Headhunter

by Michael Slade

  "Must we miss the party?" she asked.

  "Sweetheart," the woman said softly, her eyes now glazed and her face flushed by the cocaine's effect, "you must realize that some things are more important than others. Like this man tonight. He is very important for us."

  Crystal nodded absently, suddenly feeling the jittery intoxication of the drug. Her face felt frozen and there was no sensation in her teeth. When she looked down at her chest it seemed as though her heart was beating wildly in an effort to break free, each tick of the clock vibrating this room into sharper focus.

  The room would have been similar to any other rich, elegant parlor in New Orleans were it not for the walls. To Crystal, it was eerie to have so many empty eyes watch her every move. Suzannah had decorated this half of the upper floor of the ancient Lafon house entirely in antiques. Most of the furniture was by the cabinetmaker Prudent Mallard, immense, ornate, and Victorian. Though Mallard had used carved rosewood, Suzannah had used the masks.

  There were more than a hundred different masks covering the walls.

  On the wall opposite the window were the masks of Africa: an Oule Mask from Bobo and a Senufo Fire-spitter; a Nalindele Mask and an Ashanti Fertility Head.

  On the wall to the right of the window were hung the masks of the Near and Far East: a Mummy Mask from Egypt and a Roman Mask of Pan; a Japanese Gigaku and a Chinese T'ao t'ieh Face.

  In the wall to the left of the window there were three closed doors, and around the jambs, framing them, were the masks of America: a Death Mask from the Inca and a Salish Spirit Mask; a Six Nations Iroquois False Face and a Hopi Katchina Doll.

  And on the window wall were the modern masks. To the left of the pane was a Beelzebub by Theodore Benda and a German Executioner's Mask. From above it leered a Corbel

  from England, a Creon Mask from Stratford, a Death's Head Hussars Busby. While to the right hung a New York Yankees' catcher's guard, a World War I gas mask and a shroud from the Ku Klux Klan.

  Out beyond the window were the masks of Mardi Gras.

  Catlike, Suzannah padded across the floor and began to stroke Crystal's hair. Together they watched the parade.

  "What does all this mean?" Crystal asked. "That's what I'd like to know."

  "Mean? It doesn't mean anything. It's just something you feel. You let yourself go."

  Crystal closed her eyes, moving her head in time to the stroking of her hair. It felt so good.

  "You see," Suzannah added, "Carnival appeals to a basic human urge. Almost everyone has the desire hidden within them to occasionally don a mask. There is no culture in-history in which masks have not played a part." Suzannah whispered, "Come with me."

  Together they walked to one of the doors set into the wall to the left. The woman swung it open and they entered the bedroom beyond.

  This was a room in conflict, a riot of red and black. The walls were of red satin, the curtains of red velvet, the spread draped across the bed a red patchwork quilt. The carpet, however, was black. The furniture—a dresser, a wardrobe and a mirrored washstand—was of black ebony and onyx. And attached to each of the four posts supporting the canopy bed were chains and handcuffs of forge-blackened steel.

  Suzannah crossed to the washstand and sat down on its chair. As she picked up a jar of makeup, she was staring at her own face in the mirror, thinking the reflection was showing signs of age. The small creases at the corners of her full mouth and green feline eyes had been there last week. The lines on her forehead had not. Concerned, she rubbed one hand across her shaved head, noting the blue veins that spread like fingers reaching up from her temples, counting the pulse-rate at which her heart pumped blood.

  Suzannah opened the jar of stage makeup and began to blacken her eyelids. Spreading the grease with her index fingers, she worked the shadow in a narrowing slit around the sides of her head. Then she cleaned her hands with cream and began chalking her entire face white. As she did this, her eyes seemed to sink further and further back in her head. Fascinated, Crystal sat down at the foot of the bed and watched.

  When she had finished, Suzannah painted her fingernails a bright scarlet red—the same color as the satin walls of the bedroom. Then fanning her hands to dry the lacquer, she turned to the girl and said: "You and I, Crystal, we have a lot in common."

  "We do?" the girl said, surprised.

