by Pat Powers
"What's it for?" she asked.
"Keeps me from having to use the .38 if I'm lucky," I said.
She put the taser with the .38 and gestured me to precede her to a back room, where I found a small, grannyish woman of about 60 sitting at a desk going over some numbers on a spreadsheet printout.
"This is John Bowman, he's a private detective," said my escort. "he's investigating the disappearance of someone named April Dancer, says some of our members wrote her some angry emails. I thought he'd better talk to you about it."
"Fine," said the woman, sizing me up with a quick glance that looked casual but which I would guess had assessed my age, checking account balance, marital history and dental hygiene habits. Her jet black hair was worn in a shoulder-length bob, with a few long strands of dreadlocks at each corner. Her face was very calm in an authoritative sort of way, and her motions were casual yet controlled. Born leader type.
"Have a seat, Mr. Bowman, my name is Mary Rossovich, and I'm an officer of ALFA. Was this April Dancer who disappeared one of our members?"
"No," I answered. "She was a Gorean slavegirl and an exotic dancer. She appeared on TV a lot and talked about being a Gorean. I think that's what may have gotten some of your members a little hot under the collar."
"I remember the name now," said Rossovich. "She was on the talk shows a lot. Some of the things she said got a lot of feminists upset, not just us, and with good reason if half the things I heard were true."
"You have no direct knowledge of her," I said.
"I don't watch a lot of TV," she said. "I'm more of a reader myself."
I thought of all those alternately angry and loving tomes out in the storefront. Somebody had to read them.
"Did any of the emails directly threaten Ms. Dancer with harm?" Rossovich asked.
"Well, no," I said.
"Then why are you here?" Rossovich asked.
"Because I'm a private investigator, not a cop," I said. "If any of the emails did directly threaten April, I'd have to give them to the cops. But I don't have to. Of course, in 24 hours the case becomes an official disappearance, and I may have to give the emails up. And I want you to know, the cops here in Atlanta are media savvy, not like the cops in Cleveland. Nobody wants to get branded a bunch of incompetent boobs like the Cleveland cops were. And with those emails screaming "CLUE!!!" and pointing straight at you, I can promise you that you'll have a lot of suspicious cops swarming all over your bookstore and your organization, and lots of reporters, too, wanting to know what led you to kidnapping."
"It's possible," said Rossovich neutrally.
"It's going to happen unless we can head it off," I said. "I don't really care that much about your bookstore or your organization -- I don't have anything against you, but I don't have much for you, either. Right now, however, circumstances dictate that we have pretty much the same interest: find April Dancer. Unless you or your organization were somehow involved in her disappearance."
"Of course not," said Rossovich, vaguely offended by the absurdity of my question. I had been watching Rossovich carefully the whole time I'd been talking, and seen no trace of any guilty knowledge in her face or in her body language. But she looked very controlled. I was a very good reader of body language, an essential part of my job, but some people's whole lives were involved with concealment, and nobody could winkle the truth out of them, if they didn't want it winkled out.
"Good, then we're on the same side," I said. "We both want April back. Now, your ALFA people are not the only suspects I have. But they're some of them. And I don't know who they are. But you and your people do. And you have an interest in helping find them out if some member or members of your group have gone around the bend started kidnapping people. Because the cops ..."
"The cops, I get the idea," said Rossovich. "This bookstore has been raided six times by the DA's office. If the local ACLU chapter hadn't defended us each time, we'd be broke and out of business from legal fees, which was the idea I believe. So I know what wonderful creatures the cops are capable of not being. And I'm willing to bet you're slightly less offensive than them in your methods, Mr. Bowman. But I can't think of anyone I could offer you offhand, Mr. Bowman, and I'm not sure if I would if I could. Except for ALFALFA, of course. I must admit, they fill your bill pretty nicely."
"Alfalfa?" I asked.
