by Judith Gould
Something evil blazed deep in Nina’s eyes, and her contralto voice abruptly dropped down to its normal male range. “Too bad you’re so fuckin’ stupid, you bitch!” the man-woman hissed.
Before Obi had a chance to turn and run, one of Nina’s hands closed like a vise around the model’s wrist, and the other came out of the red shoulder bag. Something clicked, and a long, gleaming narrow blade leapt out and flashed.
Obi’s eyes followed the switchblade as Nina raised it high.
“Oh, my God!” Obi gasped.
“Welcome to your worst nightmare, bitch!” Nina screeched.
Obi tried to jerk sideways, but the switchblade was already arcing down.
“Aieee!” she screamed as her shoulder exploded with the red-hot fire of lethal pain. She looked at the transvestite in astonishment; tried to find pity in the grim, purposeful face and rage-filled eyes. Came up empty. Then she screamed again as the pain repeated itself, the knife tearing back out through her flesh.
Blood spurted from the wound.
Obi saw the knife descending again and tried to twist away to avoid it, but was too slow. Cold steel sliced into her other shoulder, grated on bone, and twisted excruciatingly.
She screamed again.
“Whore!” Nina snarled, his wig slipping but clinging askew on his head.
It was then that Obi began to struggle like a wildcat. She twisted and bucked, trying in vain to gain enough leverage to tear loose.
The blade plunged into her abdomen.
She doubled over.
Pierced her groin.
Her body jerked.
“Slut!” Nina spat, and twisted the knife back out.
A stream of blood erupted from between Obi’s legs.
“No!” she blabbered. “Please stop . . . oh, God, please please stop!” She opened her mouth to scream again, but before the sound could come out, the switchblade flashed down, straight into her open mouth, chipping teeth and neatly severing her tongue.
Blood and tongue spewed out like vomit.
Obi’s voice was reduced to thick frenzied gurgles.
“Tramp!” Nina hissed.
The knife descended again.
And again.
And again.
Obi attempted to fight him off, but her body felt sluggish, drained of energy. Stab by stab, she could feel her life ebbing away.
Slowly her struggles ceased. She wrapped her arms around her attacker in a grotesque kind of embrace, and when the knife drove into her back and out again, her grip loosened.
She fell away from Nina, her body flopping limply backward to the floor.
The knife descended one last time, right between the ribs. Straight into the heart.
The colors of Byzantium swirled and blurred and Obi could feel herself falling, spiraling downward into nothingness.
Then her eyes glazed over.
She never felt the switchblade scalping her. Never saw the bloody scalp with its glorious brushed-out mane of black hair going into the plastic trophy bag.
Same World/Same Time
In the Realm of Miss Bitch
The pain in his groin was unbearable.
Bllll. . . ack! Yesssss!
Black! Such a divine color! Such a deliciously sexy, organic treat! Ebony. Raven. Jet!
The wig stands, with the glossy cover-girl faces pinned to them, were lined up mutely, sightless eyes staring.
Yes, my lovelies! A new girl has joined you! A bllll. . . ack girl!
He rubbed his face, arms, and torso furiously with the dark brown make-up base. Black stretch panty hose encased his muscular legs and shone sleekly. Held his hard-on captive.
Raking the sharp ends of his press-on nails across his chest, he studied his reflection in the mirror. His body gleamed like rich dark mahogany; his lips glistened with crimson lipstick and gloss.
Time for the crowning touch. Oh, yessss!
Time for the crown!
He took Obi’s mane of soft kinky hair off the wig stand, lifted it high above him, and set the splendid scalp down on his head as solemnly as if this were a coronation.
Sexual tension electrified his pelvis, sizzled and rippled and sparked from cock to ass to prostate and back.
He stared at himself. Snapped his teeth together. Pulled up his lips in a catlike snarl.
Purred and growled.
Yes, my lovely! Time for the naughty bitch to get fucked.
The plastic dildo was pink and thick and long. He slathered it with Crisco, pulled down the panty hose in the back, and bent over. In the mirror, he watched his face contort as he shoved it brutally in.
