FUN WITH

BRADY AND ANGELICA

A KIT TOLLIVER STORY

LAWRENCE BLOCK

Copyright © 2013, Lawrence Block

All Rights Reserved

Cover Design: Jayne E. Smith

Ebook Design: JW Manus

Rita said, “Memphis! Did you see Elvis yet?”

“I was in a restaurant,” she said. “Just a diner, really. And there was an Elvis at one end of the counter and another one in a booth. Those were the only two I’ve seen and I saw them both at once.”

“Elvis impersonators.”

“Well, duh, yeah. I mean, if it was just one, I suppose it might have been the King himself, but with two of them—”

“What I meant was have you been to Graceland.”

“Oh. No, not yet.”

“That would have been my first stop. Kimmie, every time you call you’ve got a new phone.”

“Well, they’re disposable,” she said. “So I tend to dispose of them.”

“Kimmie, you kill me.” Oh, don’t say that. “You know, I thought I saw you the other afternoon. In Seattle, in Pike Place Market?”

“It wasn’t me, Rita.”

“Oh, don’t I know that? I took a good look, and she didn’t really look like you at all.”

“She was a lot prettier.”

“Silly! But you know what I went and did?”

“Picked her up and took her home.”

“Kimmie!”

“And ate her pussy.”

“Kimmie, you’re terrible!”

“Am I?”

“You know you are. But what’s really bad—”

“You thought about it.”

“Yes! I went home and jilled about it.”

“And is that what you’re doing now?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

“But I’m sort of in the mood.”

“Oh, are you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well . . .”

And a little later:

“So I was out walking one night, and this guy gave me a ride on his motorcycle. I never saw his face. He was all in leather, and he had a beard, and he was wearing these mirrored goggles. And I rode a couple of hundred miles on the back of his motorcycle.”

“You’re making this up, right? It’s okay if you are, because I like it just fine, but I was wondering—”

“No, this is real, Rita. Anyway, nothing happened.”

“Nothing happened? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There was no sex.”

“Why not? I mean, even if you were having your period—”

“Neither of us wanted it.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. We just didn’t. So I’m sitting beside him on the big Harley, and we’re zooming through the night, and there’s nothing in the world but the vibration of the bike and the smell of his beat-up leather jacket, and—”

“And you came in your pants.”

“No.”

“You didn’t? I almost did, just from hearing about it. How come you didn’t?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I could have.”

“What stopped you?”

“I just . . . let it go. Have you ever been, like, out on a cold day, and you’re not dressed for it, and the wind’s like a knife?”

“And that’s like being on a bike and smelling leather?”

“No, let me finish. When that happens, out in the cold, there’s a thing I’ll do sometimes. I let the cold just blow right through me, and I visualize it passing through without affecting me. Have you ever tried that?”

“No.”

“Well, it sort of works. It’s a mental thing, I guess, but it sort of works.”

“And that’s what you did? You let this biker guy blow through you?”

“The feeling I had,” she said. “I just sort of let it pass on through. It stopped being sexual, and then it just went away.”

“Wow.”

“I know, it’s hard to explain.”

“That woman I saw? In the Pike Place Market?”

“Still thinking about her?”

“I mean, I never could have approached her. It’s one thing to think of it and something else to act on it.”

“I know.”

“I keep thinking I want to try it with a woman. I’m like, Well, if Kim were here, di dah di dah di dah. But you’re not here, and what am I gonna do, walk into a gay bar?”

“You could.”

“I know I could. There’s one I keep driving past. I don’t even slow down, but I keep finding excuses to drive past it. Kimmie, tell me the truth, okay? Have you ever been with a woman?”

“No.”

“And here we are, a couple of phone sex buddies, and we don’t even know what we’re talking about. Except we sort of do, don’t we?”

The place she found was just off Beale Street. The windows were blacked out, and an unobtrusive sign told the establishment’s name: The Daiquiri Dock. There was nothing to suggest that it might be a lesbian bar, but she evidently sensed something, and lingered in a doorway across the street. And, sure enough, the door opened and a pair of visibly gay women left arm in arm. She stayed where she was, and another woman turned up and walked into the bar, and two more followed shortly thereafter.

She could have a glass of white wine. Get a sense of things, then go back to her room alone.

And that’s what happened, except that it was two glasses of red wine, not one glass of white. She bought one, and a woman who said her name was Sandy insisted on buying her the second. Sandy wasn’t very attractive, she had a stolid quality to her that she found unappealing, and anyway Sandy lost interest and went off to study the jukebox selections. A couple of other women glanced her way, but she kept her face unexpressive and let her body language suggest that she just wanted a quiet drink.

Back in her hotel room, she began loading her clothes into her suitcase. She wasn’t quite ready for this, but she was getting there. She’d get a good night’s sleep, leave town in the morning. And in the next city, or the one after that, there’d be a lesbian bar and she’d be ready.

St. Louis, on a quiet street near Carr Square, within sight of the famous Arch. Another city, another lesbian bar, and when she’d scouted it out the previous evening she hadn’t even allowed herself to cross the threshold. Instead she’d spent the better part of an hour in the diner diagonally across the street, nursing a cup of coffee, watching through the fly-specked window as women passed in and out of Eve’s Rib.

Now and then, a man. Not a mannish woman, there were plenty of those, but occasionally a man entering or leaving, sometimes accompanied by a woman, sometimes alone. One of these—alone, shoulders slumped, hands in pockets—reminded her for a split second of Sid.

Sid from Philadelphia, who of course was not from Philadelphia, and was probably not named Sid. Sid the Cipher, Sid the Unfindable, the one remaining name on her list of Things to Undo. Sid who, just by existing, kept her from—what?

Living her life.

But this wasn’t Sid. It was just a man who looked disappointed, as if he’d expected to find the secret of the universe in a dykery, and—

Oh, for Christ’s sake. That’s why the called the place in Memphis The Daiquiri Dock, even in the utter absence of a Caribbean motif. Daiquiri = Dykery. It had taken her a week and a few hundred miles to get the joke.

She shook her head, finished her coffee. Then she’d returned to her hotel room.

Tonight she was back, and dressed and groomed for the place, more femme than butch, but certainly no housewife, no sorority girl, no cheerleader. Just a woman looking to meet a woman.

Missy, she thought. Tonight her name would be Missy.

And tonight she didn’t hesitate. She went inside, made her way to the bar.

While his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, the man led the woman to a booth with a good view of the bar. He sat down opposite her and breathed deeply, watching the women around him. And they were all women; he hadn’t seen another man since he crossed the threshold.

He said, “God, I love this place.”

“You love what we find here.”

“And the place itself. This bar, and others like it. I like the atmosphere, Jesus, I like the way it smells.”

“You like dyke bars because you like girls,” the woman said. “That’s the smell you like. You like the way they smell, and their softness, and how they yield, how they give in. How they submit.”

“Well,” he said.

The bar was called Eve’s Rib, and you had to be looking for it to find it, tucked away on a side street on the edge of the warehouse district. It catered to lesbians, but men were not unwelcome, so long as they didn’t make unwelcome advances to the women customers. There was a sad-looking older gentleman he’d seen there once or twice, always by himself, always wearing a suit and tie, always with a glass in his hand. But the fellow wasn’t here this evening, and he himself seemed to be the only man.

His name was Brady. That was his last name, but it was all anyone ever called him. He’d never cared for his first name, which was Winston, and had thought of changing it from Winston Brady to Brady Winston. Or perhaps to Brady Brady. With B for a middle initial. B for Brady, naturally.

