Eight Black Horses

CHAPTER THREE

The city for which these men worked was divided into five separate geographical sections.

The center of the city, Isola, was an island; hence its name: Isola means ‘island’ in Italian. In actual practice the entire city was referred to as Isola, even though the other four sections were separately and more imaginatively named.

Riverhead came from the Dutch, though not directly. The land up there had once been owned by a patroon named Ryerhurt, and it had been called Ryerhurt’s Farms, which eventually became abbreviated and bastardized to Riverhead.

No one knew why sprawling, boisterous Calm’s Point was called that. Maybe at one time, when the British were still there, it had indeed been a peaceful pastoral place. Nowadays it was worth your life to wear a gold chain in some sections of Calm’s Point.

Majesta had without question been named by the British; the name rang with all the authority, grandeur, greatness, and dignity of sovereignty, its roots being in the Middle English word maieste, from the Old French majeste, from the Latin mājestās, which was a long way around the mulberry bush.

Bethtown had been named for the virgin queen Elizabeth, but undoubtedly by a British official with a lisp; it was supposed to have been called Besstown.

Isola was the hub of the city.

Some people who lived there thought it was the hub of the entire universe, a belief that did much to contribute to its reputation for rudeness. Even people who lived elsewhere in the city held Isola in awe, invariably referring to it as ‘the City,’ as though they lived in the middle of a wheat field on its outer fringes.

There were no wheatfields in any part of this city.

But there were a hell of a lot of banks.

In Isola there were 856 banks.

In Majesta there were 296 banks.

In Calm’s Point there were 249 banks.

In Riverhead there were 127 banks.

And in Bethtown there were 56 banks.

That came to 1,584 banks, more than a quarter of all the banks in the entire state.

On Thursday morning, November 3, a flyer from the Eight-Seven went out to the main branch of every bank in the city, requesting information on a homicide victim named Elizabeth Anne Turner, who may have been employed as a cashier sometime during the past three years. A photograph and description accompanied the flyer together with the social security number the detectives had got from Suncoast Federal in Los Angeles, where Elizabeth had worked before coming east.

On Friday morning, November 4, a call came from the branch manager of the First Fidelity Trust on Beverly Street downtown.

Carella and Brown were in his office not twenty minutes later.

* * * *

Arnold Holberry was a man with a summer cold. He thought it was ridiculous to have a summer cold when it was already four days into November.

‘I hate this weather,’ he told the detectives, and blew his nose. Outside the windows of his office November looked like June. ‘This is supposed to be autumn,’ he said. ‘The first day of autumn was September twenty-first. We are already into the last quarter of the year,’ he said. ‘The winter solstice is almost upon us. We are not supposed to be having this kind of weather. This kind of weather is dangerous for human beings at this time of year.’

He blew his nose again.

He was a trim man in his late fifties, his hair graying at the temples, a gray mustache under his nose—which was very red at the moment. A bottle of cold tablets was on his desk. A box of tissues was on his desk as well. He looked thoroughly miserable, but he told the detectives he was willing lo give them all the time they needed. He remembered Elizabeth Turner quite well and had been inordinately fond of her.

‘How long did she work here, Mr. Holberry?’ Brown asked.

‘Almost two years. She used to live in California, excellent credentials out there. Well, a marvelous person all around. I was sorry to have her leave us.’

‘When was that?’ Carella asked.

He was afraid he would catch Holberry’s cold. He didn’t want to bring a cold home to the kids just when the holidays were about to begin. Thanksgiving was only a few weeks off, and after that Christmas would be right around the corner. He was unaware of it, but his posture in the chair opposite Holberry’s desk was entirely defensive. He sat leaning all the way back, his arms folded across his chest. Each time Holberry blew his nose, Carella winced, as if a battery of nuclear missiles were rushing out of their silos, aimed at his vulnerable head.

‘In February,’ Holberry said.

‘This past February?’