His insides exploded with pain and felt as if they were being turned inside out.
He pulled the panty hose back up, letting the elastic waistband snap into his flesh. Wiggled his pelvis obscenely. Hissed with every exquisite stab of pain.
This time, instead of using crimson lipstick, he picked up his sacrificial switchblade. Kissed the length of steel as reverently as if it were a religious relic. Took a wide-legged stance. Then ran the sharp end of the blade slowly along the inside of his panty-hose-clad thighs.
He drew a deep breath as the nylon sliced open and a thin red line of blood welled up from the soft flesh.
Red blood. Black skin. Yessss! Red on black. Black and red. BLACK AND RED! BLACKANDRED—
“O-bi. O-bi. O-bi—”
The roaring filled his ears like a thundering stadium chant. His blood was racing through his veins.
Blood-blood-blood!
The razor-sharp blade seemed to have a life of its own.
It whispered smoothly as it sliced the black nylon bulge of penis and testicles.
The panty hose split neatly, and his penis leapt free. He barely had to touch it with the blade before the most exquisite orgasm he had ever known burst forth. It came with such ferocious force that he screamed from relief.
Thick globules of semen landed two yards away.
One splattered the cut-out of Obi’s face and dripped wetly down her cheek.
Like a thick, milky tear.
Part Three
The Real Wizards of Oz
November-December 1989
Chapter 47
The workday begins early in the garment district. By eight o’clock the arteries between Thirty-fourth and Forty-second streets, from Sixth Avenue all the way over to Ninth, had already swollen into a gridlocked traffic jam, a condition not helped by the double-parked trucks and vans being loaded and unloaded on both sides of the streets. No amount of blaring horns or shouted curses and gesticulations from short-tempered motorists and cabbies alleviated the congestion. It was another normal day in the district.
The same was true of the sidewalks. Thousands of ill-tempered pedestrians, each with a destination in mind, fought for space along with garment racks hung with clothing and trolleys piled high with bolts of fabric, or boxes of zippers, or spools of thread by the ton. Street-corner drug dealers did a brisk business in the shadows of doorways, while in the grimy brick factory buildings, workers toiled in the stifling lofts of the legitimate union manufacturers and in the illegal sweatshops.
550 Seventh Avenue, the vertical Palace of Fashion rising with cool disdain from the edge of the garment district, was a veritable oasis of calm. The train of limousines that had fought their way downtown from the Upper East Side were beginning to drop off their passengers—Geoffrey Beene, Antonio de Riscal, Oscar de la Renta, Ralph Lauren, Pauline Trigère, Bill Blass, Donna Karan, Carolyne Roehm, and all the rest of the household names who were arriving for work at 550 in cocooned luxury and tranquil high style.
Edwina G. Robinson, who didn’t own her own limousine, had, since she’d joined the august ranks of the 550 Seventh Avenue designers, arranged for a car service, which sent a sedan and driver around for her every morning and evening (and at noon, if she had business lunches to attend). It was a luxury she’d grown quickly accustomed to.
Now, at a few minutes after eight, she was swinging th
e rear door open with typical impatience even before the Lincoln Town Car whispered to a complete halt. Springing out, she grabbed her bulging portfolio and shoulder bag off the backseat and, clutching one in each hand, darted like a single-minded dragonfly through bare openings in the sea of pedestrians and rushed into the building with the speed and purpose of a medic on a mission of mercy. Arriving at the elevators just in time to see one of the doors closing, she swiftly thrust her portfolio in it, forced the door back open, and shamelessly squeezed aboard the already packed car.
She was happy as a lark. Nothing short of a nuclear blast could have dampened her spirits. During the long months of unemployment she had missed the energy and tension and frenzy of Seventh Avenue; now, each and every workday morning, it all came back to her like an old, familiar friend. She could feel her body literally thrumming and vibrating and buzzing with anticipation of what the new day might bring. Because, for her, this dog-eat-dog industry, this real-life poker game that spat out loser after loser, and the occasional winner, was the granddaddy of all tournaments—and she was a bona fide contestant, her talent and acumen her sword and lance. There were hordes to clothe, store buyers to tempt, consumers to dazzle, an empire to build. Despite the shark-infested waters of this industry, she truly came alive here, blooming gloriously day in and day out.
