Robinson, Spider - Callahan 04 - Callhan' s Lady

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BOOK 1 - A VERY VERY VERY FINE HOUSE

CHAPTER 1 THE LADY

It's a good idea to stake out a spot near an alley, if you can manage it without a fight.

Occasionally you get a john who's in a big hurry, or who enjoys the thought of making out in

almost-public. Either kind can be dealt with in a quarter of the usual time, with minimal effort,

and neither kind is liable to insist on a discount. Besides, if you think about it, they are

getting a discount since they don't have to pay for a room.

You have to look them over carefully before going up that alley with them. Even the

cheapest, sleaziest hotel room has an inhibiting effect on a rapist or mugger or nutcase. Whereas

an alley is a place from which he can escape in two directions in a hurry.

But it had been my experience that, while perhaps a quarter of all johns were weird in one

way or another, less than one in a hundred was dangerously weird. And I had never met one of those

that I couldn't cope with. I used to quote those statistics about how the vast majority of murder

and rape victims were assaulted by someone they knew. So when I hit the set that night, the first

thing I did was to grab a spot near a good alley. One with no overlooking windows or fire escapes,

or intrusive lights. I got there just ahead of Suzy Q, and he glared at me, but surrendered the

spot. (Suzy was a pre-op transsexual, who billed himself as the One-Stop-Shop, and he and I had an

understanding. He didn't mess with me, and I let him stay a pre-op transsexual.)

The moon was just coming up over the pool hail across the Street when a well-dressed

straight couple walked past me: a short, sad-looking man and somebody's maiden auntie, talking in

low voices.

I only noticed them because of the glance the auntie gave me. Lots of well-dressed aunties

looked at me with a mixture of pity and condescension and revulsion. This one's eyes held only

pity. Somehow that was even more irritating.

So I half watched them as they walked by me and neared the mouth of the alley. I noticed

vaguely that he had awfully big ears, and that she had a pretty fair little shape for an auntie.

And then his worried-sounding murmur rose in volume, so that I caught the last two words: "-right

now!" He thrust something into her hands, and she took it at once, began doing something to his

neck with it. The gestures she made were oddly familiar, but I couldn't place them. She stood

back, and I got it. He now wore a dog collar around his neck, and the end of the leash was in her

hand.

And they ducked into the alley.

I broke up. They were just the most unlikely couple I could imagine to grab an alley

quickie-much less to be into B&D.

I stopped laughing almost at once. When I was her age, came the thought, I'd probably have

to take the weird johns too.

Or maybe their relationship was personal rather than professional. In any case, they were

consummating it in my goddamn alley. I followed them into the alley on cat feet.

A shaft of moonlight on the alley wall provided dim illumination. I saw them about twenty

yards away, their backs to me. I moved so that I was no longer silhouetted against the mouth of

the alley for them, and settled into voyeur mode.

The show was already in progress: he was removing his clothes with considerable haste. All

of them, which I thought strange and rather rash considering the exposed location. As he removed

each garment he handed it to the auntie. In a surprisingly short time he was stark naked. Not even

socks; not a wristwatch or a ring. Just that collar. He looked. . . like they all look.

"You'll forgive me if I don't watch," I heard her say, and she turned away from him. She

was British, and unquestionably she was someone's maiden aunt. I had heard that some Brits were

into this sort of thing. The question was, did I let them proceed with whatever the hell it was

they were -doing, or chase them off my turf?

While I was deciding, he changed.

I don't scream, okay? I never have, not once in my life. Oh, I've yelled at the top of my

voice a few times, hollered "Ouch!" or "Stop!" or "You bastard!" or whatever. But that cliché of a

thousand suspense films, the unspellable, unpronounceable, generic falsetto female scream, is just

not natural to me. Believe me, the life I've had, if it was going to happen it would have by now.

I didn't scream this time, as he changed. But I tried.

If you go to the movies much, you've probably seen a physical transformation very like it.

That was my first thought: state of the art special effects. Skin stretched or shrank, changed

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color, changed texture, sprouted hair. Bones shifted, melted, extruded. The overall effect was a

shrinking, a compacting. There was a constant muffled sound, like someone tearing up a whole

chicken wrapped in a towel. I remembered that the moon was full tonight.