He was tall, and he’d maintained the same weight effortlessly in the twenty years since college. He didn’t care that much about food, sometimes missed a meal. He didn’t run or go to a gym or do martial arts, but he somehow got enough exercise to maintain good muscle tone. The only thing he could be said to work at was his suntan, a deep bronze tone courtesy of the beach in the summer and a tanning salon in the winter. He was handsome, with strong facial features and high cheekbones, and he knew it, and knew the tan added to it.

His hair was dark, with just a touch of gray at the temples. He hoped it would stay like that, but knew it wouldn’t. A touch of gray was all right, it was even an asset, but he didn’t feel ready for a full head of gray hair. Maybe he’d dye it, if it came to that. But in any event he’d preserve the gray at the temples, because he liked the effect.

On the jukebox, an Anne Murray record ended and a K.D. Lang record followed in turn. A waitress came to their booth, took their drink order. She was neither tall nor short, a little thick in the waist but not objectionably so. She came back with two glasses of Chardonnay, and Brady watched her walk off.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he told the woman.

“Hands off the help.”

“Oh, I know. It was an observation, not a suggestion.”

“Anyway, she’s Girls Only. It sticks out all over her.”

“Not the only thing that sticks out.”

“She wouldn’t like it,” the woman said, “and you’d try to make her like it, but it wouldn’t work.”

“So? It could still be interesting. But it’s idle speculation, because, as you so kindly pointed out, it’s a case of hands off the help.”

“Exactly.”

“All the same,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind.”

Missy was sitting alone at the bar. She had ordered an Orange Blossom, straight up, without being all that certain what it was, but she’d heard the name and liked the sound of it. And wasn’t it something a sweet young thing named Missy would order? This one showed up in a stemmed glass, like a martini, and it was orange, which figured, and garnished with an orange slice. She took a small sip and identified two of the ingredients, gin and orange juice, but there was an undertone of something else, some cordial, that she couldn’t place. Triple Sec? Cointreau?

She kept her eyes facing forward but surveyed as much of the room as she could out of the corners of her eyes. She felt someone looking at her, actually felt the gaze, and she turned her head just enough to catch an oblique glimpse of them. A man and a woman, and she was a beauty while he was movie-star handsome. And they were looking at her, and wasn’t that interesting?

But someone else was looking at her, and not from a distance. And walking toward her, no, not simply walking, striding toward her, with an aura of butch self-confidence overlaid upon a core of nervous anxiety.

“What’s that you’re drinking?”

“An Orange Blossom.”

“Good?”

“It’s all right.”

“Well, drink up and I’ll buy you another.”

A deep voice, probably deeper than the one God had given her. She’d read about a film star—a gay man, actually, although he kept it a secret until AIDS got him. He’d started out with a high-pitched voice, and did something about it; every day he went to a local subway stop, and when the express train roared by he screamed at the top of his lungs. After a few months his voice dropped a full octave, and he went to Hollywood and started playing romantic leads.

Did this one know the subway trick? Or was she just forcing her voice into its lower register?

Then again, what did she care? It was nice to be admired, but she wasn’t interested. If she was going to try being with a woman, what did she want with one who was trying to be a man?

The woman set down her glass of Chardonnay. “Hell,” she said.

“Oh?”

“That one would be ideal,” she said, “but that swaggering bull-dyke got there first.”

“Have a look to their right, why don’t you.”

“How did I miss her? But isn’t that—”

“Susan.”

“No, but that’s close. Suzanne.”

“Suzanne it is. We called her Suze, as I recall.”

Which rhymes with cooze, she thought.

“Which rhymes with cooze,” he said, predictably enough. “She was delicious. And she really didn’t want to play, not at first.”

“She wanted to play with me. She didn’t get unhappy until you joined the party.”

“And then she got very unhappy.”

“Yes. Fear and anger in equal parts. I have to say it added a little something.”

“But she got over it. In fact by the time we were done with her I was afraid she was going to propose marriage.”

“She did show some enthusiasm, didn’t she?”

Her own name was Angelica, or at least that was the latest variation on the theme. Her parents had named her Angela, which early on got shortened to Ange and Angie. And then she resumed being Angela again, until for a while she morphed into Angelique, but that never felt entirely natural. She’d barely considered Angelica, until one night that was her response when someone asked her name, and she’d been Angelica ever since.

She was beautiful, and she knew it, but there was a portion of her psyche that would never entirely believe it. You could be better, it had said, always and forever, and it had led her to lighten her hair the slightest bit and warm its tone to a rich honey blonde. You could be better, it told her, through four minor plastic surgeries, smoothing the imperceptible bump on the bridge of her nose, lifting her full breasts a few degrees, erasing a crease here and a wrinkle there. “Gilding the lily,” her Sao Paulo surgeon said on her most recent visit, but she knew what she wanted, and he did the work.

“Suze the Cooze,” Brady said. “What an eager little thing she turned out to be, and inventive in the bargain. I’ll tell you, I wouldn’t mind a return engagement. And I don’t think it would be all that hard to persuade her.”

“No.”

“No? You certainly had a good time, at least the way I remember it.”

“Another time,” she said, “Tonight I want someone new.”

“You want the conquest.”

“I do,” she said. “I want the yielding, the submission. And then I want the fear, the shock and awe, when she discovers she’s getting more than she thought. And then that delicious moment when she yields all over again.”

“To me, you mean.”

“Yes.”

“I love that part,” he admitted. “And if she doesn’t yield, well, in certain ways that can be even nicer.”

“It’s delicious either way,” she said. “That’s what I want.”

“Well, I want what you want, my dear. And she’d be perfect, so it’s a shame your little dark-haired friend is taken.”

“But I don’t think she is,” she said. “Watch.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But no.”

“Hey, I just got here, you know? My name’s Bobbie.”

No response.

“You’re not gonna tell me your name?”

“I’m not interested.”

“Hey,” Bobbie said. “I’m just being friendly, you know?”

“I’m still not interested.”

“Man, that’s cold. All I said was my name and I’d like to buy you a drink. I wasn’t suggesting we take a place together and go pick out drapes.”

“You’re not my type,” she said. “So why should we waste each other’s time?”

“I’ll bet you’ve never been with anybody like me. Am I right?” She didn’t answer, and the woman took that for assent. “You don’t know what you’re missing, sweetie.”

“And I won’t find out,” she said, putting a little steel in her voice. “Not tonight, at any rate, so why don’t you go find someone who’s looking for what you’ve got on offer?”

“Women,” Bobbie said, heavily, and sighed. And got up from her seat.

“My turn,” Angelica said.

Brady watched her go. His eyes clung to her bottom as she crossed the room, and he didn’t have to check to know that his were not the only eyes on her. She was beautiful, and they were gorgeous together, he and she, and they hunted as a team, spotting their prey, cutting her off from the herd, running her down together, and sharing in the feast.

Always a delight. And sometimes it seemed to him that the best part of all was afterward, when it was just the two of them together, and no matter how much energy they’d already spent, they always seemed to have enough left for one final embrace.

When she was standing beside the girl, he watched their body language. She was wary, the little darling, but not resistant as she’d been with the butch. Definitely interested, he decided, and his decision was confirmed when Angelica seated herself beside the girl and beckoned to the bartender.