‘Yes.’

‘When, exactly, in February?’ Brown asked.

‘On February fourth,’ Holberry said, and reached for a tissue and blew his nose again. ‘These pills don’t work at all,’ he said. ‘Nothing works when you’ve got a cold like this one.’

Carella hoped he would not sneeze.

‘We gave her a wonderful reference,’ Holberry said.

‘She left for another job, is that it?’ Brown asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Here in the city?’

‘No. Washington, D.C

The detectives looked at each other. They were thinking she had left for Washington in February, and she was back here in October—dead.

‘Would you know when she came back here?’ Brown asked.

‘Gentlemen, I didn’t know she was back until I got your request for information. You can’t know how shocked I was.’ He shook his head. ‘Lizzie was such a ... kind, generous, soft-spoken ... elegant person, that’s the word, elegant. To think of her life ending in violence ...’ He shook his head again. ‘Shot, you said?’

‘Shot, yes,’ Carella said.

‘Unimaginable.’

Her sister had used the same word.

‘Mr. Holberry,’ Brown said, ‘we’ve talked to the super at her building and also to many of her neighbors, and they told us she was living there alone...’

‘I really wouldn’t know about that,’ Holberry said.

‘They described her as a very private sort of person, said they’d rarely seen her with friends of any kind, male or female...’

‘Well, I wouldn’t know about that, either,’ Holberry said. ‘She was certainly outgoing and friendly here at the bank. Gregarious, in fact, I would say.’

‘You didn’t know her on a social level, did you, sir?’ Carella asked.

‘No, no. Well, that wouldn’t have been appropriate, you know. But ... gentlemen, it really is difficult to describe Lizzie to someone who didn’t know her. She was simply a ... marvelous person. Always a kind word for everyone, always a smile on her face. Crackerjack at her job, never complained about anything, nothing was too big for her to tackle. When she told me she was leaving for Washington, I was shattered. Truly. She could have gone quite far with this bank. Quite far. Excuse me,’ he said, and blew his nose again, and again Carella winced.

‘You say she asked for a reference,’ Brown said.

‘Yes. Actually she’d told me beforehand she was looking for employment elsewhere. It was not in Lizzie’s nature to lie about anything. She was unhappy here, she said, and she...’

‘Unhappy, why?’ Carella asked at once.

‘She felt she wasn’t advancing rapidly enough. I told her these things took time, we all had our eye on her, and we knew what a valuable employee she was ... but you see, she’d been offered an assistant managership in Washington, and I can understand how that must have appealed to her.’

‘Which bank was that, sir?’

‘The Union Savings and Trust.’

‘Would you know which branch?’

‘I’m sorry, no.’

‘But it’s your understanding that when she left here last February, it was to become an assistant manager at a Union Savings and Trust bank in Washington?’

‘Well, yes. Of course. That’s what I’ve been saying, isn’t it?’

‘What I meant, sir,’ Carella said, ‘is whether to your knowledge she actually took the job she’d been offered.’

‘I would have no way of knowing that. I assume...’

‘Because you see, sir, she was here in this city nine months later...’

‘Oh, yes, I see what you mean. I’m sorry, but I don’t know. I suppose ... I really don’t know. Perhaps she was unhappy in Washington. Perhaps she came back to ... I don’t know.’ He paused. ‘This city has a way of luring people back, you know.’

A sneeze was coming.

Carella wanted to run for the underground bunker.

Holberry grabbed for a tissue.

Carella hunched up his shoulders.

The sneeze did not come. Holberry blew his nose.

‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Would you know where she was living when she worked here?’ Brown asked.

‘I’m sure we have the address in our files,’ Holberry said, and picked up the telephone receiver. ‘Miss Conway,’ he said, ‘can you bring in the file on Elizabeth Turner, please?’ He put the phone back on its cradle. ‘It’ll just be a moment,’ he said.

Carella knew exactly where Brown was headed.

