“He can increase the order for next week’s issue. Let their tongues hang out a little. It’ll give them an appetite. He can afford it. We agreed on a thirty-five-cent newsstand price and he’s been getting fifty. He’s been ripping us off for fifteen cents a copy. Fuck him.”
“I think I can push him up to ten thousand. That’s another fifteen hundred, Gareth.”
“If he runs out, he’ll go for twenty thousand more next week. Tell him I don’t want to do it.”
“I been in this business a long time, Gareth. You gotta grab it when you can get it.”
“We’re going to be in business for a long time. Let’s not run until we learn to walk.” I started for the stairs. “How much would it cost to get a typesetting machine?”
“A good one—used, about three grand, new, eight.”
“Tomorrow start looking for a good used machine,” I said, thinking that Eileen knew what she was talking about. “Bobby still around? I brought his car back.”
Persky gave me a funny look. “He left in a cab about an hour ago. He said he was going to a costume party or somethin’.”
“Costume party?”
Persky laughed. “I never seen him like that. He was all made up. Rouge, lipstick, eyebrow pencil, and dressed in shiny black leather with pants so tight it was like they were glued on.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“Not a word. Just took off like a bat outta hell.”
“Shit.” I knew I should put the Rolls in the garage, but it was four blocks away and I didn’t feel like it. “Good night,” I called as I went up the stairs.
I let myself into the apartment. The bedroom door opened and Denise came out, still in the French maid’s costume she had had on in the morning.
“May I take your coat, sir?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Bobby left me on duty, sir,” she said, straight-faced.
“On duty?”
“Yes, sir. He went to a party.”
“Where’s Verita?”
“She went home. She said she had a whole week’s laundry to catch up on.” She came around behind me and helped me off with my jacket. “Can I fix you a drink?”
“I need one,” I said, sprawling on the couch. I watched her as she bent over the bar. She had a beautiful ass. I took a healthy slug of the drink she gave me. “What did the three of you do? Draw lots to see who got me tonight?”
“No, sir.”
“For Christ’s sake, stop calling me sir. You know my name.”
“But I’m on duty, sir. Bobby asked me to stay when he got the phone call. He said you don’t like to be alone.”
“When did he get the call?”
“About ten o’clock. He was really excited about it. I never saw him take so much time dressing. He was really up. He laid down two big lines of coke.”
With that much coke in him he had to be bouncing off the moon. “Must be a hell of a party. Did he say who was giving it?”
“No, but I heard him talking to someone named Kitty.” I felt my face tighten. She saw my expression change. “Is there anything wrong?”
“I don’t know,” I said grimly. If this was the Kitty I had heard about, Bobby had really got himself into the shit. Kitty, straight name James Hutchinson, headed up the meanest leather and S/M queens in town. He came from an old Pasadena family with nothing but money and upstate political clout. Rumor had it that he ran what they called a Chicken of the Month party and that some of the boys chosen for the honor had ended up in the hospital. If it weren’t for his connections, he probably would have been put away a long time ago. “Did Bobby say where they were holding the party?”
She shook her head.
I picked up the phone book. No Hutchinson. I tried directory assistance, but there was no number listed. “What cab company did he call, Denise?”
“Yellow.”
I called, but they wouldn’t give me any information. The only people they were allowed to give information to was the police. I pressed down the button and dialed again.
A gruff voice answered. “Silver Stud.”
“Mr. Lonergan, please. Gareth Brendan calling.”
A moment later my uncle’s voice came on the phone. “Yes, Gareth?”
“I need your help, Uncle John. I think my young friend may have gotten himself into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“I think he got himself elected Chicken of the Month at a James Hutchinson party.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“He took a Yellow Cab to the party. I want to know where it is.”
“Hold on a minute.” I heard the click of the phone as he went off the line. Less than a minute later he was back. There weren’t many people in town who said no to him. The address was right in the middle of the fashionable residential strip on Mulholland Drive.
“Thanks, Uncle John.”
“Wait a minute,” he said quickly. “What are you going to do?”
“Go up there and get him.”
“Alone?”
“There’s nobody else.”
“You could get yourself killed.”
“They told me that in Vietnam. I’m still here.”
“You won’t get a medal for this one. Where are you now?”
“At my apartment over the office.”
“You wait there. I’ll have some help for you in ten minutes.”
“You don’t have to, Uncle John. It’s not your problem.”
His voice grew testy. “You’re my nephew, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then wait there. You’re my problem.”
The line went dead in my hand.
“Is everything all right?” Denise asked in an anxious voice.
“It will be,” I said. “Where’d Bobby put the coke?”
“In the middle drawer over the bar.”
I laid down two lines for myself. I might need the energy. Lonergan was as good as his word. Within ten minutes I heard a horn outside my window. The Collector’s Jag was right behind the Rolls. I started for the door.
Denise’s voice was anxious. “You’ll be all right?”
“Just relax. I won’t be long.”
I went downstairs and stuck my head in the window of the Jag. “Lock your car,” I said. “We’ll take the Rolls.”