She gazed up over the elevator doors at the lit-up floor directory. And there it was—sharing floor seventeen with four other small to mid-size firms.
EDWINA G., INC.
That’s me! she thought with a swelling burst of pride. Part of that company’s mine—thirty percent of the voting shares, to be exact. Here’s where I get to call the shots, and how far this fledgling company goes is up to me. Me!
She strode out on seventeen, turned right, and approached her door down the hall. Giant rainbow letters, sprayed on sideways, ran from the top of it to the bottom: EDWINA G.
Unable to curb her speedy pace, she entered the reception area like a tornado, her footsteps brisk, her body vital and electrified.
Telephones were already ringing. The wheels of commerce were turning.
“Edwina G., Incorporated. Good morning,” the receptionist, who doubled as the telephone operator, said into her mouthpiece. “Please hold. I’ll transfer you.” She punched some buttons on the switchboard, looked up, saw Edwina, and called out, “Good morning, Ms. Robinson.”
“ ‘Morning, Val,” Edwina returned. Despite her customary rush, she did an eyesweep of the reception area, observing with a keen glance the two workmen with whirring electric screwdrivers who were assembling the first replica of the in-store Edwina G. boutiques; this one would grace the reception area permanently.
It was a twenty-by-twenty-foot prefab pavilion, and would, when assembled, provide four hundred square feet of high-visibility selling space, and come, as planned, with every hook and shelf and hanger intact. It was made of clear Lucite, with tubes of neon outlining every curve and corner. Even the computerized cash register that came with every boutique was encased in a clear Lucite shell so that all the inner workings and colorful wiring were visible.
Young! it seemed to project. Trendy! Vital! Stylish!
Not bad, she considered; no, the in-store boutique was not bad at all. Neither were the big LED signs at the top, facing in all four directions, which would register sales, via computer, of all the boutiques nationwide as soon as a sale was rung up at any one of the various locations.
She couldn’t help but smile. State-of-the-art selling. Clothes adding up like sizzling hamburgers.
The reception switchboard buzzed and lit up again. “Edwina G., Incorporated. Good morning,” Val answered. “Please hold; I’ll transfer you . . .”
Edwina went back, past the reception desk, to the offices. From the open doors she passed, she could hear pencils scratching on sketchpads, computer printers tap-dancing their rhythms, the sounds of voices on telephones. All signs that Edwina G. was alive and well and kicking.
She came to her own office. The biggest room of the ten-room suite Edwina G. occupied, it was tucked away in the prestigious northeast corner, and was big enough to swing several cats in. Unflappable Liz was already at her desk right outside it, cigarette glued to her lower lip. “ ‘Mornin’,” she rasped.
“And a fine morning it is, too, Liz,” Edwina sang, going straight into her office.
The lights were already on and the blinds had been pulled up on all four windows, just the way she liked. Liz’s doing, of course.
Garish, snappish, but industrious Liz Schreck, Edwina thought, whose gruffness hid a heart as big as Manhattan. Liz, who typed and took steno flawlessly, who faxed and telexed and kept Edwina’s busy schedule in her Filofax straight, who arranged for limos and the best tables in restaurants at a moment’s notice, and stayed late into the night without a word of complaint.
Dropping her portfolio and bag on a chair, Edwina took off her tailored jacket and hung it on a padded hanger in the closet. For a moment she looked around, seeking comfort and strength from her surroundings. The office looked pleasant and inviting, and well it should: it was her second home—her first home if she figured by the inhuman hours she was putting in.
Overall, the atmosphere was rather like that of an ultrachic living room where one could kick off one’s shoes, hold a cocktail party for fifty, or just as easily sit down to discuss a multimillion-dollar business deal. The only necessary office intrusions were the high-tech necessities: the sleek red multiline telephone, the drafting table she sketched on, and the off-white computer terminal, its screen already glowing, ready for her commands. It was a state-of-the-art three-dimensional simulator. On it she could design clothes, see them from all possible angles via computer imagery, and store, retrieve, and revise them at any time.