Maureen, I thought, you are watching a werewolf change shape in an alley in Brooklyn,

while his auntie discreetly turns her back.

Of course I was wrong. Even in the lousy light, I could see the moment the transformation

was finished that he was not a werewolf. If he had been, I think I would have refused to believe

my eyes. But what they told me was so silly I simply could not disbelieve it.

He was a werebeagle.

If the gods had allowed me to summon anyone I chose to assist me in that-moment well, he would

have been somewhere above fifth on the list. It was Big Travis, my pimp.

"Hey, Baby Love," he said lazily.

I had always hated that stupid name: now it sounded sweet in my ears. Bad weirdness was

behind me, but my protector was here. "Travis! Jesus, I'm glad you came along-you won't believe

what I just saw-"

"You won't believe what I just heard."

"-later, honey; first come see this, honest to God you'll-"

I was shocked when he hit me.

There was no mistaking that shape, those ears. I had been in love with a beagle from ages

five to seven, and had never really gotten over his loss. I recognized the new smell which was

making the alley even riper than it had been a moment ago Well, of course I thought dizzily, It

stood to reason that a beagle's bowels must be smaller.

Perhaps that small, homely detail made it plausible to me. They'd certainly never

mentioned such a side effect of lycanthropy in any of the movies, and I knew I would never have

thought of it myself-but it made sense. I didn't stop to work this out consciously at the time; I

simply believed what I was seeing.

And did what seemed an intelligent thing: I turned very quietly on my heels and began

tiptoeing out of there. This wasn't my alley (although I had thought so until twenty seconds

earlier); if people wanted to walk their werebeagles here it was none of my affair.

How could I have guessed that I was walking in the wrong direction?

I'd have sworn my heart was already beating at maximum speed, but it revved up sharply as

a large male figure appeared just before me in the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against the

lesser darkness of the street. Then I recognized him, and felt a wave of relief. All right, I

thought.

I had actually thought I could control Big Travis-that I was controlling him. It was a

powerful and necessary illusion for a girl in my position, I guess. I took a great deal of secret

pride in being able to control so strong and wild an animal. Perhaps Travis was aware of the

illusion, and had allowed it to persist as his means of controlling me. If so, the illusion

backfired on us both, for it had given me the idea that I could get away with skimming from him.

It kept me from noticing a smouldering glow in his eyes that night, and it persisted right up to

the moment his big hand smashed into my left side, just below the ribs, and its loss caused me

several kinds of pain.

Least of which-at first-was the physical pain. Travis had hit me much harder than that-

once, back when we'd been defining our relationship. I was convinced that I had allowed him to do

so then, deliberately given him the illusion that he was the one in control, as a means of-

establishing my control over him.

But this was different. The last time had been the kind of male violence I was familiar

with: he'd picked a quarrel, spent a few minutes yelling and working himself up to it, built his

anger to the proper dramatic peak, and let fly. I had had plenty of time to decide how I wanted to

react. This sudden explosion of cold violence was shocking, dismaying, disappointing. . . and

above all infuriating. I might have accepted a slap in the face; but an unexpected punch in the

side seemed. . . disdainful, rude.

"You son of a bitch," I gasped, backing away against the wall. I wanted to rub where it

hurt, but I was so mad I wouldn't. "What the hell was-"

"You been holdin' out on me, girl," he said. His voice unnerved me as much as the punch

had. Travis knew.

I felt faintly dizzy-I tried anyway. "Bullshit! You know how many guys I do a night, you

know what I charge, you get a dollar for ever dollar I make, even the tips." Believe it or not,

most street girls give all their earnings to their man, in exchange for room, board, protection,

and all the luxuries they can wheedle. Since I'd learned where Big Travis hid his cash (pimps

don't use banks), I didn't mind that so much-my money was mine on twenty-four hours' notice,

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anytime I decided to leave-but a girl likes some folding green in her pocket, so-

"Been talkin' to your johns. You raised your prices. And still gettin' tips on top of

that."