Often in their hunting it was he who made the first contact. “I’d like you to meet my wife,” he’d say. “I think the two of you would like each other.” And the woman’s face would fall, because she thought she’d been making a romantic connection and the man was already taken, and thought she and his wife would make good friends. But then she’d learn just what sort of friendship they had in mind, these two beautiful and charming people, and the next thing she knew—

But it was different in a venue like Eve’s Rib. Then it was up to Angelica to make the move, and to decide what came next. If the woman was bisexual, as so many seemed to be these days, and imbued with at least a minimal sense of adventure, Angelica would beckon him forward, and they’d all three go off together. If, on the other hand, the woman was a genuine lesbian, Angelica would raise an index finger to send him a message. Then Brady would slip away, only to turn up later as a lovely surprise.

This girl wouldn’t want a man. It would be up to him to make her change her mind. Or to have her anyway. Whether she wanted it or not.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”

“My first time,” Missy said.

And she supposed that was technically true. She’d been to a gay bar before, although she hadn’t gone home with anyone. And she’d been to this bar before, to scout it out from a safe distance, but tonight was the first time she’d crossed its threshold.

More to the point, she’d never been with a woman, though lately she’d been thinking about it. It was nice being with a man, and she almost always enjoyed it one way or another, but she’d begun to think that being with a woman might be nice as well, and in a different way.

With this woman, she thought, the possibilities were genuinely interesting.

“I’m Angelica.”

“That’s a beautiful name,” she said. Without thinking about it, she’d let her voice come out higher in pitch than usual, and soft and breathy. “Mine’s a long way from beautiful.”

“Oh?”

“It’s Missy.”

“Why, that’s a sweet name!”

“My parents named me Melissa, but all anyone’s ever called me is Missy. I guess it fits me.”

Had she ever called herself Missy before? Not as far as she could remember, or Melissa, either. Names came and went, and she didn’t always remember the names she’d used, especially if the period of use was brief and uneventful.

She’d picked Missy out of the air when she walked into Eve’s Rib, and now it struck her that she’d made the perfect choice. It was properly soft and girlish, submissive Missy, and that ought to be catnip for this one.

“A few minutes ago,” Angelica said, “I thought you might need rescuing.”

“Why would I—oh, that woman. Bobbie.”

“I couldn’t help noticing that you weren’t interested, and that she rather emphatically was.”

“She’s not my type.”

“No, I wouldn’t think so. You’d want someone secure in her identity as a woman.”

“Yes.”

“But strong,” Angelica said. “Someone a few years older than yourself, I should think. Someone who’d be prepared to lead, and allow you to follow.”

Angelica turned to look at her, and Missy hesitated, but only for an instant. Then she met Angelica’s eyes and returned her gaze, holding nothing back, letting herself drink the woman in through her eyes.

For a long moment they sat on their stools, gazing silently into one another’s eyes. Then Missy drew a quick breath, and said, “Wow,” and took another breath, and said, “I’m not sure what just happened, but—”

“You and I,” Angelica said, “just happened.”

“Wow.”

Angelica put an arm around her, cupped Missy’s shoulder gently but firmly. “You’re a beautiful girl,” she said.

“You’re the one who’s beautiful. I’m just—”

“Stop it. You’re extraordinarily attractive, and I’m going to make it my personal business to make you realize how stunning you are. Missy?”

“Yes?”

“You and I,” Angelica said, “are going to have a perfectly wonderful time.” And her index finger tapped three times on Missy’s bare shoulder.

Brady was spinning a fantasy when Angelica put her arm around the girl, but it didn’t keep him from spotting his cue. The index finger, tapping three times.

He got to his feet, put a twenty on the table top, weighed it down with his wine glass. He’d scarcely touched his Chardonnay, and Angelica had taken no more than a sip of hers. Twenty dollars for two sips of so-so California wine, and worth every penny, because his woman had just connected with a sweet young thing who was going to make them both very happy.

He slipped out the door, found Angelica’s Honda squareback in the lot, and drove off in it, leaving his own Lexus for her. It was a much more luxurious car, and would make more of an impression on his wife’s new friend. While it hardly mattered what car got him back to their house.

They always took two cars. On the rare occasion when their connection was effected as a couple, they’d leave the Honda and come back for it in the morning.

Before the signal, tap tap tap on the bare shoulder, he’d imagined what might have been. Suppose, just suppose, that Angelica had headed not for the sweet little ingénue but for the swaggering butch. That one, with her short hair and her broad gym-muscled shoulders, would have thought she’d missed the brass ring only to get a solid gold one dropped in her lap. Angelica, supermodel-beautiful Angelica, picking her out and hitting on her? Butch would have thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

He didn’t know about heaven. But she’d have to die.

Because the only way he’d be able to have her was by force, and he couldn’t delude himself that he could make her learn to like it. It would have to be rape, and while that wasn’t altogether unappealing, it made for complications at the end. They couldn’t just drop her off on a streetcorner and expect her to be so ashamed of herself that all she wanted to do was forget the whole thing. If she didn’t go straight to the cops and the newspapers, then she’d come back with a couple of friends and a gun.

He couldn’t let that happen. So he’d have to kill her.

And he knew just how he’d do it. He’d read descriptions of the method, and he’d seen it demonstrated more than once in action films. You used your hands, you took the chin in one hand and gripped the back of the head with the other, and you twisted abruptly, forcing the chin up and to the left, yanking the head down and to the right, and if you did it properly you were rewarded with the sound of the neck snapping.

If it didn’t work the first time, well, she wouldn’t be going anywhere. You could keep trying until you got it right.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. It was funny, he thought. Angelica had just connected successfully with the most attractive woman in the place—well, next to herself, anyway. The most ideal prospect for the evening, certainly, and she’d be bringing the girl home, and a wonderful time was virtually guaranteed—for the two of them, certainly, and very likely for the girl as well.

And here he was wishing she’d picked up the bull dyke instead. Whose face was handsome enough, perhaps, and who’d have a nice healthy body, but who was by no means his type, or Angelica’s either. Oh, he’d enjoy forcing her. He’d get pleasure from the sex. But the only thing that made the butch so irresistibly appealing was the fact that she’d have a broken neck by the time the evening was over.

Something, perhaps, for him to think about.

Once she’d signaled to Brady, all Angelica wanted to do was corral the girl and herd her out of there. But she forced herself to give him time to get home and get settled in, forced herself to listen, or at least pretend to listen, to some tedious story Missy was telling about a childhood pet. Forced herself to take a taste of the girl’s Orange Blossom and speculate as to what the mystery ingredient might be, along with the gin and orange juice. Missy thought it might be Grand Marnier, but wasn’t too clear on what Grand Marnier tasted like all by itself.

That sounded like a cue, and Angelica offered to buy her one, but Missy said she didn’t want any more to drink, and that one Orange Blossom was plenty. “Because, you know,” she said, “it dulls the senses. It picks you up at first, but then it sort of numbs you.”

“And you don’t want to be numb?”

The girl did whatever it was she did with her eyes. And her lips were just the least bit parted. “No,” she said. “No, I don’t want to be numb.”

“Would you like to come home with me, Missy?”

“I shouldn’t.”

“Oh, I think you should.”

“I’m a little afraid, to tell you the truth.”

“Afraid? Afraid of what?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

“Maybe I’m afraid of myself. And of you, in a way.”

“Oh?”

The girl looked away, as if the words would be easier to say without eye contact. “I always hold back a little,” she said. “With you I think I might not.”

“You might let go.”

“Yes.”

“And find out who you really are.”

“Yes.”

“And would that be so bad?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but stood up and took Missy in tow, holding her upper arm with a grip that was gentle but firm. And led her, wordlessly, out of the bar.

The car was a Lexus, which suggested that Angelica was not living on food stamps. That was all to the good, but only confirmed what the woman’s dress and manner had already established.

And none of that mattered much, not to Missy, not now.