In this city the new phone books came out on the first day of September each year. From past investigations the detectives knew that the closing date for any new listing was June 15. If a phone had not been installed by that date, it would not be listed in the new September 1 directory. Elizabeth’s name, address, and number, however, were listed in the directory when her sister arrived here on October 27—even though Elizabeth had left the city on February 4. Which meant she’d either kept her old apartment and her old phone when she’d left the city or...

The door to Holberry’s office opened.

A woman came in and put a file folder on his_; desk.

He opened it.

He began leafing through papers, stopped to blow his nose, and then began leafing again.

‘Yes, here it is,’ he said, and looked up. ‘Twelve twenty-four Dochester Avenue.’

Which meant that Elizabeth Turner had taken a new apartment when she’d come back to the city—sometime before June 15, the closing date for the telephone directory. The carton of sour milk in her refrigerator had been stamped with an October 1 sell-by date. In this city the legal shelf life for milk was eight to ten days; she had to have bought it sometime between September 22 and October 1. On October 29 the super at 804 Ambrose had told Inge Turner that he hadn’t seen her sister in three or four weeks. That would make it about right. She had packed her bags and flown the coop, either temporarily or for good, sometime at the beginning of October.

But why?

And where had she gone?

‘Thank you very much, sir,’ Carella said, ‘you’ve been very helpful.’

Holberry rose and extended his hand.

Carella felt he was gripping the hand of a plague victim.

* * * *

There were a lot of parks in the city, most of them inadequately lighted after sundown and therefore prime locations for anyone wishing to dispose of a corpse. That this particular park—directly across the street from the Eight-Seven’s station house—had been chosen was a matter of some concern to the detectives. It indicated either daring or insanity.

Elizabeth Turner had been found naked in the park across the street.

Elizabeth Turner had worked for a bank in Los Angeles, had worked for another bank in this city, and had left employment here to work for yet another bank in Washington, D.C.

The Deaf Man’s specialty was banks.

Something was in the wind.

And it smelled mightily of the Deaf Man.

Something was in the mail as well, and it arrived in the squadroom that Friday afternoon, while Carella was on the phone with the manager at the main branch of Union Savings and Trust in Washington.

When Carella saw the white envelope in Sergeant Murchison’s hand, he almost lost track of the conversation. Murchison was wearing a long-sleeved blue woolen sweater over his uniform shirt, a sure sign that Indian summer was gone. Outside the squadroom windows the sky was gray and a sharp wind was blowing. The forecasters had promised rain. Shitty November was here at last. And so was another envelope from the Deaf Man, if that’s what it was. From the look of Murchison’s face, that’s what it was.

‘... clash of personalities, you might say.’

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Carella said. ‘What did you... ?’

‘I said you might describe the differences between Miss Turner and Mrs. Hatchett as a clash of personalities.’

‘And Mrs. Hatchett, as I understand it, is a manager with Union Savings and Trust?’

‘Yes, at our Sixteenth Street branch.’

‘And, as such, was Miss Turner’s immediate superior?’

‘Exactly.’

Murchison was waving the white envelope in Carella’s face. Carella covered the mouthpiece, said, ‘Thanks, Dave,’ and uncovered the mouthpiece again.

‘It’s him again,’ Murchison whispered.

Carella nodded sourly. His name was staring up at him from the envelope. Why me? he wondered.

‘I recognize the typewriter,’ Murchison whispered.

Carella nodded again. Murchison kept hanging around, curious about what was in the envelope. Into the phone Carella said, ‘What sort of personality clash was this, Mr. Randolph?’

‘Well, Miss Turner was a very gentle person, you know, soft-spoken, easygoing, very ... well ... different in every way from Mrs. Hatchett. Mrs. Hatchett is ... uh ... aggressive, shall we say? Competitive? Abrasive? Sharp-edged? Appropriately named, shall we say?’

Carella was sure he detected a smile in Randolph’s voice.