Shit. "Then I must be worth it! If I can get more than the going rate out of those bozos,

it's my business."

He shook his head. "No. It's my business. And I'm teachin' you what happens when you screw

around with my business." He shook his head again and stared closer. "Bitch, what you smilin'

for?"

"Because I know something you don't know."

"What that be?"

I felt very tired all of a sudden. "I grew up on Army bases. My father started me on hand

to hand combat when I was six. I took a punch from you once because I figured that a bodyguard is

more use with his precious male ego intact. But I would say that this relationship has come to an

end. You take all my money, and then the first time I actually need you, you punch me. I know half

a dozen guys I can replace you with, Travis. Thanks for everything, and you were a fair lay, but I

am now going to beat the living shit out of you." I squinted through the darkness. "What are you

grinning for?"

He laughed aloud. " 'Cause I know somethin' you don't know."

"What's-that?'

"Look down."

I shook my head. "Nice try, Travis."

He was nearly hysterical now. "No, no," he said, backing away. "I'll stand right here.

Just take a peek."

I glanced down and back up before he could have moved. Nothing there. I took two steps

forward to attack him before it registered.

If I hadn't been wearing a white blouse I'd have missed it altogether in the dim light. A

large spreading dark stain.

Suddenly the pain in my side went from dull ache to lancing agony, and I was so scared I

seemed to become hollow. He was still laughing at me, rocking slightly back and forth.

"Oh yeah? Well I can handle a knife, jerk, that's first year stuff, what do you think of

that?" I screamed-and fell hard onto my knees.

His laughter tapered off. "I think you in your LAST year," he murmured, and moved toward

me.

I saw his knife now. The blade was long and wet, and I knew I'd taken it all; I was cut

bad. Most murder victims, I remembered thinking, are killed by someone they know...

I swayed on my knees. My arms were too heavy to lift. So were my eyes. I have seen a man

turn into a beagle, I thought, and now I am going to die, and my last sight on earth will be Big

Travis' crotch there, coming closer to my face: No fair. I wasn't ready. Start again-

"Told you once before, be no second chances, sweet thing. Whore cross me once, she'll do

it again, an' I can't be bothered spendin' energy keepin' you scared." He took me by the hair,

yanked my head back so that I was looking up at him, throat exposed. I was grateful, thinking that

I preferred to die seeing his face. Then I saw his face. "My other bitches already scared good-but

when they read tomorrow in the News what Baby Love looked like when she was found, they gon' get

industrious. I don't plan to let you die fo' 'nother hour or so . . . so the first thing we got to

take is your voice."

"You must stop this at o~1ce. At once, do you hear?" someone's British maiden aunt said.

I was not scared. I bad passed way beyond scared, seconds ago. I -knew-scared would return

as soon as I felt the knife again, but now I was conscious only of a vast sadness, sadness and the

bitter taste of defeat. It seemed unfair, and anticlimactic, of the universe to torment me further

by -adding dollops of guilt and shame to my sorrow. I had been stupid: the message did not need

underlining.

So why did I also have, to bear the guilt for the death of an innocent bystander, somebody's

harmless, brainless auntie? Not to mention the beagle, which Travis was probably going to stomp to

death and sell to a Korean restaurant.

"GO 'way," I croaked. "It's a game we play-"

"That's right, Auntie." Travis said, grinning. "We playin' a game. Like foreplay, you dig?

Better beat it on home, we jus' gettin' to the good part." He unzipped his fly partway with his

knife hand, still holding me by the hair.

"If it is a game, dear boy, then I should very much like to play too, if I may. And in my

judgment it is your turn to be It."

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Big Travis frowned, confused. I closed my eyes and groaned, because I knew how he always

reacted to confusion. Sure enough, he let go of my hair, and as I slumped back onto my heels I

heard his snakeskin boots stride slowly away.

"Old woman," he said, "I think it be your turn to be shit-"

I knelt there marinating in sorrow for a thousand years. I could feel things rearranging

themselves inside me where he had stabbed me, cut edges rubbing past each other, but the pain

could not distract me from my sadness and guilt. Something exploded in my head, and I knew I had

to open my eyes and look at her, had to see her sweet, well intentioned, stupid face once, so that

I could take the sight of it to Hell with me. I deserved to; I had gotten her killed.