Liz entered with a mug of steaming coffee in one hand—black, no sugar—and a glass of ice water in the other. She had a stack of folders tucked under one arm.
She handed Edwina the mug, set down the water and folders, and unscrewed a little plastic jar. “Here.” She held out a pill.
“And what,” Edwina asked, eyeing the little oval white tablet with distaste, “is that?”
“Ruby called to say you left your allergy pills behind.”
“You and Ruby,” she mumbled. “What is it with the two of you, Liz? Do you both suffer from some irreversible, morbid maternal tendency?” But she accepted the pill, popped it obediently in her mouth, took a sip of water, and jerked her head back to swallow it. “And what is next, pray tell? Are you going to mark the days of my period off on your calendar?”
Liz sniffed. “No, but I did do the next best thing. I stocked your private washroom with tampons.”
“Gee, thanks, Liz,” Edwina said dryly. “You’ll go far. Just where, I’m not exactly sure yet, but mark my words: it’ll be far.”
“Oh, and while you’re at it.” Liz unscrewed another jar. “Here’s a Theragram. Ruby also happened to mention that you missed your breakfast.”
“Thank you, Dr. Schreck.” Edwina snatched the vitamin and swallowed it.
“You’ll need your strength today, believe me.” Liz picked up the top folder of the stack she had carried in. “First off, here’s the list you wanted compiled of every department store in the country. They are listed alphabetically by state and then broken down further by city. Each and every chain store is listed individually, just as you asked.”
Liz put the Velobound folder down on Edwina’s drafting table and tackled the next one.
“This one contains the condensed list of all the chain stores, listing only the flagship store and the number of stores that chain happens to have. The numbers in parentheses are stores either under construction or in the planning stages. It also contains the names, addresses, and telephone numbers of the presidents, the vice-presidents in charge of operations, and the buyers in charge of the sportswear departments.”
Edwina looked amazed. “And you did all this in just the last two days?”
&nbs
p; Liz gave her a steely look. “I delegate authority and fan out projects.”
“What’s that?” Edwina nodded at another sheaf of papers.
“These are the manufacturers’ bids for the first ten items you’ve designed. Needless to say, the bigger the order, the bigger the volume discount. Also, the Taiwanese put in the lowest bids, closely followed by Hong Kong.”
“Good, I’ll look them over later. Just don’t forget, I’ve got a soft spot for two things: the union label and quality. Get back to our compatriots and see how much lower they can go before we even consider the Asians.”
“Gotcha.” Liz nodded approvingly. She, too, had a soft spot for things Made in the USA. Next she produced a stack of message memos. “First off, you had a call from Liza Shawcross’s secretary.”
Edwina nodded. “Liza probably wants to confirm lunch. When’s it supposed to be? This coming Tuesday?”
Liz shook her head. “Nope. Her secretary said she wants to change it to today.”
“Today!” Edwina was dismayed.
“Today, one o’clock, at her usual table at the Four Seasons. Sounded like an imperial summons to me.”
“Damn.” Edwina drummed her fingernails on her desk. “Today’s my lunch date with Marsha Robbins from WWD.”
“I know.”
“Talk about being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. I can’t afford to offend either of them.” Edwina felt formidably cornered, and quickly tried to think her way out of the trap. “And I can’t plead ill either, dammit, because both of them lunch at the Four Seasons every day, so whichever one I do go with, the other will know it as soon as I arrive.”
“Well, whichever one of them you do decide to lunch with,” Liz offered, sighing painfully, “what if I tell the other that I screwed up your schedule? That way I’ll take the blame. I mean, neither of them can fire me—right?”
Edwina looked at Liz warmly. Had Liz been this devoted to Antonio? she wondered. “God bless you, Liz, and bless your scheming heart. I was right. You will go far.” Then her voice became introspective. “I wonder why Liza Shawcross wants to move the lunch date up.”