Someone kicked Waltz in the butt. He turned. The Amazon grabbed him, smothered him with her breasts, and wrestled him toward the ottoman.
He couldn't see. He could barely breathe. Her breasts were soft and warm. He turned his face so he could breathe. He gasped a deep breath of her perfume, almost overcome by its sweetness. He turned his face back into her softness.
Hook 'Em and Sadie grabbed him too. Okay. Okay. Hook 'Em had to take pictures. He let them push him down into position.
Bitch grabbed his hips and hoisted them. "Get your ass up so she can pound it good. Can't you do anything right? You deserve punishment more than any naughty boy I've ever met."
No one spanked Waltz as a kid, not even Jazz, stern as he was. Why would anybody want to hurt someone or get hurt? What was wrong with them?
It seemed dangerous. Could it be fatal? Of course not. Tex and Sadie must do it all the time. They were playing a game. Waltz would play along with it. He needed Hook 'Em's help.
Wait a minute. He remembered reading something in the paper. Somebody died in such a deal, beaten to death. The article discussed similar cases.
"Dominatrix, prepare your cat-o-nine-tails." Bitch pointed a remote control at the stereo. "Beat Me Daddy" played. "Ready your whips. Four, five, six, seven, eight. Pop!"
Waltz heard the whish of whips cutting through the air. He heard a pop. Hook 'Em popped her velvet cat-o-nine-tails harmlessly over his butt. She faked it. Why had he been worried?
Bitch snapped her whip. "Good. Whack away. Let's get the rhythm going. Pop on the downbeat. On the ones. All together now. Five, six, seven, eight. Pop, two, three, four, pop, six, seven, eight, pop. Good. Keep that rhythm going."
Bitch strode about the room, urging the sadists on. "Get your legs and backs into it. Work those muscles. It's not all about the masochists, you know. We're not here only to indulge them. Who do they think they are? They're the bad ones. This is for you too. Pamper yourself. You deserve it."
The sadists continued popping their whips in a pounding rhythm.
"Now, you naughties. I want to hear you groan as the whips pop. Groan, two, three, four, groan, two, three, four, groan. Let's hear you groan. You there, bad boy, groan, two, three, four, groan."
She popped Waltz on the left butt cheek, and then the right cheek, in time with her count. It hurt. He groaned. "Sadists, pop them. They want you to make them groan. That's what they're here for. They're snot on the cheek of life. They've been bad. They want to suffer. They deserve it. Show them how you feel about their misbehavior. Make them want to be good. Rhythm. Rhythm."
The class had a nice rhythm going. It was a dance, a dance of discipline. Waltz would've appreciated the rhythm of it, except Hook 'Em began to pop his butt. He waved his hands behind his back. Finally he yelled. "Cut it out."
Hook 'Em popped him. "It's velvet, you pantywaist snot. Shut up. Or I'll give you worse."
What got into her? Had mob mentality sucked her in?
Bitch popped him. "Groan."
Waltz groaned. The whips were velvet, sure, but those velvet tentacles hurt. Not as much as leather, he imagined, but it stung.
Bitch popped him again. "On the beat, slave."
She was saying he was offbeat? Let her pop him on beat.
Bitch and Hook 'Em whacked him in the same spot.
It stung like fire. He scooted off the ottoman, ran through the curtains, and headed for the door. A huge man blocked it, shaved head down, like a charging linebacker, a linebacker wearing leather pants, shirtless, with an open leather vest.
"Get out of my way."
The man fondled the studded leather collar around his neck, and shifted left and right with Waltz, blocking his path in a sort of slow nightclub two-step. "Certainly, sir. Your partner gives the okay, you can leave."
Waltz turned. Hook 'Em was behind him. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Tell him I want to leave."
Hook 'Em shook her head. "Not yet. Only a little longer."
The huge man tapped Waltz on the shoulder. "You know the rules, buddy. Give her the safe word and you can go."
Waltz turned back to Hook 'Em. "I want out of here."
Hook 'Em slapped his face, forehand, backhand - hard. "Say the safe words, slave. Remember? 'The pale-green room's the place for me. I can't wait to mount the gurney.'"
The gurney. Waltz saw them force him onto the gurney. He struggled, but they were too strong for him. The leather straps bit into his wrists and ankles. The needles stabbed his skin. His eyes began to glaze. The last thing he saw was a jeering Hook 'Em flashing the Hook 'Em sign.
