The seventh commandment

Chapter 29

He said his name was Ramon Schnabl, and no one questioned it or even considered inquiring about his antecedents. He was a serious man, and the few people who had heard him laugh wished they hadn't. He was reputed to be enormously wealthy which, considering the nature of his business, was likely.

He was an extremely short, slender man whose suits were tailored in Rome and his shoes, with an invisible build-up, were the creation of a London cobbler. Everything he wore seemed tiny, tight, and shiny, and it was said that the toilet seats in his Central Park South apartment were custom-made as he might fall through a conventional design.

He was not an albino, exactly, for his eyes were dark and there was a faint flush to his thin cheeks. But he was undeniably pale, hair silver-white, skin milky, and even his knuckles translucent. He favored platinum jewelry and double-breasted white suits that accented his pallidness. He also wore, indoors and out, deeply tinted glasses as if he could not endure bright light or garish colors.

Turner Pierce thought him a dangerous man, quite possibly psychotic. But Helene thought him a fascinating character. What attracted her, she said, was the contradiction between his diminutive size and the menace he projected. Ramon never threatened, but associates were always aware that the power to hurt was there.

His apartment was as colorless as the man himself. The living room had blank white walls, a floor of black and white tiles set in a checkerboard pattern, black leather furniture with stainless steel frames. Over the cold white marble fireplace was the room's sole decorative touch: the bleached skull of an oryx.

Ramon and Turner sat facing each other in matching clunky armchairs. The host had provided glasses of chilled Evian water. He was both a teetotaler and rigidly anti-smoking. At the moment, his guest was wishing fervently for a cigarette and tumbler of iced Absolut.

"Matters are progressing well," Schnabl said in his dry, uninflected voice. "You agree, my friend?"

"Oh yes," Pierce said. "No problems."

"None?" the other man said. "Then tell me why you appear so troubled."

"Do I?" Turner said, wishing he could peer behind the dark glasses and see the eyes that saw so much. He tried a laugh. "Well, you know they say a man has only two troubles in this world: money and women."

"And which is yours?"

"Not money," Pierce said hastily. "No trouble there at all. I have a personal problem with a woman."

"Oh?" Schnabl said. "Surely not Helene, that dear lady?"

Turner shook his head.

"Then it must be Felicia Starrett, Clayton's sister."

Turner nodded, not questioning how Ramon knew. This little man knew everything. "Not a serious problem," he assured Ramon. "But she is inclined to be very emotional, very unpredictable."

"A bad combination, my friend. Vindictive?"

"I'm afraid the possibility is there."

"I thought she was dependent on you for her supply."

"She is," Turner said, "but it isn't working out quite as I had planned. She still wants more."

"More?"

"Me," Pierce said, realizing he was giving up an edge but not seeing any alternative.

"I understand, my friend," Ramon said, totally without sympathy. "You have a management problem."

"Yes," Turner said, "something like that."

"Perhaps stronger medicine is called for."

Pierce looked at him, puzzled. "Such as?"

Ramon regarded him gravely for a moment. Then: "I am introducing a new product line. Large crystals of metham-phetamine that can be smoked. On the street it is called 'ice.' I believe it may be the preferred recreation of the 1990s; other products will become declasse. The great benefit of ice is that it produces euphoria that lasts twenty-four hours. It might prove to be the answer to your management problem."

"Thank you," Turner Pierce said humbly.

He met Felicia that night. They dined at Vito's, and he smiled at her blather, laughed at her jokes, and held hands when they strolled back to his apartment. A tumescent moon drifted in a cloudless sky, and the whole night seemed swollen with promise: something impending on the wind, something lurking in the blue shadows, ready to pounce, smirking.

"What a hoot," she chattered on. "Clay divorces Eleanor and marries Helene. And you and I tie the knot. One big, happy family! Right, Turner? Am I right?"

"You're right," he said. "We'll be the fearless foursome."

"Love it," she said, squeezing his hand. "The fearless foursome-that's us. We might even have a pas de quatre some night if we all get high enough. Would you go for that?"

"Why not," he said.

She wouldn't even let him pour brandies, but began removing her clothes the moment she was inside the door. But he was deliberately slow, something spiteful in his teasing. He did enjoy her need and his power, meaning to punish for all the trouble she was causing him. But his cruelties only aroused her the more, and she welcomed the pain as evidence of his passion. This woman, he decided, was demented and so trebly dangerous.

Later, he left her on the bed and went into the kitchen for his cognac. He returned to the bedroom carrying the brandy, a glass pipe, a small packet of crystal chunks. She looked at him with dimmed eyes, then struggled upright.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Something new for you," he said. "It's called ice. The latest thing. You smoke it."

"You, too?"

He held up the brandy. "This is my out," he said. "The pipe is yours."

She inspected the crystals. "Ice," she said. "Like diamonds."

"Exactly like diamonds," he told her. "It's the in thing. Everything else is declasse."

That's all she had to hear, being a victim of trendiness, and she packed the pipe with trembling fingers, clutching it tightly while he held a match. She took a deep puff and inhaled deeply with closed eyes.

The rush hit her almost immediately. Her eyes popped open, widened, and she sucked greedily at the pipe.

"Good?" he asked her.

She looked at him with a foolish smile and leaned back against the headboard. She continued to fellate the pipe but slowly now, sipping lazily.

He put a palm to her naked shank and was shocked at how fevered her flesh had become. She was burning up.

The crystals were consumed. Turner took the glass pipe from Felicia's limp fingers and set it aside.

Suddenly she began to laugh, convulsed with merriment. Energized, she rose swiftly from the bed, stood swaying a moment, still heaving with laughter. She rushed into the living room, staggering, banging off the walls, and returned just as quickly, before he could move.

"How do you feel?" he asked curiously.

She looked at him, laughter stopped. She pulled him onto the bed with a strength he could not resist.

"I am the world," she proclaimed.

"Of course you are," he agreed.

"The stars," she said. "Planets. Universe. Everything and all."

"And all," he repeated.

She flopped around and crammed his bare toes into her mouth. He pulled away, and again he felt her incredible heat and saw how flushed her face had become. He put a hand to her breast, and the heavy, tumultuous heartbeat alarmed him.

"Are you all right, Felicia?"

She began to gabble incoherently: unfinished sentences, bits of song, names he didn't recognize, raw obscenities. The jabber ceased as abruptly as it had started. He left her like that and went into the kitchen for another brandy.

She was still at it when he returned to the bedroom. But now her face was contorted, ugly, and she was panting. He sat on the edge of the bed and observed her dispassionately, noting the twitching legs, toes curled. She seemed to be winding tighter and tighter, her entire body caught up in a paroxysm.

Suddenly she shouted, so loudly that he was startled and slopped his brandy. Her body went slack and her eyes slowly opened. She stared at him blankly, not seeing him, and he wondered where she was.

"Felicia," he said, "I'm Turner."

"Turner," she repeated, and soft understanding came back into her eyes.

"You're in my apartment," he told her.

She looked at him with love. "Do you want to kill me?" she asked. "You may, if you like."