  "Well, of course. That's why I asked you here. A few years ago, after I got rid of my husband, I did just what you've done. I too escaped down the Mississippi River. Only I made a mistake. Whereas you were smart enough to get a job in a laundry, I spent half a year removing my clothes in a sleazy Bourbon Street strip joint. It was awful!"

  "You were married?" Crystal said, surprised again.

  "Yes, dear. We lived at the top of the world. But let's not talk about that. The man turned out a bum. Oh he was tough on the outside, shiny buttons and all, but inside where it counts he was a sniveling little boy—lost and living in the shadow of his father. In fact, love, he was the last man to lay a hand on me. But I took care of him. He doesn't matter now."

  "When were you divorced?" Crystal asked with interest.

  "Divorced? We were never divorced. The man just died. That was Christmas Eve, 1955."

  Suzannah stood up and crossed to the dresser and pulled open one of the drawers. From it she removed a pair of sheer stockings, then carried them back to the washstand. As she walked her breasts swayed, her shoulders softly rolling to keep them moving. Crystal stared transfixed.

  "Good coke, eh?" the older woman said.

  "Can I have some more?"

  "Later, dear. This stuff is stronger than you think. Believe me."

  Suzannah sat down on the chair and raised one of her legs to pull a stocking on.

  "Do me a favor, love. You see that drawer second down? Open it and bring me one of the scarlet ones."

  Crystal moved to the dresser drawer and pulled it open. Inside, it was filled with wisps of lace and nylon, all of them black or red. The girl removed the tiniest of garter belts and brought it to the woman. Suzannah fastened it around her waist, tethering the stocking tops with two snaps at each thigh. Then she looked up.

  "How do I look, sweetheart?"

  "Stunning!" Crvstal said. She was beginning to shiver her throat suddenly dry. She tried to wet it by swallowing, but all she got was a taste of bitterness running down her throat from her nose.

  Suzannah stood directly in front of the girl. Her suspenders ran like blood-red transversal lines down to the white of her thighs. Crystal could hear the material rasp ever so softly.

  "Do you understand, love, how men make women whores? You can see them in every city, every house, every office building. Well, it makes me sick. Women like I was, stripping in clubs and letting men ogle their tits and ass. Millions of women sitting on their fannies adding up figures or typing words. Women working in laundries and washing dishes. You want to know a secret, love? Just between you and me? Each day those women peddle their ass for peanuts—never once realizing that there is a market just waiting to be tapped. A market where women can get back their own."

  Suzannah flicked her eyes at the clock. The time was 12:09.

  Turning from the girl, she walked over to rummage in the wardrobe and remove a set of clothes. She carried the outfit over to the bed and set part of it down on the quilt. Then as Crystal watched, Suzannah wiggled her body into a black leather corset.

  This corset was cut low in the front to accentuate her cleavage. It ended just above her groin. Two leather straps ran from the armpits up to her neck where they fastened to a black studded collar. The sides of the garment were stitched with red laces, the bodice cut in circles to reveal her nipples. To complement the corset, Suzannah pulled on two shoulder-length black gloves also stitched in red, and snapped them to the collar. The fingers of the gloves had been sliced off, and revealed her scarlet nails. Then she pulled on a pair of spike-heeled, red-laced, knee-high boots and picked up a thin-lashed leather cutting whip. The handle
of the whip was decorated with a pretty blood-red ribbon tied in a large bow.

  Returning to the washstand, Suzannah removed a flat bottle of rouge from its onyx surface. She held the container out to Crystal and said: "Would you color my nipples while I paint my mouth?" Shivering, the girl nodded.

  When they had finished, Suzannah bent over and sucked on Crystal's breasts until both tips were hard buds. Dipping a finger into the makeup, she slowly rouged each nipple until it was a brilliant red. Then with one hand she took the girl's face in her fingers and looked deeply into her eyes. The bow on the end of the whip brushed Crystal's cheek.

  "Men are swine, lover, please remember that. You and I are linked by what we have in common. I was also raped by my father."

  Crystal blinked, her eyes locked with the woman's, unable to break away.

  "Yes, dear. You are not alone. And believe me—no man will ever hurt you in my house. You're safe here."