The huge man spoke behind him. "Say the safe word."
Hook 'Em popped her whip and laughed. "He does this every time. He doesn't think I whip him hard enough, so he pulls this stuff to tick me off." She laughed again. "So I'll hit him harder."
The huge man grabbed Waltz and shoved him back toward the black velvet curtains. Bitch grabbed him and pulled him through. She led him to the counter and unwrapped something. "Hold out your hands."
She slapped handcuffs on his wrists. She clicked them tight. They hurt. Waltz groaned. She slapped his butt with her hand. "Now you're getting the idea, slime bag." She slapped him again.
He was cuffed again, the second time in less than a week.
At least she didn't cuff his hands in back. The lieutenant was a bigger sadist than Bitch, a scary thought.
Bitch unwrapped more cuffs and locked them on his ankles. She slapped him again. She reached into his pocket and fished out his wallet. "Set of handcuffs and a set of ankle cuffs. That's one hundred dollars." She stuffed the money in the cash register and his wallet in his pocket. "The receipt's in your purse."
She slapped his butt again, then fondled it. "Discipline. Discipline. You'll regret the day you try to escape again, my buns-of-steel naughty."
She pushed him down on the ottoman. She pulled his hips up and caressed his butt again. "Assume the position. Don't you know anything?"
She turned to Hook 'Em. "He's the best masochist ever. Do you coach him to do these things?"
"You should've seen him at the beginning. He was hopeless. I've trained him for years."
Bitch resumed the count. The whips popped in unison.
Waltz raised his hands to protect his face. The handcuffs clanked him in the forehead.
Hook 'Em lashed his butt. "Okay, naughty Nancy, you're getting what you want now."
Waltz realized why Bitch cuffed his hands in front of him. Hook 'Em could beat his butt without his hands in the way. Bitch moved back up the sadist scale - up even with the lieutenant.
Bitch pointed her whip at Waltz. "He tried to leave us. Us, his friends, catering to his every need. The ungrateful lout. Everybody. Let's give it to him."
She counted down and the sadists popped him on one. They continued through two sequences of twelve bar blues. He thought of the gurney and counted lashes. Their rhythm was admirable. His butt stung. His hands clenched the ottoman. He hung on.
"Enough." Bitch stopped the flailing. "Why should this dirt bag have all the fun? Back to your positions."
Waltz relaxed his hands and took a deep breath.
Bitch popped him again. He started to get up and clobber her. No, he was cuffed. He would wait till she took the cuffs off. He wanted a full swing at her.
Bitch sang. "Whip your partners. Lash away. Make their buttocks sting and pay."
Tex raised his head. The white hat with its purple band obscured his eyes. Tears streamed down his face. "Feel the rhythm. Do-si-do. Pound my buttocks into dough. I got drunk and ran around. On my butt you need to pound. Yoda leda loda lady - ouch!"
Bitch and Sadie both flogged Tex's butt. Bitch sang. "Whip your partners. Thrash away. Make their buttocks sting and pay."
Tex sobbed with delight. "Make me wriggle. Make me wince. Make me rue my least offense. Yoda leda loda lady - ouch!"
Hook 'Em flogged away, in time with the others, faking it. Her whip popped well above Waltz's butt
.
Bitch chanted. "Get ready to stop. Five, six, seven, eight, halt. Excellent. I hope you've had as much fun as I have."
The class applauded.
She popped her whip and curtsied. "That's a short sample of our aerobics class. Every Saturday afternoon at three. Don't forget."
Tex moaned. "Can't you beat us a little more?"
She lashed him. "Shut up. We must follow the schedule. Now we get back to general dancing and flogging. Don't forget our other rooms. In the Ballroom of Agony, we'll start with an old favorite, Mount Your Pig. In The Torture Chamber, for you nostalgia buffs, we feature Beat Your Baby Eight to The Bar."
She snapped her whip. "Experience our newest digital torture devices in the Cell of Torment. I recommend our new Flage-o-matic. It's great for singles, or for those who demand more efficiency in their beatings. In the Sanctum of Anguish, we have Smack the Meek Till They Inherit."
She stepped down from the stage and lashed Waltz's butt. Waltz rolled onto his side. He held up his hands. The chains rattled. "Get these cuffs off me."