Angelica triggered the remote to unlock the doors, then held the passenger door open for Missy. Well, wasn’t that courtly? It was rare enough for a man to hold the door for you. Who would have guessed a woman would do it?

She started to get in, then stopped and straightened up. Angelica asked her if something was wrong. For answer, Missy turned toward her, thinking Come on, what are you waiting for?

And Angelica kissed her. Oh, sweet, Missy thought, and held back at first, then yielded to the embrace and let herself melt utterly into it.

The kiss lasted a while, and when it ended Missy drew a breath and held onto the car roof as if for support. She was acting, but only in part, because the kiss had turned her on something fierce. She liked the way Angelica’s mouth tasted, liked the way she smelled, like the way their bodies felt together.

She’d thought she would like it, but how could you know for sure until you actually tried it? What was that song, something about I kissed a girl and I liked it? Well, there you go. She did and she did. And now she knew.

She said, “You could do anything you want to me You could do me right here, in the parking lot. And you could make me do anything, anything at all.”

Even as he triggered the remote to open the garage door, Brady had a moment of fear that he recognized as irrational—that the door would lift to reveal the Lexus, that Angelica and her new playmate would have beaten him home. That was impossible, he’d left while they were still getting acquainted, had driven straight home while they’d almost certainly dallied long enough for the first lingering kisses. And, if he knew his wife, a little preliminary fondling to set the stage and raise the temperature.

He, on the other hand, had driven straight home, and knew the garage would be empty, and of course it was. He tucked the Honda into its spot on the right, lowered the garage door, and let himself into the house.

A drink? No, whatever for? He used the downstairs lavatory because one really didn’t want the nuisance of a full bladder in media res, poured himself a glass of Evian water because one didn’t want a dry mouth, either, and mounted the stairs to the master bedroom.

And that, he reflected, was a singularly appropriate name for it. The bedroom of the Master, and of the Mistress. And, on nights like this, of their . . . what? Companion? Slave?

Victim?

He checked the bedroom. Angelica had already done so before they left the house, setting the stage, but he fussed over it anyway, lowering the already softened lighting the slightest bit, then changing his mind and returning it to pretty much the level she had chosen.

Busy work, he thought. He went over to the bed, already turned down in invitation, and ran his hand over the linen. Percale sheets, high thread count, properly silky and luxurious. An abundance of pillows, to cushion the head or elevate the hindquarters, as circumstances required.

He checked the drawers in the little bedside chests. Toys in one, ties in another. He pictured the girl, imagined her naked, face downward, spreadeagled, wrists and ankles tied to the brass handholds he’d mounted on the corners of the bed frame. A pillow under her, presenting him with her little-girl bottom, offering him a choice of sheaths for his weapon.

And there’d be plenty of time to try them both.

Was that the Lexus? Even if it was, he had plenty of time. But there was no need to dawdle. He stopped on the way out, adjusting the position of the three-panel Japanese screen, and deciding, as he’d decided with the lighting, that it had been just right to begin with.

More busy work, and it only served to show the stake he had in what lay ahead. So it was a good sign, wasn’t it? As often as they’d entertained themselves in this fashion, you might have thought he’d be more casual about the whole enterprise. Even blasé.

There was a small room just next to the master bedroom, a third bedroom, really, but he used it as a den. He settled himself in there now, and closed the door.

By the time he heard the Lexus, heard it stop at the driveway, heard the garage door as it ascended, he had taken off all his clothes, hanging his slacks and jacket in the den closet, tucking his socks into his shoes, placing his folded shirt and underwear on an arm of the easy chair.

He sat in the chair, and unconsciously he touched himself, more for reassurance than anything else. Could something have gone wrong? Had Angelica come home alone? That was always a possibility. Sometimes one of them changed her mind. A woman’s prerogative, after all. To change one’s mind.

No. He heard voices, the two of them in conversation. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it was enough to know they were both there together.

So the girl had not changed her mind. And now it was no longer her prerogative. She was theirs.

When they turned on Ordway Avenue, Missy said she didn’t know they had apartments here. Angelica told her she lived not in an apartment but in a free-standing house. “A townhouse,” she said. “That’s what they call it. It’s part of a development, and the association takes care of all the exterior maintenance, the lawn-mowing and landscaping and all that. But in every other respect it’s a private home.”

“And you live there all by yourself?”

“I’m married, Missy.”

“Oh.”

“He’s the perfect husband,” she said, “in that he makes a lot of money and doesn’t care how I spend it. And best of all, he travels a good deal of the time.”

“Is he away now?”

“He’s out of town,” Angelica said, “and I’m out on the town. That’s how it works.”

“Does he know—”

“How the mouse plays when the cat’s away? It’s hard to say what he knows and what he chooses not to know. One time he said, very pointedly, that he wouldn’t like it if I was with another man. And he put the emphasis on man, which left me feeling that he had his suspicions, and that he didn’t mind if I found a playmate now and then.”

“And when he’s home—”

“I keep him very happy.”

“I see.”

“Do you, Missy? And when he’s away, I keep myself very happy. I drove him to the airport this morning, and he called this afternoon to let me know he was safe and sound in Kansas City. From there he goes to Omaha, and then I forget where in South Dakota. And so on, and he won’t be back for ten days.”

After a moment she said, “And when he comes home you’ll sleep with him.”

“Indeed I will. You disapprove?”

“No, I just wondered. I mean, do you enjoy it?”

“I like girls more, Missy. But that doesn’t mean I don’t like boys.”

“Oh.”

“And you?”

She paused, as if considering the question. “Just girls,” she said at length.

“You’re so sweet,” Angelica said, and put a hand on Missy’s thigh. “You wouldn’t believe the fun we’re going to have.”

Angelica’s hand stayed on her thigh until she braked the car in front of a well-proportioned two-story house, a center-hall Spanish Colonial with a tiled roof and an attached garage. The hand moved to the visor, and she worked the remote and raised the garage door, then parked alongside a smaller Honda.

Missy said, “His car?”

“Mine, actually. But when he’s out of town I get to drive his Lexus.”

“You get to do just about everything, huh?”

“Everything good,” Angelica said.

They both got out of the Lexus, and the garage door descended as they approached the door leading to the kitchen. Missy was a few steps behind, resting her hand on the Honda’s hood while Angelica turned the key in the lock.

Click!

What the hell was Angelica doing? Giving the little darling a guided tour of the downstairs? And, while she was at it, nailing her on the couch?

Waiting like this was sweet torture. But at length Brady heard their feet on the carpeted stairs, heard them walk down the hall and turn at the bedroom. And now he could make out their voices:

The girl: What a big bed.

Angelica: In case you want to hide from me.

The girl: And then you’d have to search for me.

Angelica: I found you at the bar, didn’t I? I think I’ll be able to find you in the bed, Missy.

Ah, so her name was Missy. And she had a little-girl voice, to go with her little-girl name.

Missy: This is nice. Is it Japanese?

The screen. They always noticed the screen. And more often than not looked behind it, perhaps unconsciously needing to reassure themselves that there was no one lurking there. Because there could be a man there, a savage creature with a shark’s grin and a massive erection, an unwelcome intruder in a girl-girl scene, but no, the screen was purely decorative, and there was no one for it to conceal.

Angelica: My husband saw it in a shop in San Francisco. He bought it and had them ship it here, and the first I knew about it was when the UPS truck turned up.

Missy: It’s beautiful.

Angelica: He has an eye for beautiful things.

Missy: Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?

Angelica: And so do I. Come here, you beautiful thing.