‘In any event,’ Randolph said, ‘it became apparent almost immediately that Miss Turner and she would not get along. It was merely a matter of time before the tension between them achieved its full potential, that’s all.’

‘How long did it take?’

‘Well, longer than most. Miss Turner gave us notice in April.’

‘Left the job in April?’

‘No. Told us she was quitting. Gave us two weeks’ notice in April.’

‘And left when?’

‘At the beginning of May.’

‘Then she was there in Washington for three months.’

‘Yes. Well, a little less actually. She began work here on the seventh of February. Actually it was something of a record. We’ve had nine assistant managers working under Mrs. Hatchett in the past eighteen months.’

‘She sounds like a dreamboat, your Mrs. Hatchett.’

‘She’s the daughter-in-law of one of our board directors.’

‘Oh,’ Carella said.

‘Yes,’ Randolph said drily.

‘And that was the only reason Elizabeth Turner left the job? This personality clash with Mrs. Hatchett?’

‘Well, Mr. Carella, I’m afraid you’d have to know Mrs. Hatchett in order to appreciate the full horror of a personality clash with her.’

‘I see.’

‘Yes,’ Randolph said, again drily.

‘Thank you very much, Mr. Randolph,’ Carella said. ‘I appreciate your time.’

‘Not at all,’ Randolph said, and hung up.

Carella replaced the receiver on its cradle and looked at the white envelope. Murchison was still standing by his desk.

‘So open it,’ Murchison said. ‘It ain’t a bomb.’

‘How do you know?’ Carella said, and nudged the envelope with his pencil. It suddenly occurred in him that the Deaf Man was something of a sideshow for the cops of the Eight-Seven, something that broke the monotony of routine. The Deaf Man arrived, and suddenly the circus was back in town. With a small shock of recognition he realized that he himself was not immune to the sense of excitement the Deaf Man promised. Almost angrily he picked up the envelope and tore off the end on its long side.

Murchison was right. It wasn’t a bomb. Instead, it was:

And suddenly it began raining outside.

* * * *

The rain lashed the windows of the bar on Jefferson Avenue, some three and a half miles southwest of the station house. The tall blond man with the hearing aid in his right ear had just told Naomi he was a cop. A police detective, no less. She didn’t know the police department was hiring deaf people nowadays. Antidiscrimination laws, she supposed. They allowed you to hire anybody. Next you’d have detectives who were midgets. Not that a hearing aid necessarily meant you were deaf. Not stone cold deaf anyway. Still she guessed any degree of hearing loss could be considered an infirmity, and she was far too polite to ask him how a man wearing a hearing aid had passed the physical examinations she supposed the police department required. Some people were sensitive about such things.

He was good-looking.

For a cop.

‘So what’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Steve,’ he said.

‘Steve what?’

‘Carella,’ he said. ‘Steve Carella.’

‘Really?’ she said. ‘Italian?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Me too,’ Naomi said. ‘Half.’

‘What’s the other half?’

‘Wildcat,’ she said, and grinned, and then lifted her glass. She was drinking C.C. and soda, which she thought was sophisticated. She looked up at him seductively over the rim of her glass, which she had learned to do from one of her women’s magazines, where she had also learned how to have multiple orgasms, occasionally.

Actually she was half-Italian and half-Jewish, which she guessed accounted for the black hair and blue eyes. The tip-tilted nose was Irish, not that her parents could claim any credit for that. The nose’s true father was Dr. Stanley Horowitz, who had done the job for her three years ago, when she was twenty-two years old. She’d asked him at the time if he didn’t think she should get a little something done to her boobs as well, but he’d smiled and said she didn’t need any help in that department, which she supposed was true.