  "How did it happen to you. Please tell me. I want to know."

  Suzannah sighed. "All right," she said. "I was born on a vineyard in the south of France. In 1934—when I was five—I was sent to school in Paris. During the War my father collaborated with the Vichy Government. He was a traitor. Anyway, in 1941 my parents called me home. By then the Germans were in Paris and they thought me safer on the family estate."

  "You lived under the Nazis!" Crystal exclaimed, wide-eyed.

  "Yes, dear. But they weren't my problem. Near the end of the War my father started drinking heavily. And he beat my mother up. By then the Allies had landed and the Germans were retreating. My father was living in fear of reprisals for his collaboration.

  "Anyway, this one day I was home alone. My mother was in the hospital, he had beaten her that bad. She lied about the reason.

  "In the early afternoon, my father began drinking. By suppertime, he was drunk. He started punching me, calling me by my mother's name, swearing and screaming at me. Then he raped me. I was then fifteen years old—a year younger than you—and I was a virgin.

  "I remember lying there, feeling torn and battered, empty, mostly empty as if I were not in touch with myself. And I remember his breath foul with garlic.

  "After a while he began to sober up and realize what he had done. He begged me for forgiveness, but I just lay there. Eventually he fell forward with his head on my breasts, sobbing like a baby. I was filled with revulsion."

  "Did you tell anyone?" Crystal asked softly.

  "No, but my mother suspected. Shortly after that I was sent to Montreal to continue my education. That's where I met my husband. That's where I got married. And that's the end of the story."

  "I hate men!" Crystal said. "Especially my father."

  "Well that's good, sweetheart. That's the way to be. Besides, I can satisfy you like no man ever can."

  "Then why did you get married if you feel the way I do?"

  "That's a long story," Suzannah said, glancing at the clock. "I don't have time to tell you, though I wish I did. I don't want you ever making the same mistake. Let's just say that I was blinded by the color red. The man was old enough to be my father and maybe that's what I wanted—a replacement. I was young and stupid. What more can be said?"

  Suzannah let go of the girl and retreated several paces. She stood with her legs apart, her head held high, her backbone erect. She looked the girl up and down, smiling, and thought: I can't wait any longer. It's time to reel her in.

  According to the clock on the wall, it was 12:28 a.m.

  "Crystal," Suzannah said slowly. "I must ask you a question. Listen before you answer. Okay?"

  The girl nodded.

  "The moment I saw you this afternoon, I knew we were the same. That's why I followed you from the laundry after work and sat beside you in that greasy little restaurant. You looked so alone. Have you enjoyed what we've done this evening?"

  The girl nodded again.

  "Well, there's no reason in the world that this must ever end. No one knows that you're here. No one knows that you're with me. And no one needs to know. Would you like that?"

  Once more the nod.

  "Good. Cause tomorrow night I'd like to take you to Europe. To London, Paris, Rome. I'd like to buy you fine clothes. I'd like to give you all the cocaine you want. I'd like to spend just hours and hours playing with your pussy, getting you so hot you think you're going to melt. Sound like fun?"

  The girl swallowed.

  "Here," Suzannah said. "Let's run away for good." She pulled open a flat drawer in the washstand and removed a stack of $100 bills which she tossed to the girl. Crystal's mouth dropped. The bills slipped through her fingers and tumbled to the floor.

  "Go on. Pick them up. They're yours," the woman said. "That's $10,000 lying at your feet. And that's just spending money."

  "Where did you get that?" the girl exclaimed, her voice breaking in a croak.

  "Why, from the man before the guest who comes tonight. The one this evening will bring another twenty grand with him. And once he's finished, well then we're off and free. I'll have made $100,000 off Mardi Gras this year. Not bad for two weeks' work, eh?"

  The girl said nothing. She stared at the stack of money with a dumbfounded look on her face.

  "Crystal," Suzannah said softly, "it's time to answer that question. Do you want to stay with me—or shall we call it a night and you can return to your job at the laundry? The decision is yours."