"Alliance of Lesbian Feminists Against Legalized Fucking and Assault," Rossovich replied. "They're a splinter group that broke off from ALFA a couple of months ago. They feel as we do that because the patriarchy's rule over society has institutionalized male dominance and female submission, all contact between men and women is a form of assault and all sex is rape."
"So you and I talking right now is a form of assault," I said.
"Certainly," Rossovich said, as if I'd proposed that gravity makes things fall down, "though I understand that you do not recognize it as such. You would have to undertake some feminist studies to understand it intellectually, and I really feel you have to be a woman to understand it emotionally. In any event, where the ALFALFAns differ from us in how to resist the rape and assault of male-dominated culture. We think it's through education, political activism and passive resistance, engaging in as little violence -- which is primarily a male form of expression -- as possible. I'm afraid the ALFALFAns feel that the violence the patriarchy visits on women demands a violent response."
"Violence that might include kidnapping?" I asked.
"I really wouldn't think so," said Rossovich. "I had the impression that they thought violence could only be a direct response to male violence -- if a man hits you, you can hit him back, or shoot him."
"Yes, but if you're going to admit conversation as a form of violence, perhaps the ALFALFAns feel that Dancer's TV appearances, sexually expressive dancing and public admission of being a Gorean slavegirl constituted a vigorous attack upon women, especially feminist women," I observed.
"I'll grant you that, in fact, we have a belly dance troupe within our organization, the Sisters of the Sands, who have expressed almost exactly those feelings," said Rossovich. "You're very perceptive."
I halted my masculine assault on Rossovich long enough to say, "Thank you," and then said, "I'm having trouble with the idea of a feminist belly dance troupe."
"That's understandable," said Rossovich, (and I could almost hear the phrase 'considering you're a testosterone-poisoned male idiot' though she never said it out loud). "Most men feel that belly dancing is all about females signaling sexual submission and availability to men, when in fact it is all about sisterhood and solidarity. It's about women claiming their power publicly. Its proper expression is female, and its proper audience is female. As usual, the patriarchy has attempted to subvert beledi dance, but women are discovering the truth of it."
I smiled.
"Why are you smiling?" Rossovich asked.
"I was thinking that's why I got into this line of work," I said, still grinning. "You learn new things every day."
"I have some books on the true history of beledi dance," said Rossovich. "If you really are open to learning things, perhaps you will consider reading one."
"Sure," I said. "Give me a title and I'll pick it up on the way out."
A couple of minutes later I was back out in the parking lot, crunching on the gravel and clutching a slim green tome entitled, "Beledi Dance: A Journey of Sisterhood." What the hell, I sometimes found that reading helped me get to sleep at night, and this book looked like it would be really effective. More importantly, I had the names, addresses and phone numbers of some ALFALFAns, given to me with the understanding that I wouldn't reveal where I'd gotten them. It wouldn't be hard to figure who gave me the names, but I sensed there was no love lost between the ALFAs and the ALFALFAns, so it didn't really matter. And of course, that lack of sisterly love was why the ALFALFANS had been fingered by Rossovish ... it was one of the best tools in the investigative arsenal, really.
There was a scrap of paper under my windshi
eld wiper. It was a common method of advertising in this artsy, cash-strapped section of town. But when I read it, it wasn't an ad. It said, "The Patriarchy is doomed. And its defenders are doomed."
I'd never been doomed before. Not that I had any particular interest in defending the Patriarchy, but I knew that whoever had written it was sure I did. I stifled an impulse to spread my arms wide and shout heavenward, “NOOOOOOOOO!” I was sure someone would have enjoyed it.
Chapter 3
The Joy of Gor
Instead I took the note back into the bookstore and asked about it, but of course nobody knew, or would admit to knowing, who might have put it on my windshield, so I left, still doomed.
Next stop was Scormus and Bettina's place, once again, out in the northern suburbs. Fortunately, rush hour traffic had eased up while I was interviewing Ms. Rossovich and it was a relatively smooth commute.