I turned my head in her direction with a massive effort and forced my eyes open.

There was something wrong with what I was seeing. The point of view was too high. I was on

my feet! How bad I gotten to my feet?

At once came the thought, Maureen, if you are strong enough to get up on your hind legs,

you are strong enough to turn around and run.

I calculated my chances of escape - at one in a hundred. But even that one chance made it

more imperative than ever that I see the old lady's face before she died. I focussed on it,

squinting because she was silhouetted against the mouth of the alley.

Then she took a step forward, toward Travis. She entered a zone of weak light reflected

from something shiny in the trash around us, and I saw her fairly clearly.

She could have been a duchess. Her bearing was as aristocratic as her accent. She was

smaller and slighter than me. She was dressed very expensively and very elegantly and very

tastefully. She carried no purse. I guessed her at an expensively preserved fifty. She carried

herself like someone used to respect. She looked like a nice old lady, and my heart sank.

She was still holding that leash in her hand. On the other end of it was the beagle. He

looked as sad as I felt.

Getting enough air to shout hurt dreadfully, but I did it anyway. "Lady, run!" I called.

"He's got a knife."

She stood her ground. "I know, dear. Don't be afraid."

Her voice was deep and throaty, and she sounded just slightly tipsy, as though she'd been

nipping at the port. A British Tallulah Bankhead.

"That dog come at me," Travis said, "an' I'll take it away from you, put it someplace

you might not like."

"Oh, I've always been one for a fair fight," she said cheerily, and let go of the leash.

"I'll take him alone, Charles," she told it. It looked up at her and panted mournfully.

Travis stood still for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Sure is a night for dumb

bitches," he said, and moved toward her. Then something happened and he fell down.

I was looking right at them and that is what I saw. Doubtless it surprised him even more than it

did me. It didn't seem to surprise the duchess at all I swear I never saw her move a muscle. He

got his hands under him, and then his feet, stayed in a crouch and felt his face. He glanced down

at his hand, flung something from it that made a splatting sound on trash cardboard. "Jesus

Christ," he said softly, "-you broke my damn nose!"

"It protrudes," she said. "Or did."

Travis's nose was inordinately important to him. I should know; I'd worked hard keeping it

fed. He made an animal sound.

She sighed. "I shall only give you one more lesson, dear boy," she said. "Then if you

absolutely insist I shall kill you."

He-sprang upward toward her, screamed, and did a back flip. At least it looked as if he

tried to. But although he tucked well, he just didn't rotate fast enough and landed hard on his

back. He stayed tucked. After a moment, he began making an odd, whistling-sound.

"I, for one, certainly hope we're done now." she said, and waited.

It took him long seconds to straighten out, and more to let go of his crotch and get his

breathing back to normal. He got to his feet slowly and with extreme care. He looked down stupidly

at the knife he still held in his hand. Then he looked back up to her. Travis's crotch was

inordinately important to him, too, and I had no idea what on earth was going on but I, for one,

was sure we were not done now. He began to growl- And she took a step toward him, eyes flashing,

and the growl turned into a yelp, and he fled.

He ran so fast that he lost his footing, fell headlong, did a tuck and roll and came up

running even faster; so fast that when he burst out of the alley he had to run a few thundering

steps along the side of a parked Buick to make his turn.

The duchess did not relax. She already was relaxed. She sniffed. "What an asshole," she

said delicately.

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The beagle, panting happily, seemed to nod.

I was still on my feet, but the alley wall was against my back now. I decided I was

hallucinating, that I must have gone mad, like people did in the movies. I thought of a movie they

showed us once in one of my dozens of schools, "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge." Was this my

dying fantasy? Was Big Travis even now slicing mc open, humming thoughtfully and artistically? I

did feel my feeble reserves of strength draining, and I did hear a humming sound.

