she said was, “Well, it depends. How do you decide what counts?”
    “What do you mean? Like blow jobs don’t count?”
    “Isn’t that what Clinton said?”
    “As far as I’m concerned, blow jobs count.”
    “And hand jobs?”
    “They don’t count,” one man said, and there seemed to be general agreement on that point. “Not that there’s anything wrong with them,” he added.
    “So what’s your criterion here, exactly? Something has to be inside of something?”
    “As far as the nature of the act,” one man said, “I think it has to be subjective. It counts if you think it counts. So, Jen? What’s your count?”
    “Suppose you passed out, and you know something happened, but you don’t remember any of it?”
    “Same answer. It counts if you think it counts.”
    The conversation kept going, but she was detached from it now, thinking, remembering, working it out in her mind. How many men, if gathered around a table or a campfire, could compare notes and tell each other about her? That, she thought, was the real criterion, not what part of her anatomy had been in contact with what portion of his. Who could tell stories? Who could bear witness?
    And, when the table quieted down again, she said, “Five.”
    “Five? That’s all? Just five?”
    “Five.”

    She had arranged to meet Douglas Pratter at noon in the lobby of a downtown hotel not far from his office. She arrived early and sat where she could watch the entrance. He was five minutes early himself, and she saw him stop to remove his glasses, polishing their lenses with a breast-pocket handkerchief. Then he put them on again and stood there, his eyes scanning the room.
    She got to her feet, and now he caught sight of her, and she saw him smile. He’d always had a winning smile, optimistic and confident. Years ago, it had been one of the things she liked most about him.
    She walked to meet him. Yesterday she’d been wearing a dark gray pants suit; today she’d paired the jacket with a matching skirt. The effect was still business attire, but softer, more feminine. More accessible.
    “I hope you don’t mind a ride,” he told her. “There are places we could walk to, but they’re crowded and noisy and no place to have a conversation. Plus they rush you, and I don’t want to be in a hurry. Unless you’ve got an early afternoon appointment?”
    She shook her head. “I had a full morning,” she said, “and there’s a cocktail party this evening that I’m supposed to go to, but until then I’m free as the breeze.”
    “Then we can take our time. We’ve probably got a lot to talk about.”
    As they crossed the lobby, she took his arm.

    The fellow’s name in Kansas City was Lucas. She’d taken note of him