Bettina and Scormus lived in a well to do neighborhood where the houses were huge and the yards were tiny. McMansions, we called them. Nobody much was home in the neighborhood -- the parents were out working to pay off the mortgages and upkeep on the nicely kept homes, and the kids were in school or day care.
I rang the doorbell on the oak-shingled two-story home and a well-preserved middle-aged woman dressed in flowing, brightly colored robes came to the door.
"Hello, sir," she said, leaving the chain locked.
"Hi," I responded. "My name is John Bowman, I'm the one who called earlier."
"Oh, yes," she said, "Come right in, master."
She opened the door and I walked into a typical suburban home, filled with kids' toys, books, brickbracks and chairs. Nothing really Gorean about it except that it was decorated here and there with primitive artwork and sculpture.
However, as soon as I was in the foyer and the door was closed behind me, Bettina dropped to her knees and touched her forehead to the ground.
"Welcome to the house of Scormus," said Bettina. "This girl is prepared to serve you in any way."
"Thank you," I said. Now that I knew that Gorean women REALLY MEANT IT when they said things like that, it had quite an erotic charge. But I was on business. "I was hoping I might be able to talk with you briefly."
"Yes, master," said Bettina, rising to her feet. "Please come this way."
I followed her to a small table just outside the kitchen and sat down in a chair there.
"Would master like some coffee?" Bettina asked.
"That would be nice," I said, thinking that coffee might bring an element of normalcy, if not formality, to our talk.
In a moment I had a large mug of coffee in my hands, with cream and sugar to my taste. Bettina laid out a small rug ahead of me and to my left and sat cross-legged on it, after apologizing for not kneeling, explaining that "a girl's knees grow old."
"That's fine," I said, "I'm not a Gorean and don't really feel any need to be treated like one, though I do appreciate your courtesy."
"It is my pleasure," Bettina said warmly. She had a broad, pleasant face with gentle, smiling eyes. Though she didn't have the slim figure of a young girl any more, she carried herself with a certain calm assurance and capability. "Master Scormus is about the only one I get to observe proper Gorean forms with any more, and then only after the kids are in bed. I hope you will not mind if I take this opportunity to do so. Slave Kitten says you exercise your mastery well, for a non-Gorean."
"Be as Gorean as you like," I said. I suddenly remembered that Goreans routinely discussed the sexual performance of slavegirls in public. It had not occurred to me that slaves might also discuss the performance of masters. But of course, they would.
"Thank you master," Bettina said, inclining her head at me.
"Well, the reason I'm here, as you probably know, is to investigate the disappearance of April Dancer," I said. "I understand that you and April are close through your shared interest in dance."
"We love each other, as sisters do," said Bettina. "This girl introduced April to Gorean dance, and had the pleasure of seeing her take what this girl had given her and soar into the air, far higher than this girl could ever go. But dance is only part of our relationship. We share our thoughts and feelings every day."
"Kitten mentioned that you might serve as an advisor to April," I said. "She used the term mentor."
"That would be a fair use of the term, master," Bettina said. "April often calls this girl and asks for advice on this or that thing that is occurring in her life, and this girl helps her as best she can."
"So, what has April been asking you about?" I asked. "What's been on her mind?"
"To be honest, nothing much," said Bettina. "She has been quite happy and fulfilled. Her relationship with Jeff and Kitten has been going very well, and she has been very pleased with the success of her dance. What questions she has have been of the nature of 'should I take this wonderful opportunity, or that even more wonderful opportunity?'"
"I thought Jeff would make such decision for her, being her master and all," I said.
"He does, in the sense that she presents such things to him and he either approves or disapproves them," said Bettina. "But much depends on how the slavegirl describes things to her master. The more successful masters listen carefully to how decisions are presented to him, and decides accordingly."
"The more successful masters?" I asked.
"The ones who are able to obtain and keep slavegirls," said Bettina, smiling.
"Yeah, I understand that sometimes slavegirls run away from their masters to the homes of their mentors," I said.
"That is true, master," Bettina said.