If you were going to try going to bed with a woman, Missy thought, it might as well be a beautiful one. Angelica was that and more, and it wasn’t surprising that she proved to be a gifted lover. Missy had been certain of that from the first touch, the hand on her shoulder, and had been certain of her own response from the first kiss in the parking lot.

And in certain respects it was easier to be with a woman. She was always shy the first time she undressed in the presence of a man. It was a sort of reflexive timidity, and it never lasted long, but it was always there. Tonight though, when she was about to do something she had never done before, and thus had every reason to be apprehensive, the act of disrobing had no attendant shyness.

Because she’d been comfortable undressing in front of women ever since she’d been a little girl, changing in and out of gym clothes at school, getting into a bathing suit at the beach. Angelica looked her over while she undressed, but other women checked you out all the time; if they weren’t interested in you sexually, then they were sizing you up as potential competition.

Whatever it was, she was entirely at ease. And if she had any anxiety about joining Angelica in bed, any concern that she wouldn’t know what to do, that was gone in no time at all.

Angelica made it easy for her by taking the lead, which was no real surprise. Their roles in this performance were a given, with herself as the bottom and Angelica as the top. “Just close your eyes,” Angelica said, in case there was any doubt, “and lie back, and let me love you.”

Easy enough to comply. Easy enough to give herself up to Angelica’s hands and Angelica’s mouth, and, really, what could there possibly be to object to in any of that? There wasn’t a thing Angelica did to her that hadn’t been done by men, and if some of those men had been awkward or clumsy or in a hurry, not a few had known what they were doing and done it with skill.

Angelica, a woman herself and the experienced lover of women, knew what to do and how to do it, and picked up cues from Missy’s responses. And she was in no hurry for Missy to arrive at her destination. Instead she kept taking her to the brink, keeping her right on the edge, then easing back and letting her cool down just a little before she started in all over again.

There was an element of torture to it, because she reached a point where she really wanted to come, and yet it was all so exquisite that she didn’t want it to end. It was a little unsettling to have a lover who was so utterly in control of her responses, and at the same time it was quite wonderful.

Oh, and there was something she hadn’t been expecting. Angelica’s spit-lubed finger, finding its way unerringly into her bottom. And moving in an insistent rhythm, but not the same rhythm Angelica was employing elsewhere. Jesus, the woman was playing her like an African drum. With a tap tap here and a rat-tat-a-tat there, and, omigod, oh, yes . . .

Don’t stop, she thought. Please don’t stop.

Jesus, did she speak the words aloud?

It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to stop this time, she was going to come, yes, and she kicked her feet and thrust with her hips and cried out, because why not, men liked it when you made a little noise, so why shouldn’t a woman like it, and what difference did it make who liked what, because she could no more hold back her cries than she could hold back her orgasm.

Yes!

Was there anything more beautiful than two women making love?

If so, he couldn’t imagine what it might be. He was not, in ordinary circumstances, a voyeur. He could neither imagine himself as a peeping Tom, lurking at bedroom windows in the hope of a glimpse of the forbidden, or as a spectator at orgies, watching others having sex. Watching a man with a woman, or a man with a man, held no appeal for him.

But two women, that was somehow different. And when one of the women was his woman, his Angelica, the appeal was irresistible.

And this one, this Missy, this doe-eyed ingénue, complemented her perfectly. He couldn’t imagine a more ideal partner for his magnificent wife.

He’d given them a few minutes in bed before leaving his den and taking up his position behind the Japanese screen. He was barefoot and the floor carpeted, so no one could hear his footsteps, and the screen was so situated that his brief passage from the doorway was invisible to anyone in the bed. Even so, he’d walked lightly and quickly, and held his breath until he was where he wanted to be. Then he put his eyes to the tiny viewing slits, and saw the two of them, and he’d been watching them ever since.

He never tired of watching Angelica bring a partner to climax. She loved to tease, and he sometimes suspected that he was no less the object of her teasing than the woman upon whom she was performing. He fancied that he could feel what Missy was feeling, that her excitement was his excitement, and when she came he felt a tremor of the spirit, a sort of psychic equivalent of orgasm.

And now it was Missy’s turn.

And now it was her turn.

As she lay quietly beside Angelica, giving herself over to the afterglow, she was struck by the sudden undeniable awareness that she was being observed. She could feel him there, behind the Japanese screen, could feel his eyes on her. She had the urge to look over there, even to wink at him, but she suppressed it. She was, after all, sweet young Missy, who could not possibly suspect Angelica’s well-heeled traveling man was even in the house, let alone in the room with them.

So she couldn’t acknowledge his presence. But she could damn well give him something to watch.

She rolled over on her side, kissed Angelica’s mouth, put a hand on Angelica’s breast, caressed it, then ran her hand over the flat stomach and down. Angelica was smooth as silk, she must have had it waxed, and was that a lesbian thing? Did they all do that, and was she herself less desirable for having hair there? If so, she thought, the woman had done an Oscar-worthy job of concealing her distaste.

Still, it was something to think about. Touching it—and she couldn’t seem to stop touching it, not that Angelica gave any sign of wanting her to stop—touching it was quite irresistible.

She’d wondered if she would know what to do when her turn came, but could see now that she knew everything she needed to know. She knew what she liked done to herself, for starters, and she had just learned what Angelica liked to do, and could thus be presumed to like it done in return.

And her fingers were eliciting the desired response. She found things to do with them, and got the woman off that way, because teasing was Angelica’s trick, and she sensed that she would not want to be teased in return. And then, while Angelica was still in the throes of orgasm, she put her mouth to work.

She’d thought that she might not like doing it, but she did. And, from what she could tell, it turned out she was pretty good at it.

Angelica certainly seemed to be having a good time. And Missy could only hope it was fun for the guy behind the screen.

Brady, perversely, was thinking of something else.

His eyes were glued to the action before him, and he was paying close attention to what they saw. But his mind had slipped almost a year into the past; while he watched one thing, he remembered something quite different.

The boy.

His name was Darwin, and he was their first—and thus far only—male playmate. It had been Angelica’s idea, and she’d made the suggestion several times before he agreed to it.

“For variety,” she’d said. “To test your limits, stretch yourself a little. And so that you can experience what I have every time, utterly dominating someone like yourself.”

He protested that he wasn’t gay, wasn’t bisexual, didn’t find himself attracted to men. “Curiosity,” she’d said, “You’ve had your cock sucked; what’s it like to suck one? You’ve fucked women; what’s it like to fuck a man? Or get fucked by one?”

“I wouldn’t let a man inside me.”

“Why not? You like it when I do you with a strap-on. Don’t tell me you haven’t got the urge to try the real thing.”

In the end he agreed to it. “To keep you happy,” he’d told her, but that’s not all it was. He’d dismissed the questions she’d raised, shrugged them off and waved them away, but they came back. They were, truth to tell, things he’d wondered himself.

But not where they lived. Instead they flew halfway across the country where they checked into a good hotel under false names. They had dinner in their room, and he barely touched his.

If he was this nervous, he told himself, then he really did need to go through with this.

There was a gay bar just blocks from the hotel. He walked to it and sat in a corner nursing a gin and tonic. Men approached him, and his manner was amiable but distant.

“Pick a cute one,” she’d said, but none of them struck him as cute. They were men, they didn’t appeal to him. But in the end he chose a sort of male ingénue, a willowy young man whose big brown eyes were his most remarkable feature. Their lashes were long, and enhanced by mascara.

Brady bought him a drink, a Stinger, and the youth said he could really use it, because his rent was past due and he didn’t know how he’d be able to pay it. Brady said he might be able to help, and Darwin said that would be just wonderful.