She was wearing a low-cut blue nylon blouse that showed her breasts to good advantage and also echoed the color of her eyes. She noticed that the deaf man’s eyes—what’d he say his name was?—kept wandering down to the front of her blouse, though occasionally he checked out her legs, too. She had good legs. That’s why she was wearing very high-heeled, ankle-strapped shoes, to emphasize the curve of the leg. Lifted the ass, too, the high heels did, though you couldn’t tell that when she was sitting. Dark blue shoes and smoky blue nylons. Sexy. She felt sexy. Her legs were crossed now, her navy blue skirt riding up over one knee.

‘I’m sorry, what was your name again?’ she asked.

‘Steve Carella,’ he said.

‘I got so carried away with your being Italian’ she said, rolling her eyes, ‘that I...’

‘A lot of people forget Italian names,’ he said.

‘Well, I certainly shouldn’t,’ Naomi said. ‘My mother’s maiden name was Giamboglio.’

‘And your name?’ he said.

‘Naomi Schneider.’ She paused and then said, ‘That’s what the other half is ... Jewish.’ She waited for a reaction. Not a flicker on his face. Good. Actually she enjoyed being a Big City Jewish Girl. There was something special about the Jewish girls who lived in this city—a sharpness of attitude, a quickness of tongue, an intelligence, an awareness that came across as sophisticated and witty and hip. If anybody didn’t like her being Jewish—well, half Jewish—then so long, it was nice knowing you. He seemed to like it, though. At least he kept staring into her blouse. And checking out the sexy legs in the smoky blue nylons.

‘So, Steve,’ she said, ‘where do you work?’

‘Uptown,’ he said, ‘At the Eight-Seven. Right across the street from Grover Park.’

‘Rotten neighborhood up there, isn’t it?’

‘Not the best,’ he said, and smiled.

‘You must have your hands full.’

‘Occasionally,’ he said.

‘What do you get up there? A lot of murders and such?’

‘Murders, armed robberies, burglaries, rapes, arsons, muggings ... you name it, we’ve got it.’

‘Must be exciting, though,’ Naomi said. She had learned in one of her women’s magazines to show an intense interest in a man’s work. This got difficult when you were talking to a dentist, for example. But police work really was interesting, so right now she didn’t have to fake any deep emotional involvement with a left lateral molar, for example.

‘Are you working on anything interesting just now?’ she asked.

‘We caught a homicide on the twenty-fifth,’ he said. ‘Dead woman in the park, about your age.’

‘Oh my,’ Naomi said.

‘Shot in the back of the head. Totally naked, not a stitch on her.’

‘Oh my,’ Naomi said again.

‘Not much to go on yet,’ he said, ‘but we’re working on it.’

‘I guess you see a lot of that.’

‘We do.’

She lifted her glass, sipped at her C.C. and soda, looking at him over the rim, and then put the glass down on the bartop again, empty. The bar at five-thirty in the afternoon was just beginning to get crowded. She’d come over directly from work, the long weekend ahead, hoping she might meet someone interesting. This one was certainly interesting; she’d never met a detective before. Good-looking, too. A naked dead girl in the park, how about that?

‘Would you care for another one?’ he asked.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘It’s C.C. and soda.’ She waited for a reaction. Usually you said C.C. and soda to a wimp, he asked, ‘What’s that, C.C.?’ This one didn’t even bat an eyelash. Either he knew what C.C. was, or he was smart enough to pretend he knew. She liked smart men. She liked handsome men, too. Some men, you woke up the next morning, it wasn’t even worth the shower.

He signaled to the bartender, indicated another round, and then turned to her again, smiling. He had a nice smile. The jukebox was playing the new McCartney single. The rain beat against the plate glass windows of the bar. It felt cozy and warm and comfortably crowded in here, the hum of conversation, the tinkle of ice cubes in glasses, the music from the juke, the brittle laughter of Big City women like herself.

‘What sort of work do you do, Naomi?’ he asked.

‘I work for CBS,’ she said.

