"You don't need it, Bobby," I told him, and that was the truth.

"It ain't for me, dummy," he said. "But if I can get hold of this pill I can have it copied, bootleg it, and make a nice couple of bucks."

I stared at him. "So? " I said. "Buy the pill from your hustler pal."

"He's going to hold me up," Gurk said. "I know he is."

"Oh-ho," I said. "Now I get it. You want to cut the hustler out of the deal."

"That's right. But to do that, I got to know who the inside guy is who's going to sneak him a sample pill. You follow?"

"Way ahead of you," I said. "You want me to cozy up to this hustler and pump him. You want me to ball him?"

"I don't care how you do it."

"Okay," I said. "A grand in advance."

"A grand?" he cried. "You nuts or something? A hundred now.

Another five hundred when you get me what I want."

"A thousand now," I insisted. "Another thousand when I get the stuff.

Or no deal."

Well, we went back and forth with a lot of yelling and screaming.

Finally, he gave me five yards in advance and promised another grand when and if I found out who the hustler's inside man was.

"It's called the ZAP pill," Gurk said. "And it's being made at a place called Mcwhortle Laboratory."

"I'll remember," I said. "Now how do I get to meet his pal you're going to shaft?"

We talked about several ways to arrange a meet so the guy wouldn't suspect a setup. But none of the scams we dreamed up seemed even halfway legit.

"Look," I said finally to Gurk, "honesty is the best policy.

What's this guy's name?"

"Willie Brevoort."

"Well, you tell Willie you know this roundheel who puts out at a moment's notice just for kicks. If he's interested, bring him around, introduce him, and then you take off."

"But what if he ain't inarrested?"

"Then the whole deal is dead, isn't it? If I can't be nice to him, how am I going to squeeze him?"

"Yeah," Bobby, the great brain, said slowly, "I see what you mean.

Okay, we'll do it. If it doesn't work, I'll try another way."

But it worked out just fine. Two nights later Gurk showed up with the hustler in tow. This Willie Brevoort was a slim, elegant guy with a long, pointy face. And dressed? Right out of GQ. I made his suit for a black-label Armani, and his suede loafers had those little tassels on them. What a dude he was!

The three of us had a drink, traded a few jokes, and, then Bobby said he had to get back to his office and took off. I poured Willie and me another drink-if you can call club soda a drink.

That's all he was having. I stuck to something with more vitamins, Absolut on the rocks.

"You got wheels, Willie?" I asked him. "Or did Bobby drive you here in that bucket of his?"

"No," he said, "I drove my own car."

"Smart," I said. "What do you drive?"

"A silver Infiniti."

"Love it," I said. "Listen, why don't we both get more comfortable."

"Suits me."

"I got a waterbed," I said. "I hope that suits you."

He didn't answer that, but he asked a question of his own.

"Are you a lady of leisure, Laura?"

"Hell, no," I said. "Wish I was. I'm the manager of a boutique." I wasn't, of course, just a salesclerk. But what's the dif?"

"A boutique?" he said, and he seemed to come alive, smiling and leaning forward. "That must be a fascinating job. I suppose you're getting advance info on the fall fashions."

"Some," I said. "Skirts are down and prices are up. But with me, prices are down and skirts are up."

He laughed, and we both started undressing. He was wearing aqua silk briefs. That figured. I stripped down and went to my walk-in closet.

Willie followed and looked over my shoulder.

"You have a lovely wardrobe, Laura," he said. "Unless I'm mistaken, there's a lot of Donna Karan. You like her designs?"

"Love them," I said. "They make me look smaller."

"Yes," he said, "you are a rather large lady. I imagine you and I might wear the same size."

"Wouldn't doubt it," I said.

We were both needle-naked. I yanked a plumcolored chiffon robe off a hanger, and Willie grabbed it.

"What a gorgeous peignoir," he said. He looked at me. "Do you mind if I try it on?"

I wasn't shocked. Listen, if you've been in the game like I have, nothing men do surprises you. I once had a john who liked to play a ukulele while I was blowing him.

"Go ahead," I said to Willie Brevoort. "Slip it on." it fitted him perfectly.

I've been in the manufacture and marketing of phari'maceuticals most of my adult life, and I knew from the git-go that the ZAP Project was a no-brainer. It wasn't that a testosterone pill couldn't be developed gregory Barrow was a dynamite research chemist, and he might just do it-it was the public reaction that would condemn it to become just a chemical curiosity.

Listen, I served in the Quartermaster Corps in World War II, and the rumor got around that we were putting saltpeter in the GIS' food to reduce their sexual desire. It was all bullshit, of course, but it caused a big flap, and the brass had to assure the mothers and fathers of America that their boys weren't being drugged by Uncle Sam.

So despite what I had told Colonel Knacker and Greg Barrow, I knew damn well the ZAP Project would never get off the ground.

Even if the pill did what it was supposed to do, there'd be no way to keep it secret, and there'd be such a public stink that no amount of slick PR would convince John Q. Public that the armed forces weren't force-feeding a dangerous drug to the troops to make them into snarling killers.

But what the hell, it was a juicy contract, and I wasn't about to say no to the Pentagon. If they wanted a ZAP pill, I'd do my best to provide it. The resulting brannigan with the public and the media was a problem for the Department of Defense, not for Mcwhortle Laboratory.

I think it was about the middle of June when Greg Barrow phoned me one morning and asked if I could come down to his lab, he had something to show me. I wanted to know how long it would take, and he said no more than an hour. That was okay. I had alerted Jessica Fiddler to expect me at noon, and I wasn't about to postpone it. I needed some of her

Greg was waiting for me at the opened door of his private lab. After I entered, he closed and locked the door carefully-he does everything carefully-and got me seated in front of a TV set.

"The first recording," he said, "shows the results of placing two or more male mice injected with the testosterone compound in the same cage."

The tape was murder-literally. I've never seen such bloody carnage in my life. Whether it was two, three, or four mice, they attacked one another with a brutal ferocity that was hard to believe. in all cases, one victor remained alive, but so badly wounded I knew he'd never recover. Greg confirmed that there were no survivors of these savage contests.

"The final moments of the tape," he said, "show several untreated male mice together in the same cage. Notice there is no sign of violent behavior." , The tape ended, and he rewound and then switched cassettes.

"I think," he said tonelessly, "that from what you have just seen we can conclude that the murderous frenzy was the result of the testosterone and no other factor. This next tape shows the behavior of an injected male placed in a cage with a single ovulating female, and then with several females."

What I saw made it obvious that the injected male had no desire to kill the female mouse-unless he intended to fuck her to death. I've never seen such enthusiastic animal copulation. The same held true when the male was placed in a cage with five females. The little bugger went wild. He just couldn't seem to get enough, but mounted the nearest female first, went on to the others, then started over again. Finally he flopped over on his side and lay still.