  In a flash, the girl was across the space between them and cradled in the woman's arms. Warm tears touched Suzannah's shoulder where the glove joined her corset. As the woman whispered, "That's my girl," over and over again, she caught a glimpse of the two of them in the washstand mirror. This one was easy,she thought with a smile. Once you know the market of life—and what people need to buy.

  For a moment longer she held the girl, then gently pulled away. "No turning back, dear, is that agreed?"

  "Yes," Crystal said.

  "Good. Let's have some more cocaine."

  Back in the room with the masks, Suzannah drifted over to the middle door in the wall on the left and pulled it open. Beyond the jamb a spiral staircase disappeared below. "Come on," Suzannah said, "there's something weird to see." Her words held out adventure like honey to a cub.

  Together they descended, twisting around and around on the iron steps, past the main floor and on down to the basement. Suzannah opened a hidden trap door and a gust of stale damp air swept up and out of the black pit that yawned beneath it.

  Ever so faintly from below came the murmur of running water. Then as Crystal's heart pounded against her rib cage, Suzannah picked up a torch, climbed into the hole and disappeared down a rusted iron ladder.

  Crystal followed.

  As she descended the girl could feel the walls sweating and dripping with the ooze of centuries. When the ladder ended the two of them continued on down a narrow flight of stone steps. Crystal had counted twenty-six before a wail of anguish

  from off to the right brought her to a halt. Her muscles locked tight and for a second she froze.

  The noise was a low-keyed godless gibber that seemed to burst forth from no discernible point. It appeared to issue from several sources off to the right side.

  Crystal turned to run—when Suzannah grabbed her by the arm. "Look," the woman said.

  Continuing her grip on the girl, Suzannah swept the torch in an arc that sliced through the darkness around them. Crystal could see that they had reached a vaulted corridor. The floor was of chipped flagstone, the arched walls and roof of dressed masonry. The corridor stretched away before them into indefinite blackness. To the left there was a closed wooden door. To the right were five black open archways through which came the wail.

  "What you hear," Suzannah said, her words sucked away almost the second they were uttered, "is wind off the Mississippi River. What you see is an old smuggler's vault dating from the seventeen hundreds."

  As she spoke the woman stabbed the flashlight toward one of the open archways on the right. A
t the outer reaches of its beam Crystal could just make out the stone-banked channel of a stream.

  "You see that underground river? It connects with the Mississippi. It was once used by French pirates, back in the early days. Now its mouth on the river is sealed by a mesh of iron bars."

  "Is this what you wanted to show me?" Crystal asked, now embarrassed by her attempt at flight.

  "No," Suzannah said, "I want you to see this." She walked over to the wooden door and ushered Crystal in.

  "What's in here?" the girl asked, standing in the pitch dark as the woman reached up to light a torch set into the wall beyond the doorway and off to their left.

  Crystal choked in fright. Her neck hairs stood on end. Never before had her eyes seen—or even imagined—the instruments that cluttered this hellish room.

  "This is a torture chamber!"Crystal shrieked with a spine-jarring shiver.

  "Correct," Suzannah said. Then she laughed out loud, her voice hard and brittle.

  This vault was a stone crypt, twenty feet by thirty. The chimney of a fireplace ran up one wall like a great gray sucking vein, cobwebs hanging like veils from several of its bricks. Beside this hearth stood a brazier with seven branding irons dangling from its rim. Along the opposite wall there was a medieval rack, its wheels and clamps cast in mimicked shadow by the torch, dark stains discoloring the upper surface and spreading down the sides in thin drip-lines. An Iron Maiden crouched waiting in the far comer with its door gaping open on several hundred spiked teeth. Turning in panic, Crystal saw a gibbet iron hanging from the ceiling— that one wall was covered with whips and manacles and cat o' nine tails—that a skull rack containing seven leering ivory grins hung on the stone surface behind the door—that knives and needles and surgical instruments were laid out in tidy precision on a flat surface to her left—and, worst of all, that Suzannah stood guarding the doorway with her arms folded across her breasts. Reflected torch-light glinted off the metal rings in her crotch.

  As the vault began to echo with the dull hideous whine that Suzannah had said came from the wind off the river, Crystal's mind screamed at her, A knife! Grab a knife!