It usually impressed people when she said she worked for CBS. Actually what she did, she was a receptionist there, but still it was impressive., a network. Again nothing registered on his face. He was a very cool one, this one, well-dressed, handsome, a feeling of... absolute certainty about him. Well, he’d probably seen it all and done it all, this one. She found that exciting.

Well, maybe she was looking for a little excitement.

This morning, when she was dressing for work, she’d put on the lingerie she’d ordered from Victoria’s Secret. Blue, like the blouse. A demicup underwire bra designed for low necklines, a lace-front string bikini with a cotton panel at the crotch, a garter belt with V-shaped lace panels. Sat at the desk in the lobby with the sexy underwear under her skirt and blouse, thinking she’d hit one of the bars after work, find some excitement. ‘CBS, good morning.’ And under her clothes, secret lace.

‘Actually I’m just a receptionist there,’ she said, and wondered why she’d admitted this. ‘But I do get to meet a lot of performers and such. Who come up to do shows, you know.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he said.

‘It’s a fairly boring job,’ she said, and again wondered why she was telling him this.

‘Uh-huh,’ he said.

‘I plan to get into publishing eventually.’

‘I plan to get into you eventually,’ he said.

Normally she would have said, ‘Hey, get lost, creep, huh?’ But he was looking at her so intently, not a smile on his face, and he appeared so ... confident that for a moment she didn’t know what to say. She had the sudden feeling that if she told him to disappear, he might arrest her or something. For what, she couldn’t imagine. She also had the feeling that he knew exactly what she was wearing under her skirt and blouse. It was uncanny. As if he had X-ray vision, like Superman. She was nodding before she even realized it. She kept nodding. She hoped her face was saying, ‘Oh, yeah, wise guy?’ She didn’t know what her face was saying. She just kept nodding.

‘You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Walk into a bar, sit down next to a pretty girl...’

‘You are,’ he said.

‘Think all you have to do...’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Man of few words,’ she said. Her heart was pounding.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Mmm,’ she said, still nodding.

The record on the juke changed. Something by the Stones. There was a hush for a moment, one of those sudden silences, all conversation seeming to stop everywhere around them, as though E. F. Hutton were talking. And then a woman laughed someplace down the bar, and Mick Jagger’s voice cut through the renewed din, and Naomi idly twirled her finger in her drink, turning the ice cubes, turning them. She wondered if he liked sexy underwear. Most men liked sexy underwear. She visualized him tearing off her blouse and bra, getting on his knees before her to kiss her where the cotton panel covered her crotch, his big hands twisted in the garters against her thighs. She could feel the garters against her thighs.

‘So ... uh ... where do you live, Steve?’ she asked. ‘Near the precinct?’

‘It doesn’t matter where I live,’ he said. ‘We’re going to your place.’

‘Oh, are we?’ she said, and arched one eyebrow. She was jiggling her foot, she realized. She sipped at the drink, this time looking into the glass and not over the rim of it.

‘Naomi,’ he said, ‘we are...’

‘Bet you can’t even spell it,’ she said. ‘Naomi.’

Her magazines had said it was a good idea to get a man to spell your name out loud. That way, he would remember it. But it was as if he hadn’t even heard her, as if her statement had been too ridiculous to dignify with a reply.

‘We are’ he repeated, giving the word emphasis because she’d interrupted him, ‘going to your apartment, wherever it is, and we are going to spend the weekend there.’

‘That’s what ... what you think,’ she said.

She was suddenly aware of the fact that her panties were damp.

‘How do you know I’m not married?’ she said.

‘Are you?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘How do you know I’m not living with someone?’

‘Are you?’

‘No, but...’

‘Finish your drink, Naomi.’

‘Listen, I don’t like men who come on so strong, I mean it.’

‘Don’t you?’ he said. He was smiling.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘You do,’ he said.

‘Do all detectives come on so strong?’ she said.

‘I don’t know what all detectives do,’ he said.

‘‘Cause, you know, you really are coming on very strong, Steve. I don’t usually like that, you know. A man coming on so strong.’