Back at the hotel, Darwin was not happy to discover that he had two people to play with, and that one of them was a woman. It took a few drinks to loosen him up, and Brady learned the answers to a couple of the questions Angelica had raised. The acts were interesting, though not ones he’d feel a need to repeat, and the satisfaction of imposing his will on the boy was similar to what he felt with the women Angelica picked up.

But Darwin cringed at Angelica’s embrace, and was unable to maintain an erection with her. And when they tried to get him to go down on her he burst into tears. It was not the ending they might have hoped for, and they stuck him in the shower to sober up, then gave him several hundred dollars and sent him off into the night. He left, whimpering, and that was the end of that.

Now, though, Brady realized the evening should have ended differently. With Darwin’s face forced between Angelica’s legs, while Brady was lodged deep inside him. And then, at just the right moment, one hand on the boy’s chin and the other gripping that long hair. And a quick yank, and the neck snapping.

It would have been so simple, and so satisfying. By the time anyone found the body, they’d have been halfway home, and no one would have a clue who’d snuffed out the young man with the slim hips and huge eyes.

And that young man wouldn’t get to tell his friends about the disgusting couple he’d been with, and how Mr. Macho Man had sucked him off.

Brady, watching the two women now, thought of what might have been. He wished he could turn back the clock and the calendar and make that singular evening come out right.

He looked at Missy, who was every bit as doe-eyed as Darwin. And he felt an unaccustomed tingling in his hands.

Angelica lay on her back with her eyes closed and felt Missy’s hand settle on her belly and make its way to her loins. How tentative that hand had been earlier, and how sure of itself it had become!

“It’s so perfect,” Missy said.

“You do seem fond of it.”

“So smooth and bare. Like a little girl’s, but not like a little girl’s at all, you know? I can’t keep my hands off it.”

“The first time I had it done, I couldn’t keep my own hands off it. And as for my husband—”

“He likes it?”

“I knew he would. It was a surprise. And it made him very happy.”

“Well, it came as a surprise to me. And I have to say it made me very happy, too.” A pause. “Maybe I should have mine done.”

“If you decide to,” she said, “there’s really only one place in town to go. I’ll write it down for you later. And if you tell her I sent you, you may get a little extra.” Missy seemed baffled. “Catherine’s an artist,” she explained, “and a great fan of her own work. If she likes you, you’ll get a muffing along with the waxing. I always do, and that’s the part Brady never hears about.”

But of course he did, and was always after her to recruit Catherine for a party. But then where would she go for a waxing? One had to be practical.

“But that’s for later,” she told Missy. “Get over here and kiss me.”

Should she have the girl one more time? She loved to keep Brady waiting, but not forever. And she really didn’t want to wait any longer herself. She wanted to see the look on Missy’s face when Brady appeared, and when she realized what was coming, and that there was nothing at all she could do about it.

Deftly she slipped free of Missy’s embrace. She opened a drawer in the nightstand, took out a handful of silk scarves. Missy caught sight of them, puzzled, and Angelica moved her hand and let the silk trail over the girl’s body.

She said, “Missy, darling, can we try something?”

“What?”

“It’s my favorite little game. I want to tie you up.”

“Oh.”

“I know you’ll love it.” As she talked, she reached for Missy’s wrist, and was taken aback when the girl pulled her hand away. “Just let me show you,” she began again, and reached out, only to have Missy once again draw away.

“I’m sure it’ll be wonderful,” Missy said, and there was something different about her voice. It seemed stronger. “And we’ll try it in a little while. But before we do that I’d like to tell you about my own favorite fantasy.”

“Oh?”

“It’s something I’ve always wanted to do,” Missy said, “but I’ve never had the chance. Can I tell you? You won’t laugh when you hear it, will you?”

“Of course not.”

“I have this fantasy of being with a couple. A man and a woman, and all three of us in bed together. The ideal woman—well, you’re the woman of my dreams, no question. And the man would be tall and dark, and very distinguished-looking, with just a touch of gray at the temples. Like the man you were sitting with tonight before you came over to the bar.”

Was this really happening?

“That was his car in the garage, wasn’t it? The engine was still warm. He left before we did and was here when we got home, and he’s behind the screen right now, isn’t he?”

“Who are you, Missy? Really?”

“Me? I’m just a girl who’s never had such a hot evening in her whole life, and I have the feeling it’s just getting started. What’s your husband’s name?”

“It’s Brady.”

“Brady and Angelica. Perfect. And little Missy, the luckiest girl who ever lived. Brady? Come out from behind the screen, why don’t you? Wouldn’t you like to get over here and fuck me?”

So many ways to do it. Combinations and permutations, no end of them.

Curiously, sex had never been that important to her. For all the men she’d gone to bed with, the sex was never what it was really about. She enjoyed it and she was good at it, she liked giving pleasure and liked taking it. Her partners always had orgasms, and she liked it when they did. And she generally had one herself, and she liked that, too, because what was there not to like?

But it wasn’t about sex.

In the beginning, with her father, it had been about making him happy, and making sure that he kept on loving her, that he was proud of her. And yes, she liked it, liked when he moaned with pleasure, liked the way his lovemaking made her feel.

Until she let him down by beginning to grow up. At which point he decided they couldn’t make love anymore. Which disappointed her greatly, but not because she’d miss the sex. That, she knew even then, was something she would always be able to get.

But he didn’t want her anymore. That was crushing, knowing that. She hadn’t known what to do, but then she came to know, and she did it, and since then everything had been pretty much all right.

And she’d found that it was as she’d figured, that sex was never hard for her to come by. And God knows she got her share of it, but the fact remained that it wasn’t about sex.

But it was really wonderful to try all the things that were available to you when you had three performers instead of merely two. A third mouth, a fifth and sixth hand, another set of genitalia—the possibilities increased exponentially, and when you added in the toys Angelica kept on hand, paraphernalia for the genitalia, as it were, well, there was no limit to what you could do.

Now, though, there was a welcome lull in the action, and she lay between the man and the woman, breathing in their scent and the aroma of their mutual passion, with her face nuzzled between Angelica’s breasts and one of her arms extended, one of her hands lightly gripping Brady.

And she said, “Did I mention that I was an orphan? I don’t think I did, and I know for sure I didn’t say anything about how it happened. See, what it was, I lived with my parents, no brothers or sisters, and I was in high school and I spent this one night at a girlfriend’s house. Not a girlfriend in the Eve’s Rib sense, just my best friend in school, and I called home to say I was sleeping over and there was no answer, and I got a funny feeling. And in the morning I went home and they were both dead, my mother and my father, and what happened, he shot her and then he shot himself. So it was very sudden, how I got to be an orphan.”

And, while they were taking that in, she said, “Listen, there’s something I’d like to do, if it wouldn’t freak you out. I mean, it’s not physical or anything. It’s just inside my mind, really, but do you think it would be okay if I called the two of you Mommy and Daddy?”

Brady lay on his back, his eyes closed. It occurred to him that anyone observing him would think he was relaxed and at peace. He was neither, and he knew what would have to happen in order for him to relax, to be at peace.

He heard the girl say she’d be back in a few minutes, felt the mattress adjust itself as she got up from it. Heard her footsteps as she left the room, then as she descended the stairs.

He sat up, opened his eyes.

“She took her purse,” Angelica said.

“She’s not leaving?”

“Not unless she plans to run naked through the streets. She left her clothes.”