I shoved myself away from the wall, tottered forward four steps on my stilts, stared at

the calm, unruffled auntie. She separated into two identical copies of herself, like an amoeba

reproducing. So did the beagle and everything else. I made an immense effort and resolved the

double vision.

"Thank you for not dying," I said. My voice sounded distant. "It was kind of-you."

Manners. Duchesses placed high value on manners. "But I'm afraid I have to now. Terribly sorry.

Will you excuse me-?"

Falling to my knees hurt worse the second time. The light at the end of the alley began

receding rapidly, taking the deadly duchess and her dog with it.

My last thought was that I'd have to hurry if I warned to get to Hell before the evening

rush-

But I woke in another place.

Or so it seemed when consciousness first returned. I was lying on my back on a very

comfortable bed, under soft warm covers. I had only the vaguest recollection of the fight,

something unimportant that had happened a long time ago. Nothing hurt, not even my side. I did not

try moving to see if that would make it hurt. I was too weak to- move.

Wherever I was, it was quiet and peaceful here. The room was not dark; a soft feeble light

source of some kind lay to my right. The air was full of pleasant girl-scents. This was not a

hospital room or an emergency ward or a police -station infirmary. And it certainly didn't seem to

be Hell.

With great effort I rolled my head to the right, toward the light, and became much less

certain.

My vision was watery at- first. But even in the first glance there was no mistaking what I

saw. A small naked man.

No, not naked, wearing some sort of odd leather harness, and slippers, and a short apron-

like affair tied around his waist that left his buttocks bare. His back was to me.

He seemed to be making an effort to move quietly. He was standing before a large beautiful old

dresser, and from its second drawer he was just removing a red satin corset, taking care not to

let it rustle.

Jesus God, I thought, while I was hallucinating killer aunties Big Travis killed me and

now he's rented me to a necrophiliac. A necrophiliac fetishist. Doesn't anybody just want to get

naked with a nice cool corpse and make love normally any more?

No, I decided, this will not do. I picked my johns while I was alive and I'll pick them

now, and this guy is entirely too scary! Even for a corpse. Oh God, I think I'm naked under this

blanket- I summoned up all the energy I had for a roof-raising shriek of terror and rage and

outrage. What came out was a squeak, such as you might hear from a sleeping baby mouse having a

bad dream, and almost at once I stopped being afraid. Because the squeak caused him to leap a few

inches in the air like a startled burglar, and when he spun around and gasped at me his face held

such a comic mixture of dismay and confusion and fear and anger with himself that if I'd had the

strength, I might have giggled. He looked so silly in that apron and straps. Jimmy Cricket in

bondage. Balding slightly, with the beginnings of a pot belly. He gestured vaguely with the red

corset and began speaking in a high rapid voice. "Oh God, I was sure I could do it without waking

you I'm so terribly sorry I'm such a fool oh I beg you please don't tell- Mistress Cynthia please

don't or she won't punish me tonight!" He waited expectantly. Garters dangled agitatedly from the

corset.

"Nng," I whispered.

He slapped himself in the face. "Oh, I'm such a fool please forgive me of course I'll go

at once pretend I was never here just go back to sleep I promise everything is all right you're in

good hands the best hands the very best hands and there's nothing to be afraid of Doctor Kate

fixed everything someone will be here soon to look after you if you want anything I'm really sorry

please don't tell Mistress Cynthia thank you!"

He sprang for a door I had not yet seen and was gone before I could say "Nng" again.

Then he sprang back into the room, scurried to the dresser, snatched up some nylons to go

with the corset and was gone again.

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It never occurred to me to doubt that he was real. I know the limitations of my

imagination. But those same limits left me unable to guess how I ought to react.

I decided I did not need to. I went to sleep. My first intelligent decision for a long

time.

I should have stuck with it. When I woke again I felt just awful, stiff and sore and

queasy and sour and sweaty. My mouth was dry and tasted foul. My cheek hurt. My knees ached. My

head throbbed. There was more light than last time, and it hurt my eyes even through the lids. But

the worst was my side. It felt as if someone had had carnal knowledge of the knife wound. That

much pain was scary.