‘I’m giving you sixty seconds to finish that drink,’ he said.

God, I’m soaking wet, she thought, and wondered if she’d suddenly got her period.

‘Are you married?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said, and pushed back the cuff of his jacket. He was wearing a gold Rolex. She wondered briefly how come a detective could afford a gold Rolex.

‘Sixty seconds,’ he said. ‘Starting now.’

‘What if I don’t finish it in sixty seconds?’

‘You lose,’ he said simply.

She did not pick up her glass.

‘Fifty-five seconds,’ he said.

She looked into his face and then reached for her glass. ‘I’m drinking this because I want to,’ she said. ‘Not because you’re looking at your watch.’

‘Fifty seconds,’ he said.

Deliberately, she sipped at the drink very slowly, and then suddenly wondered if she could really finish the damn thing in whatever time was left. She also wondered if she’d made the bed this morning.

‘Forty seconds,’ he said.

‘You’re really something, you know that?’ she said, and took a longer swallow this time.

‘In exactly thirty-eight seconds ...’ he said.

‘Do you carry a gun?’ she asked.

‘Thirty-five seconds now...’

“Cause I’m a little afraid of guns.’

‘Thirty seconds...’

‘What is this, a countdown?’ she asked, but she took another hasty swallow of the drink.

‘Twenty-six seconds...’

‘You’re making me very nervous, you know that?’ she said.

‘Twenty seconds...’

‘Forcing me to...’

‘Fifteen...’

‘Slow down, will... ?’

‘In exactly twelve seconds...’

‘I’m gonna choke on this,’ she said.

‘Ten seconds...’

‘Jesus!’

‘You and I ... eight seconds ... are going to ... five seconds ... walk out of here ... two seconds...’

‘All right, already!’ she said and plunked the empty glass down on the bartop.

Their eyes met.

‘Good,’ he said, and smiled.

* * * *

She had found the ribbons for him in her sewing box. He had asked her for the ribbons. By then she would have given him the moon. Silk ribbons. A red one on her right wrist. A blue one on her left wrist. Pink ribbons on her ankles. She was spread-eagled on her king-size bed, her wrists and ankles tied to the bars of the brass headboard and footboard. She was still wearing the smoky blue nylons, the high-heeled, ankle-strapped shoes, and the garter belt. He had taken off her panties and her bra. She lay there open and exposed, waiting for whatever he chose to do next, wanting whatever he chose to do next.

He had put his shoulder holster and gun on the seat of the armchair across the room. That was when he was undressing. Jokingly she had said, ‘let me see your badge,’ which is what anybody in this city said when somebody knocked on your door in the middle of the night and claimed to be a cop. He had looked at her without a smile. ‘Here’s my badge, baby,’ he’d said, and unzipped his fly. She knew she was in trouble right that minute. She just didn’t know how much trouble. She had looked down at him and said, ‘Oh, boy, I’m in trouble,’ and had giggled nervously, like a schoolgirl, and suddenly she was in his arms, and his lips were on hers, and she was lost, she knew she was lost.

That had been four hours ago, before he’d tied her to the bed.

The clock on the dresser now read ten o’clock.

He had insisted that they leave the shades on the windows up, even though she protested that people in the building across the way might see them. There were lights on in the building across the way. Above the building the night was black. She wondered if anyone across the way could see her tied to the bed with silk ribbons. She was oozing below again, dizzy with wanting him again. She visualized someone across the way looking at her. Somehow it made her even more excited.

She watched him as he went to the armchair, picked up the holster, and took the pistol from it. Broad, tanned shoulders, a narrow waist, her fingernail marks still on his ass from where she’d clawed at him. She’d described herself to him, back there in the bar, as half-wildcat, but that was something she’d never believed of herself, even after she’d learned all about multiple orgasms. Tonight ... Jesus! Afloat on her own ocean. Still wet with his juices and her own, still wanting more.