She started to say something else, but he put a hand on her flank to silence her. “There’s something you have to know,” he said, “because I don’t want it to take you by surprise. But it’s something I need to do.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to do her,” he said. “I have to.”

“For Christ’s sake, Brady, you’ve been doing her six ways from Sunday for a couple of hours now.”

“I’ve been fucking her,” he said, “and I’m going to fuck her some more, but when I’m done with that I’m going to do her.”

She looked at him. “You know, you’re just gonna to have to spell it out for me, honey. Say what you mean.”

If he came out and said it he’d be one big step closer to the act. Did he want that?

He drew a breath and said, “I’m going to kill her.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I have to.”

“Some Daddy you’re turning out to be.”

“You don’t have to be in the room when it happens. I’ll give you advance warning.”

“Considerate of you. You know what I was thinking? That you were ready to adopt her and try living as a trio. I don’t know that I’d like that.”

“No.”

“It might be fun for a while, but then it wouldn’t. But what you said, you’re serious, aren’t you? How are you going to do it?”

“With my hands.” Saying the words, spelling it out, bringing the act another little bit closer to reality. “I’ll take hold of her,” he said, “and break her neck.”

“You can do that?”

“There’s a technique,” he said, and put his hands out in front of him and mimed the movement. “You twist hard,” he said, “and the neck snaps.”

“You’ve never—”

“Of course not. But I’ve thought about it. It’s been playing in my mind for a long time now.”

“A fantasy.”

“Yes.”

“And you want to make it real.”

“I need to. Listen, she’ll be back any minute and—”

“We’ll hear her on the stairs. When is this going to happen?”

“When we’re done playing.”

“That may be a while.”

“We’ve got the rest of the night. And I’ll give you warning, so that you can leave the room.”

“Are you kidding? I want to be here.”

“Really?”

“If it’s gonna happen,” she said, “I damn well want to be here when it does. I want to see you do it, I want to watch her face when she knows what’s happening, I want to watch her big eyes when the life goes out of them.”

“Jesus, Angelica.”

“God, feel how wet I am just thinking about it. And I swear it’s never been my fantasy, but I have to tell you it is now. But not too soon, all right? Because all of a sudden there are a lot of things I want to do with her. I want to teach her something new.”

“You think there’s anything she doesn’t already know?”

“Well, let’s see if anybody’s ever taught her that fist is a verb.”

“She may not like that.”

“So? You’re going to break her fucking neck, so what difference does it make what she likes and doesn’t like? And once she’s dead I want to lie on top of her while you fuck me.”

“God, you’re something.”

“And so are you. Thank God we found each other. And I can’t wait to—shhh, she’s on the stairs.”

Something had changed.

Missy sensed it the moment she entered the bedroom. She could feel it in the air, as unmistakably as she’d felt Brady’s presence behind the Japanese screen. No one had entered or left. They were both there, Brady and Angelica, both of them in bed, both of them naked. They were just as she’d left them, but something was different.

Whatever it was, she had the feeling that it would be a mistake to wait.

She’d put on a gingham apron, and she was carrying a round tray she’d found downstairs, a flat disc of polished walnut with an inch-high rim to keep drinks from sliding off. The tray held two glasses, small crystal tumblers each filled halfway with orange juice.

“Sorry I took so long,” she said, and curtseyed elaborately, then giggled. “Does the apron make me look like a French maid?”

“It makes you look hot,” Angelica said. “What have you got there?”

“Something you’ll both like.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Brady said. “I don’t think we need them.”

“It’s just orange juice,” she said, “from the fridge. Plus a miracle ingredient.”

“Oh?”

“It’s this herbal tonic somebody turned me on to. It’s pretty amazing. I mean, it’s all natural and organic, and it’s actually good for you, but what it does right away is give you energy like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Energy?”

“For sex,” she said. “I put some in my Orange Blossom at the bar, that’s why I made sure I finished it. And that’s why I got so hot so fast, and was as bold as I was. I had some more just now, while I was downstairs. And I divided the rest of it in two, and as soon as you both drink it, the night’s going to be even more amazing than it’s already been.”

“What does it do?”

“It sort of makes everything moreso,” she said, “plus it gives you energy so you can just keep doing stuff. Just drink it, I promise you you’ll be glad you did. You’ll thank me for it, you’ll want to know where you can get more. And it can’t hurt you, it’s genuinely good for you, so please drink it, okay? For me?”

The first sense to awaken was touch. Angelica’s eyes were closed, her limbs heavy, and she was being touched. Her thighs were spread and a hand had reached under her and one finger was moving slowly, ever so slowly, up and down. She felt herself begin to respond, and, tantalizingly, the finger stopped. And then it started again, and stopped, and started.

Her hips began to move in response. And, as the finger did its work, the rest of her senses began to come awake.

She was lying face down. There was something beneath her, not smooth and even like a mattress, and it took her a moment to realize that it was in fact a person. She was lying on top of another human being.

It was not until she tried to move her arms and legs that she discovered she was unable to do so. Her arms and legs were fastened in place. The person under her was spreadeagled on the bed, and her wrists and ankles were somehow fastened to his wrists and ankles.

His, because she knew that it was Brady upon whom she was lying. Brady lying on his back and herself lying on her stomach, on top of him, and fastened there. And someone—it could only be Missy—was fingering her.

But why had she lost consciousness? Had the sex been so intense that she blacked out?

She remembered Brady’s remarkable announcement, and her own astonishing reaction to it. One moment they’d agreed that Missy would never leave their house alive, and the next moment she herself was lying on top of her husband, unable to move. How had that happened?

Missy: “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Orange juice.”

Her own words surprised her. But even as she spoke them she remembered—Missy had brought two glasses of orange juice. She and Brady had each taken a glass, but she didn’t remember actually drinking anything.

But she must have, and there must have been something in the orange juice. Not the energizing substance they’d been promised—she remembered the promise now, remember the skimpy apron that revealed more than it concealed. Not something to let them make love for hours but something to put them to sleep.

A drug. She’d been drugged.

Only to wake up to a finger wave from the girl who’d drugged her. But Missy had withdrawn her hand now, and it rested lightly on Angelica’s hip.

Should she open her eyes?

If she kept them closed, it might all remain a little unreal. If she opened them—

She opened them.

Her face was resting on Brady’s, their cheeks together like a pair of romantic ballroom dancers. She moved so that she could see his face. His eyes were open, and she looked into them, barely able to focus at such close range, and their sightless stare confirmed what she must have known all along.

She gasped.

“I’m afraid so,” Missy said. “He never really felt it, if that’s any consolation. You were both out cold, and I got the icepick from my purse and took care of him right away. Slipped it between his ribs and right into his heart, and he gave this little twitch, and just like that I could feel the life go out of him and into me. Then I took out the icepick, and I didn’t even have to wipe it off because it came out clean as a whistle. No blood on it and none where it went in. I could show you, and you’d have trouble finding the spot. You could find it, but you’d really have to look for it.”

“Why?”

“Because dead bodies don’t bleed. The heart stops so there’s no circulation, and when the wound’s tiny there’s no room for anything to leak out. But that’s not what you meant, is it? You meant why kill him.”

There was a pause. Then Missy said, “Well, see, it’s what I do. With, uh, men. Not always with an icepick, although I did use this one once before. I don’t remember how it got into my purse, but I guess I must have bought it somewhere along the way, or just took it from someplace. But I was hitching, and I got a ride from Uncle Ben. Calling him that makes him sound African-American, like the brand of rice, but his name was Ben and he was real avuncular, so there you go. He was nice, and I was hoping he wouldn’t want to do anything, but no, he wanted to stop at a motel, and I wasn’t going to say no to him. And then he wanted to fuck me, and I wasn’t going to say no to that, either, so we went to bed, and he drank most of a pint of whiskey and got all teary and emotional about his dead wife, and I finally blew him and he passed out. And I thought, well, I could just leave him like that, but rules are rules, and where would we be without them? And anyway I’d been wondering how it would be with the icepick. And it turned out to be pretty much the same as it was just now, with Brady.”