She bent over him. Her breasts swayed, jiggling, full and soft. They were huge. Could they be real?
She saw him staring at her breasts and waggled them. "You like what you see?"
"Get these cuffs off."
"You don't want to wear them home?"
"No. Stick them up your butt."
Hook 'Em patted his head. "Naughty. Naughty." She turned to Bitch. "You can take that as a compliment to your class."
Bitch curtsied and kicked Waltz in the butt. "Thank you."
Hook 'Em kicked him. "He's so ashamed of his need for humiliation that he sometimes gets aggressive and wants to lash out. I think there's an element of sadism in his personality."
"What a shame. Still, he's almost the perfect masochist." Bitch nodded at Hook 'Em. "Let's get him up."
Bitch and Hook 'Em each grabbed an arm and jerked Waltz to his feet.
Bitch spread her arms wide. She hugged him. He sunk into the softness of her breasts. She stuck her tongue in his ear and whispered. "It's been fun, baby. I'll torture you any time. No charge."
Her teeth nipped his earlobe. "When you watched me, your eyes all over me, undressing me, wanting me, it gave me chills. Call me. Candy Bitch. I'm here almost every night."
She produced a key, bent, and unlatched the ankle cuffs.
Waltz stared at her breasts. Were they real? The way they jiggled. They were real.
She rose and took off the wrist cuffs.
It didn't matter if they were real. He had Lala. She was his true love.
Bitch looked into his eyes, smiling. Slowly she shimmied, jiggling her breasts. She held the cuffs out to him. They dangled from her hand and the chains clinked as she waved her breasts at him. "Would you like a bag?"
Waltz flung her arm away. "No."
He didn't care if they were real.
Bitch smiled.
Hook 'Em sniggered and turned to Bitch. "He's good, isn't he? I taught him to stay in the moment, never to step out of his role as a petulant bad boy. Give us a bag. He'll probably insist on sleeping in those cuffs. They'll remind him of you."
"I don't want a bag. I don't want the cuffs. I would like to return them for a refund."
Bitch slowly shook her head and her breasts. "I'm sorry sir. The health department does not allow us to accept returns on used cuffs."
"I demand to see your supervisor."
Bitch turned to Hook 'Em. "Wow, he is good."
Hook 'Em grabbed his arm. She took the bag and dragged Waltz over to Sadie and Tex.
Tex took his hat off and hung his head. "I cheated on my baby." He turned and bent, butt cocked.
Hook 'Em kicked it. "You're slime."
Tex stepped back. "I know." Tears streamed down his face.
Sadie kicked Tex's shin.
He danced on one purple boot and chanted, "Ow, ow, ow."
Sadie smiled. "Wasn't that a great workout? I've been hunting for a fun way to stay in shape."
Hook 'Em swung her whip backhanded several times like a tennis player warming up. "I know. Running's no good. It's boring. Punishing bad boys is so relaxing."
Sadie swung her whip, mimicking Hook 'Em's movements. "Yes, and in this class, you learn new ways to hurt. I always say, you can't stop learning. You start to stagnate."
Hook 'Em switched to forehand. "Ain't it the truth?"
Sadie swung a forehand. "Y'all want to meet and beat here each Saturday?"
Tex perked up his butt. "I'm in. Smack me."
Sadie lashed his butt, backhand and forehand, her improved swings smooth and level. "Deal."
She turned to Waltz. "Hook 'Em tells me y'all aren't exclusive. You can count on me for a good thrashing any time. You up for the class, if Tex is drunk?" She pinched Waltz's butt.
Waltz jerked away. "No, I'll stick to pumping iron."
Sadie stepped closer. "They've got an iron maiden in the Cell of Torment. It's an antique and it still works. You want to check it out?"
Hook 'Em put her arm around Waltz's waist and gave him a hug. "Go ahead, Meekly. I'll hit the Ballroom of Agony with Tex. Mount Your Pig intrigues me."
Waltz put his arm around Hook 'Em's waist and whispered in her ear. "You got your pictures. We're leaving this place now. Don't make me pick you up and carry you out in front of all your new friends."
Chapter 8
Who Spiked the Punch?
The next morning, Waltz and Lala searched pawnshops for Gordon's stuff. The cops already made a search, but since they charged Waltz with attacking Gordon, Hook 'Em said they were no longer watching the pawnshops. The bad guy might figure it was safe to pawn the stuff. If they could find it, they could trace it back to the toe chopper, who must be the same person who poisoned Cha-Cha and Jazz.