"So if April had run away from Jeff and Kitten, she would probably have come here, to you," I said.
"I would be disappointed if she went elsewhere," said Bettina.
"But she did not come here to you," I said.
"No, she has not, master," said Bettina. "I have not seen her in person for about a month."
I watched Bettina closely as she spoke and there wasn't any indication that she was lying. No shifting of the eyes, clenching of the fists, or general tension in her body.
"Where might she have gone, if she did not come here?" I asked.
"She gets on well with her family," Bettina said, "that's where she would have gone if she ran away. But this girl does not think it very likely that she ran away and also that Master Jeff has already called her family."
"He has called," I confirmed. "Are there any other Gorean mentors she might have run off to?"
"Perhaps Lady Medina or Lady Karst," said Bettina. "She is friends with them."
These were the same ones Jeff had named.
"Master Jeff mentioned that you have a runaway staying with you right now," I said. "Would it be possible to ask her some questions?"
"This girl will ask her if that would be all right," said Bettina. "This girl begs Master to understand that girls who have run away are not considered Goreans and have rights of refusal that Gorean girls do not."
"I really do want to talk to her, but I will understand if she doesn't want to talk," I said. I didn't bother saying I wasn't Gorean or anybody's master, it was obvious I was going to be treated like one whether I liked it or not.
"This girl will return shortly, master," said Bettina, rising and heading off. I looked at her as she walked off. MILF material, for sure.
I sat and sipped my coffee and looked around the room. It was totally suburban, no chains or shackles or special-purpose chairs in evidence. Of course, with kids around you probably tended to keep that kind of thing to a minimum.
A child's handheld video game sat on the kitchen table, along with a big-haired doll and several of the small plastic figurines that fast food restaurants hand out with kiddie meals, evidence of what ranked highest in this household.
Before I could get bored enough to pick up the video game, Bettina returned with a thin young woman dressed in cutoffs and a large man's T-shirt.
Bettina spread a rug out on the floor and returned to
her chair. "Master Jeff, this is Kathleen, formerly Slave Kathleen," she said.
Kathleen knelt on the rug before me. She not only touched her head to the ground in obeisance, she also delicately kissed the toe of my shoe before kneeling before me, her hands held behind her back, her eyes downcast.
"Hi, Kathleen," I said. "I wonder if I could get you to look up at me."
Kathleen raised her eyes to look at me. She had an attractive face, with a nice nose and well-formed lips, but her eyes were troubled.
"Yes, master," Kathleen said. And even though her eyes were troubled I noticed a certain assessment in her look, which I'd seen in every Gorean woman I'd met to date. It was understandable. They were Gorean slavegirls and apparently thought I was some kind of master. They might be having sex with me in the next 30 seconds. It undoubtedly gave an edge to their approach to me, and to men in general.
"I understand you have left your former master," I said. "As Bettina has probably explained to you, I am seeking to determine whether another slavegirl has done the same, or was kidnapped."
"This girl understands," Kathleen said.
"It would help me a little to know why girls run away from their masters," I said. "Could you tell me why you left yours?"
"Yes, master," said Kathleen. "My master was neglectful of me. He ignored me."
"Neglectful how?" I asked.
"It is hard to put into so many words, master, but I will try my best," said Kathleen.
"That's all I ask," I told Kathleen.
"Yes, master," Kathleen said. "Well, he was neglectful in the furs..."
"In the furs?" I asked.
"Sexually, master," said Kathleen. "This girl was one of two slaves he had, but she did not see much action in her master's bed. When this girl's slave needs were too much upon her, and she begged to serve as a slut, master often had Trina, his number one girl, take care of me. Now, this girl likes being hogtied and kissed and fondled and subjected to vibrator discipline as much as any slavegirl, but it was a master's touch she longed for, and master's touches were few and far between. This girl knows it is her task to give utterly of herself and expect nothing in return, but still, when a girl gives herself utterly to a master, she expects more than to be treated as an unwanted kitchen appliance."