He approached the bed with the gun in his hand.

‘Is there a burglar in the house?’ she asked, smiling.

He did not smile back.

‘A lesson,’ he said.

‘Is that loaded?’ she said. She was looking at his cock, not the gun, though in truth the gun did frighten her. She had never liked guns. But she was still smiling, seductively she thought. She writhed on the bed, twisting against the tight silken ribbons.

‘Empty,’ he said, and snapped open the cylinder to show her. ‘A Colt Detective Special,’ he said. ‘Snub-nosed.’

‘Like me,’ she said. ‘Do you like my nose?’

‘Are you ready for the lesson?’ he asked.

‘Oh my,’ she said, opening her eyes and her bound hands in mock fright. ‘Another lesson?’ The gun was empty, she wasn’t afraid of it now. And she was ready to play any game he invented.

‘If you’re ready for one,’ he said.

‘I’m ready for anything you’ve got,’ she said.

‘A lesson in combinations and permutations,’ he said, and suddenly opened his left hand. A bullet was in it. ‘Voila,’ he said. ‘Six empty chambers in the...’

‘There’s an empty chamber right here,’ she said.

‘... cylinder of the pistol.’

‘Come fill it,’ she said.

‘And one bullet in my left hand.’

He showed her the bullet.

‘I insert, this into the cylinder...’

Insert something in me, will you, please?’

“... and we now have one full chamber and five empty ones. Question: what are the odds against the shell being in firing position when I stop twirling the cylinder?’ He started twirling the cylinder, slowly, idly. ‘Any idea?’ he said.

‘Five to one,’ she said. ‘Come fuck me.’

‘Five to one, correct,’ he said, and sat on the edge of the bed, resting the barrel of the gun against the inside of her thigh.

‘Careful with that,’ she said.

He smiled. His finger was inside the trigger guard.

‘Really,’ she said. ‘There’s a bullet in it now.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘So ... you know ... move it away from there, okay?’ She twisted on the bed. The cold barrel of the gun touched her thigh again. ‘Come on, Steve.’

‘We’re going to play a little Russian roulette,’ he said, smiling.

‘Like hell we are,’ she said.

But she was tied to the bed.

He rose suddenly. Standing beside the bed, looking down at her, he began twirling the cylinder. He kept twirling it. Twirling it. Smiling.

‘Come on, Steve,’ she said, ‘you’re scaring me.’

‘Nothing to be scared of,’ he said. ‘The odds are five to one.’

He stopped twirling the cylinder.

He sat on the edge of the bed again.

He looked at her.

He looked at the gun.

And then, gently, he placed the barrel of the gun into the hollow of her throat.

She recoiled, terrified, twisting her head. The metal was cold against her flesh.

‘Hey, listen,’ she said, and he pulled the trigger.

The silence was deafening.

She lay there sweating, breathing harshly, certain he would pull the trigger yet another time. The odds were five to one. How many times could he...?

‘It’s made of wood,’ he said. ‘The bullet in the gun. You weren’t in any danger.’

He moved the barrel of the gun away from her throat.

She heaved a sigh of relief.

And realized how wet she was.

And looked at him.

His erection was enormous.

‘You ... shouldn’t have scared me that way,’ she said.

She was throbbing everywhere.

‘I can do whatever I want with you,’ he said.

‘No, you can’t.’

‘I own you,’ he said.

‘No, you don’t,’ she whispered.

But she struggled against the restraining ribbons to open wider for him as he mounted her again.

They did not budge from that apartment all weekend.

She did not know what was happening to her; nothing like this had ever happened to her in her life.

He left early Monday morning, promising to call her soon.

As soon as he was gone, she dressed as he had ordered her to.

Sitting behind the reception desk at CBS later that morning, she wore no panties under her skirt and no bra under her blouse.

‘CBS, good morning,’ she said into the phone.

And ached for him.

* * * *