I whimpered, and tried to curl up around my left side. Gentle firm hands touched my

shoulders, pressed me back. Woman hands. One of them brushed my hair back, stroked my forehead.

The hand was cool, its skin soft. The fingers wandered at first, then seemed to sense little

currents of pain beneath the skin and targeted them. I gave up the struggle to remain tense, let

myself go as limp as the pain in my side would let me.. I kept my eyes closed, because as long as

I didn't open them, nobody could scare me or make me think or ask me questions. Not even me.

Blindness wasn't a lot of comfort, but it was all I had.

When people rub your head for you they never quite get the right spots. She never missed.

Her fingers traced veins of suffering, soothed knots of muscle, stimulated circulation, adjusted

their pressure and direction with uncanny precision. As my headache washed away, the pain in my

side began to diminish slightly. Which made the fear begin to ease, which caused the faint nausea

to wane, which helped the headache.

"That's better," she said. "Everything's going to be all right.'

Her voice was as gentle and firm as her hands. I remembered it very well. Those

compassionate fingers trolling for pain across my forehead were the ones that had wiped up the

alley with Big Travis.

I opened one eye part way. The duchess, all right, resplendent now in evening dress. The

sad-faced man with the big ears, the one who turned into a beagle when the moon came out, stood

silently behind her. No sign of the little man in the apron. Her eyes were kind. She smiled

faintly.

"Sleep some more," she suggested,

Splendid idea.

The third time I awoke I did not feel as good as the first time or as bad as the second

time. My side hurt as much, and there were aches at my knees and the right side of my face, but I

felt stronger. I was alert, and terribly thirsty.

"Water," I croaked.

The light was dim again. Someone got up from a chair in response to my plea, but from the

sound and silhouette I. could tell it was not the duchess, nor the sad-faced man, nor the cricket

in the apron. Someone bigger, heavier than any of them. Another woman, in a robe. She crossed the

room, then came back again, stood just outside my peripheral vision.

My head was lifted from a pillow. Wetness occurred at my lips. I drank eagerly.

"Easy now," she said. "Not too fast." Her voice was deep and slightly husky

Finally I lay back and sighed. "Where am I?"

"That'll have to wait," she said. "I've got more important questions.'

"What could be more important than 'where am I?'?"

'~Your answers will tell me how much painkiller I can give you.'

"Go!'

"I need to know what drugs you've taken in the last forty-eight hours-scrip, street or

even booze. Also, what do you take regularly, and when did you last eat?"

"I don't do drugs." -

She said nothing at all. -

"Oh, coffee and cigarettes, and some juice with the johns when I'm working, half a pint of

tequila, maybe that much vodka. But not, you know, drugs. Are you some kind of cop or what?"

She sighed. "In the absence of reliable data, I must reduce your dosage to zero, to be safe." She

made as if to get up.

"All right! Forty-eight hours? Five or six joints She waited. "... and three or four

lines. No, all right, let me count them up ... eight total, no more, really. Terrible shit; they

couldn't get Third World mothers to feed it to their babies any more so they sold it to Big

Travis. So hardly any actual coke, but a lot of that other kind of 'caine that makes your nose

numb. Oh, and one of the johns, I think his pot was dusted, but I didn't have much of it." She

still waited. "And half a 'lude with a little wine to get to sleep last night."

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"But no drugs."

"I don't have anything to do with needles!" I snapped, and regretted it. Just talking hurt

my side plenty. Emphasis was too costly.

"I know; I looked for tracks. Even the sneaky places. Speed?"

"Not for months. I stopped doing it. I never did really like it."

She put her face in front of mine, close. I saw only the eyes. "Snort smack?"

"Never."

"Your pimp made you stop. Her eyes were huge. "What have you, been reading my mail? I just

let him think that! I'd already decided it was dumb."

"And when did you eat?"

"Pizza for breakfast at ten, a bowl of chili after the lunchtime rush, six hours later I

got stabbed, when the hell do I gee the god damned painkiller?"

Her face backed away. "I'm sorry. Right now." She took a black doctor-type bag from the

floor beside the bed, got out a hypo and a small stoppered vial, busied herself loading the

needle.