“Lonergan told me you would fill me in,” he said as I pulled away from the curb.
“My little friend got himself elected Chicken of the Month at one of Hutchinson’s parties.”
“And we’re goin’ to get him?”
“Right.”
“Jealous?”
“No.”
“Then why bother? Little boys like him are a dime a dozen. Sooner or later they all wind up there.” He reached for a cigarette. “They love that kind of thing. They’re always askin’ for it.”
“He’s romantic. He doesn’t know he can get hurt bad.”
“They want that, too.”
“If I thought that was his thing, we wouldn’t be going up there.” By this time we were on Coldwater, climbing up the hill.
He reached into his coat pocket, took out a pair of leather gloves and began to slip them on. “I have another pair for you,” he said, giving them to me. “I don’t like to hurt my hands.”
They felt heavy and a little stiff. I looked at him questioningly.
“They got a steel wire lining. Put ’em on. I know that crowd.”
The house was set back far off the road behind a high wall and steel gates. I saw the lights and the closed-circuit TV monitor as we pulled up to the call box. “Get down on the seat,” I said as I reached for the phone through the car window.
The floodlights came on as soon as I picked up the phone and the monitor observed me with its glass eye. There was a click in the receiver and I heard loud music in the background. The voice sounded tinny. “Who is it?”
I looked into the monitor. “Gareth Brendan. Bobby Ganno
n told me to meet him here.”
There was another click. I could see the monitor change focus to examine the car. I was glad I had taken the Rolls. The tin voice echoed in my ear. “Just a minute.”
It was almost five minutes before the voice came back on. “There’s no one here by that name.”
I made myself sound shrill and angry. “You tell Kitty that he’s fucking with my slave and if he doesn’t let me in, I’m going to take this car through the fucking gate.”
“Just a minute.”
There was a pause. “Okay. Put the car in the parking area just inside the gate and walk up the driveway.”
The gates began to open slowly. Floodlights went on in the driveway. That meant more TV monitors. “You stay down,” I told the Collector. “Wait until I get into the house and the lights go out; then bring the car up to the front door and wait for me.”
“What if you need me?”
“I’ll holler.”
“Okay.”
As I walked up the driveway to the house, I could feel the monitors on me. The front door opened before I could press the bell.
A burly butch queen looked out at me. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the living room. “The party’s in there.”
Music was blasting from a built-in sound system and the room was filled with the smell of hash and amies. The lights were down low and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. There were about five or six queens in the room, two of them in drag, the others in freaked-out leather outfits. I didn’t see Bobby anywhere.
One of the drag queens came toward me. He looked like Mae West—overblown and wearing a teased blond wig. His mouth was garish with purplish lipstick and he had dark rhinestone-flecked shadow above thick, artificially lashed eyes. The voice was a rasping baritone trying to be soprano. “I’m Kitty,” he said. “Have a drink.”
14
I followed him to the bar. “Scotch rocks,” I said to the white-jacketed little Filipino. I watched him pour the drink from the bottle and took the glass from his hand. There was no point in taking chances. I wasn’t in the mood for a mickey.
“Cheers,” I said, turning back to Kitty. The whiskey tasted clean. “Where’s Bobby?”
Kitty smiled. “You are stubborn. You can see for yourself, he’s not here.”
I played dumb. “I don’t get it. He told me to meet him here.”
“When did he tell you?”
“There was a message for me when I got home. I was having dinner with my mother.”
“A boy’s best friend is his mother,” he said.
I raised my glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
Kitty’s eyes were on my hands. “Why don’t you take your gloves off?”
“I have a contagious fungus,” I said. “Sort of vaginitis of the hands.”
Kitty laughed. “Now I’ve heard everything. Come join the party.” He turned toward the room. “Girls, this is Gareth. He’s come here looking for his slave.”
They giggled and one of the leather boys came over. “He’s cute,” he lisped. “I wouldn’t mind being his slave.”
“You’re too big. I’d be afraid of you. I like the delicate, gentle kind.”
“I can be gentle,” he lisped. He put a hand on my arm, his fingers digging in like steel claws. “I won’t hurt you too much.”
Smiling, I gripped his throat, squeezing his Adam’s apple between my thumb and forefinger. “I won’t hurt you too much either,” I said, watching him turn purple, trying to breathe, his hand falling from my arm.
Kitty’s voice was matter-of-fact. “He’s choking.”
“Yeah,” I said in the same tone. But I didn’t let go.
“Be careful. He’s got a weak heart.”
I let him go. The leather queen sank to his knees, gasping. “People with weak hearts shouldn’t play strenuous games,” I said.
The leather boy looked up at me. “That was beautiful,” he rasped. “I had the most fantastic orgasm. I thought I was going to die.”
I didn’t answer.
“I want to suck you,” he said.
I grinned down at him. “I told you. You’re not my type.”
I turned back to Kitty. “You’ve got a beautiful place here.”
“Thank you,” he simpered.
I walked over to a delicate table, near the couch. “This is a lovely piece.”