And I must have liked it, Missy thought, or I wouldn’t have kept the icepick.

“What’s funny,” she said, “is I went to that bar tonight because I figured it was my shot at having sex without killing anybody. There’s not a man alive who can tell his friends what I’m like in bed, or even warm himself with the memory. Well, there’s one, the only one I haven’t been able to find. I tracked down all the others. But, see, I thought I’d be all right with a woman. Only I didn’t know if I’d like it. See, you’re my first.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, I guess that’s a compliment, huh? But it’s true. There’s a woman I’ve been thinking about a lot, and we’ve become very close. And there was one night when we sat across from each other in her living room and had phoneless telephone sex, telling stories and watching each other masturbate. And I want to go to bed with her, but not if I’m gonna kill her afterward, you know?”

“I don’t—”

“Shut up, let me finish. Her name is Rita and she’s beautiful and she’s really hot. She got her hairdresser to teach her how to suck cock, can you believe it? And a few weeks ago she went to bed with a hundred and fifty-two men rolled into one, and—oh, wow!”

“What?”

“Never mind. I just thought of something, but never mind. Anyway, where was I? Back at Eve’s Rib, I guess. See, I knew all along about Brady, I saw you with him in the bar, and I was pretty sure he was part of the deal. And the minute you told me about your out-of-town husband I knew it for certain, and then the hood of the car was warm, so by the time you and I were in bed I knew he’d be joining us, which meant I’d wind up using the icepick.”

Idly, she stroked Angelica’s bottom, listened to the woman’s measured breathing. There was a question on the way, Missy could feel it, but still it came as a surprise.

“What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Killing somebody.”

“Wow,” she said. “Nobody ever asked me that before, but then how could they? What’s it like? I don’t come from doing it or anything like that. But it’s, oh, satisfying. I mean, the sex is always okay, even if it’s nothing much, but no matter how good it is or how many times I get off, it’s never over. Not until the life goes out of him and into me. Not literally, I mean I’m not sucking up anybody’s soul, but it feels like it’s a zero-sum game, and I get stronger every time I do it.”

Another long silence. Then, “Please don’t kill me.”

“Silly. I only kill guys.”

“Could you take the tape off? It’s uncomfortable, lying like this.”

“Not just yet,” she said. “You have to tell me about the money.”

“Money?”

“I got what was in your purse, and I found his pants in the other room and emptied his wallet. See, I’m traveling all the time, and I constantly wind up having to buy new clothes because I sometimes leave places in a hurry. And I don’t have a job. So this is how I support myself, and I know you’ve got money in the house. So you’ll tell me where it is, and then I’ll cut you loose.”

Angelica was silent. Thinking, she figured. She extended her forefinger, poked Angelica’s back. “Otherwise,” she said, “I’ll do this—” she poked harder “—with the icepick. In the kidney, which is supposed to be very painful. So you’ll wind up telling me anyway, and at that point I’ll have no choice, and I’ll kill you. But I don’t want to, because I’ve never killed a woman, so—”

“God, I don’t care about the money! You’re welcome to all of it. I was just trying to think where it is.”

She gave her a minute.

“The top drawer of my dresser. The high chest is his, the wide low one is mine, and the top left-hand drawer—”

“Three hundred dollars,” Missy said. “I already found it, I wanted to see if you’d tell me about it. Now the second half of the test. Pass this part and you won’t have the icepick to worry about, and that’s a promise. There’s more money here somewhere, money your husband would want to keep handy. Now where do you suppose that might be?”

There was a locked drawer in the kneehole desk downstairs in the living room. He’d never let Angelica see what was inside it, but if he had money stashed anywhere, that was where she thought it might be.

She didn’t know where he kept the key, and Missy didn’t waste time looking for it. She figured a desk drawer wasn’t exactly Fort Knox, and a hammer and a screwdriver got her into it in hardly any time at all.

The drawer held a revolver and a box of shells, along with various legal documents; she left all of that untouched and went straight for the cash. There was a stack of it, all hundreds, and she took her time and counted it. It came to $3800, a huge score, enough to keep her going for a long time.

Back upstairs she said, “Can you believe he kept his gun in a locked drawer? Real handy if somebody breaks in. But you were right, that’s where he kept his cash.”

Angelica was saying something about jewelry, but she didn’t want to hear it. She had the money and that was all she wanted. And she didn’t want to hear anything else the woman might say, didn’t want her begging to be let loose. She’d prepared a square patch of duct tape earlier, when she’d bonded the woman to her husband, wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle, and now she slapped the gag over Angelica’s mouth, cutting her off in mid-sentence.

“Sorry,” she said, “but I want to talk now, and I don’t want you interrupting. I lied to you before. Well, lots of times, but when I told you and Brady about being an orphan. Which I am, but I lied about how I got that way. See, that’s what the cops thought happened, and how they explained it to me, but what they didn’t know is I shot my mother, and then I called my father at the office and told him to come home, and when he did I shot him, too. And then I went to my girlfriend’s house, and got myself invited to spend the night, and went home in the morning and discovered the bodies and called the cops, di dah di dah di dah. So it’s not really true that I never killed a woman.”

She went to the nightstand, took out a silk scarf.

“And I’ll keep my promise,” she said, “and not do you with the icepick, but how could I let you live? Not because we had sex, but because, duh, you know what I am and what I do.”

Angelica was struggling, trying to free herself. No way that was going to happen. Missy slipped the scarf around her neck.

“This is Hermés, isn’t it? Very nice. It’s what you were going to use to tie me up, right?” She took a breath, tried to focus on what she wanted to say. “You’re really beautiful,” she told Angelica, “and I had a wonderful time with you, both before and after Brady joined the party. And I wish I could get the name of your waxing person, but I’ll be leaving town as soon as I’m done here, so I wouldn’t have time anyway. But I’ll find somebody else, somewhere, and get it done, so I guess I’ll have plenty of occasions to remember you.”

She told herself, Do it, for God’s sake. Don’t draw it out.

“This ought to work,” she said. “It’s supposed to be pretty easy to strangle somebody this way. But you’ll have to bear with me. I’ve never done this before.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LAWRENCE BLOCK published his first novel in 1958. He has been designated a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, and has received Lifetime Achievement awards from the Crime Writers’ Association (UK), the Private Eye Writers of America, and the Short Mystery Fiction Society. He has won the Nero, Philip Marlowe, Societe 813, and Anthony awards, and is a multiple recipient of the Edgar, the Shamus, and the Japanese Maltese Falcon awards. He and his wife, Lynne, are devout New Yorkers and relentless world travelers.

Email: lawbloc@gmail.com

Twitter: @LawrenceBlock

Blog: LB’s Blog

Facebook: lawrence.block

Website: lawrenceblock.com

Getting Off on Amazon

For a list of all my available fiction, with my series novels listed in chronological order, go to About LB’s Fiction.

And if you LOVE any of these stories, I’d really appreciate it if you’d tell your friends—including the friends you haven’t met, by blogging, posting an online review, or otherwise spreading the word.

Thanks!

Lawrence Block

Table of Contents

Title Page

Fun With Brady and Angelica

About the Author