They managed to search four shops and found nothing. They stopped at the library where the bad guy checked out the book on poisons using Waltz's library card. The librarians didn't recognize any of the photos of studio personnel.
Discouraged, Lala and Waltz headed back to the studio.
***
A stranger in a suit and tie knocked at the office door.
Lala muted the tango music.
A cop. Waltz leaped from his chair. "Jazz didn't die?"
"Die? Jazz?" The stranger shifted his briefcase to his right hand. "Oh, Jazz Charleston?"
Jazz was dead and Waltz was going to prison without getting the bad guy. "He's not dead, is he?"
"Is he? Have you heard?"
Lala took Waltz's hand. "Jazz no is dead - yet."
Jazz was not dead. Not yet. Waltz sagged into his chair.
The stranger handed Lala a card. "Mrs. Charleston?"
Lala glanced at the card. She extended her hand. "Jim, is good you come." She shook his hand. She cupped it in both of hers.
Jim looked at Lala's hands holding his. "Well, to business."
Lala patted the back of Jim's hand and relinquished it. "Take a chair. Something to drink?"
Jim sat, placed his briefcase on his knees, and opened it. "No, thanks. I'm okay." He pulled some papers from it. "I've got your claim here, insurance on the life of your husband, Jazz Charleston, in the amount of eight hundred thousand dollars."
Lala smiled. "With double indemnity, for accidental death, is a million six, right, Jim?"
Wow. Waltz didn't know that Jazz had insurance - not that much. Jazz did love Lala. They might unload the sarcasm on each other. They might fight. But they loved each other. Lala would be rich. What would she do with all that money? Would she convert it all to cash? Her bra wouldn't hold all that. Even Bitch's wouldn't.
Waltz pictured himself pressed into service, copying thousands of serial numbers to index cards and carrying a huge strongbox everywhere, a strongbox heavier than the barbell he dead-lifted.
Lala smiled again. She was flirting with Jim. Waltz wasn't surprised. She would flirt with students to sell them two hundred dollars worth of dance lessons. Flirting was he
r way. It worked. She was the best salesperson at the studio. She meant nothing by it. Waltz knew she loved him, not Jim.
"That's right, but, if I understood you correctly, your husband has not, as yet, passed."
"Doctors say he is sure to die."
"I can't do anything on your claim until he dies."
Lala's voice was honey sweet. "Jim, I am one lonely woman, my husband is soon to die. I no understand these things, but I must have the money fast. My husband leave my dance studio broke. I will lose it unless I get the cash. Please, for me, fill out forms now, since you are here, so we can file fast when my husband die? Please, Jim?"
"The doctors say he's certain to die?"
"Yes." She barely controlled the sob. "Soon I am alone. I no find another man. Good men, like you, Jim, are always married."
"Well, I suppose I could go ahead and fill out the papers." He removed some forms from his briefcase, set it on the floor beside him, inched his chair closer to the desk, and set the forms on it.
Lala walked around her desk and took his hand. "Come. Take my chair. Get your knees under my desk so you are comfortable."
"This is okay."
"No, Jim. Please." She pulled him to his feet and escorted him to her chair. "Sit. For comfort."
She moved the forms in front of him and handed him her pen. She pulled the policy from the top right drawer of her desk and placed it next to the forms.
She went behind him and began to knead his shoulders. "Your muscles are tight, Jim. I know insurance is difficult. How you stand the strain, I no understand. I help you relax while you work on papers."
No wonder she sold so many dance lessons. Nothing embarrassed her. She'd try anything until she made the sale. Why couldn't Jim see through it?
She answered Jim's questions. Jim filled in the forms. He worked not so much like a harried insurance investigator, but more like a man who'd had a few drinks in the evening, making notes of his amorous exploits in his journal. He seemed quite content and in no hurry to get to the next client.
"Write that the check must be made out to me." She turned to Waltz. "Because you might be in jail when the check come, Waltz. No worry. We will share."
Jim spoke over his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Lala. They'll have to make out the check to the corporation, Dance Terminal."
Lala stopped massaging. "But why?"
"This is 'key man' insurance in which the beneficiary is the corporation. 'Key man' reimburses your company for the loss of one of its leaders."
Drink, Dance, Divorce Page 13