“It’s priceless, genuine Chippendale.” I could hear the pride in his voice. “I have two of them. One on either side of the couch.”
“Really?” I brought my hand down in a karate chop. The table splintered and I started moving toward the other one.
Kitty’s voice was a scream. “What are you doing?”
“Didn’t Bobby tell you? My thing is breaking furniture.” I raised my hand.
“Stop him, somebody!” Kitty screamed. “Those tables are worth thirty thousand dollars each.”
The butch from the doorway came barreling into the room. He paused for a moment to figure out what was happening, then charged toward me. I kicked him in the face without moving from the table. He tumbled backward to the floor, blood gushing from his nose and mouth.
“My white carpets!” Kitty screamed. “I’m going to faint!”
“Better not,” I said. “Because when you wake up, you won’t have a whole piece of furniture in the house.”
“You really must love that boy.”
“You better believe it,” I said grimly.
“Okay. Come with me. I’ll take you to him.”
“Open the front door first.”
Kitty nodded. The other drag queen minced to the door and opened it.
“Bill!” I hollered.
The Collector’s massive frame appeared in the doorway almost before his name was out of my mouth. His white teeth gleamed in his black face when he saw the butch on the floor. “You been havin’ a party,” he said.
“You keep an eye on the others. I’m going with Kitty to get the boy.”
A .357 Magnum suddenly appeared in his hand. “Okay, you guys, or ladies, whichever you are. On the floor facedown an’ put your hands behin’ your heads.”
A moment later they all were stretched out on the rug. He nodded approvingly. “That’s cool.”
I followed Kitty down the corridor to a staircase which led to the basement. At the foot of the stairs there was a room—a special room.
The walls were covered with padded brown leather. Fixed to the wall were racks, and hanging from the racks was the largest assortment of whips, handcuffs and leg chains I had ever seen. In the center of the room were two things I had heard about but never seen before. One was a stocks, similar to the one the Puritans once used. But with this one the victim was forced to kneel in order to place his arms and legs through the holes. The base was covered with torn pieces of leather clothing and a pair of shoes lay next to the platform.
The other instrument was a wheel rack, on which Bobby, completely naked, was spread-eagled, his hips thrust obscenely forward over the center spoke. His head was lolling on his chest and his eyes were closed.
“Bobby,” I said.
He raised his head and tried to open his eyes. “Gareth,” he mumbled through swollen lips, “you came to the party.” Then his head fell forward.
I looked at the wall rack and saw what I wanted—a wide-choke leather dog collar with studs and a short leash. “Against the wall,” I said.
For the first time I heard the sound of fear in Kitty’s voice. “What are you going to do?”
With an open palm between his shoulder blades, I slammed him into the wall and held him there. With my free hand, I took down the choke collar, pulled it around his neck and then tightened it with a jerk.
He screamed in pain, his fingers clawing at his throat.
Bobby attempted a smile. “Good, you’re playing, too,” he whispered.
I tugged at the leash, dragging Kitty over to the rack. “Get him down.”
Frantically, Kitty worked at the clamps. I
moved next to him and caught Bobby as he came down from the wheel rack. He hung limply across my shoulder.
I tugged at the leash again. “Upstairs.”
The Collector grinned when he saw Kitty on the leash. “Got yourself a new dog.”
“Let’s go,” I said. We moved to the open door. I pulled Kitty with me. “Open the gates.”
He picked up a telephone near the door and pressed two buttons. A television screen came to life in the wall above the phone. I could see the gates opening slowly. I took the gun from the Collector.
“Put Bobby in the car,” I said.
He took Bobby as if he were a fragile piece of glass and I turned back to the drag queen. “What did you give him?”
“Nothing. He wanted to do it all himself.”
I jerked on the leash. He gave a choking cough. “Don’t lie to me!” I snarled. “I saw his eyes.”
He pulled the collar loose. “Angel dust and acid.”
I looked at him for a moment, then dropped the leash and started out.
Kitty called behind me. “You’re welcome to him. He really isn’t very much. We’ve all had him, you know.”
Not bothering to turn around, I caught him with a back kick. I felt the heel of my shoe crunch into his jawbone. When I glanced back, his chin was somewhere up under his nose and the blood was beginning to spill out of his mouth. “Bitch!” I said.
The Collector was at the wheel of the car. I got in beside him. “Did you see that kid’s back?” he asked.
I turned and looked into the back seat. Bobby was sprawled on his stomach. From his shoulders to his buttocks he was nothing but raw meat. They had done everything but flay him alive.
“Take him to UCLA emergency, Bill.”
We were through the gate. “That’ll bring the police down on you. And they’ll ask questions.”
“The kid needs a doctor.”
“I know a place where they don’t ask no questions.”
It was a small private hospital in West Los Angeles, but they knew what they were doing. I hung around until the doctor came out of the emergency room.
“How’s he doing?”
“He’s going to be all right. But he’s going to have to stay in here at least three weeks.”
“I didn’t think it was that bad.”
Harold Robbins Thriller Collection Page 27