"That doesn't look like much," I complained. "What are you giving me?"

"Well," she said, squinting judiciously at the needle as she purged it of air, "with your

history I figure you've built up a heavy tolerance, so it's safe to smack you pretty hard. I

wouldn't give this stuff to a civilian. You'll like it." She circled my arm with her big hand,

squeezed until a vein came up.

"A-a-l-l right!" I said feebly, looking away. I hate needles. "Thanks. What is it?"

She slid the point home, thumbed the plunger slowly and steadily. "Fifty milligrams of

laboratory-pure Placebo in a potassium chlonde/dihydroxide solution." She took out the spike and

rubbed the spot with a piece of cotton.

"Wow. Sounds good." The name rang a bell. "Isn't Placebo the Russian word for 'thank

you'?" My father spoke Russian.

She coughed loudly into her hand, and bent to put away her gear. "Yeah, it's Russian-made.

Experimental. It'll come on like gangbusters in about four heartbeats."

"I can feel it." The pain, and the body in which it resided, moved about two feet to the

left of me and stayed there. I could see it pulsing vaguely in the gloom out of the corner of my

eye. "Thanks a lot. What's your name?"

"Mary."

"Hi Mary, I'm Maureen." I realized I'd given her my real name, and wondered why.

"Hello, Maureen."

She sat at my bedside while I enjoyed the feeling of being distant from the pain. I noticed

vaguely that she was holding my hand, though I could not feel it.

"I had morphine once," I said after a while, "in a hospital, and this is better, you know?"

"Yes. It is."

I rolled my head over and looked at her, focusing with some difficulty. She must have been close

to two hundred pounds and she did not look at all like a jolly fat lady, but I got the idea she

could be merry when it suited her. "Hey, Mary, where the hell am I, anyway?"

"Lady Sally's house."

"Is that the duchess?"

"Huh?"

"The killer auntie."

"Oh. I think so, yes. Her Ladyship brought you here."

"That's the one. She's got one wild maid, I'll tell you."

"More than one."

"The one I mean was half bald, with his tush sticking Out of a cute little apron."

She laughed. She tried to keep it down to sickroom volume, but it was a pretty substantial laugh.

"That's Robin. He belongs to Cynthia, not Lady Sally. Don't worry, he's harmless."

"Tell me about it! The shape I'm in, I chased him out with his tongue between his legs. I mean his

tail between his teeth. Boy, this Russian shit is terrific. I always knew rich people had secret

dope that was dynamite. You a doctor or a nurse?"

"Neither."

"Somebody fixed me up pretty good. This Lady Sally actually got a doctor to make a house call?"

"Kate's on staff. She said it was nice to do some real medicine again, sew something besides

costumes for a change. You'll meet her later."

"Fine by me." Everything was fine by me. I made a mental note to tell Travis about this Placebo

stuff. Then I remembered that Travis had gone away somewhere and wouldn't be back for a long time.

Then I remembered that I didn't like him anymore anyway, for some reason. Then I discovered that

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while I'd been pursuing this train of thought, I'd mislaid the room in which I'd left my body and

its pain. It was around here someplace. I went looking for it, and got distracted by other moms,

with funny things in them. Daddy was in some of them, and Mommy wasn't in any of them. It was fun.

CHAPTER 2 THE HOUSE

When I'd got back to the room I'd started from, sunlight was streaming in the window. Lady

Sally was there, in a feathered wrapper, with her hair in curlers and her face scrubbed of all

traces of makeup. She still looked regal. Since Daddy was with her, I knew I was still dreaming.

He was in bathrobe and slippers, chewing on his pipe. I waved, ignoring the tugging sensation at

my side. "Hi, Daddy." I was so glad he had remarried again. And to a duchess!

"Good morning," he said.

His voice was all wrong. I tried to get up on one elbow to look closer, and my side

shouted at me. I wasn't dreaming after all. This hurt too much not to be real. I was awake now.

He was not my father, of course. Now that I looked, he didn't even resemble him a great

deal. What he looked like was the Hollywood stereotype of the Kindly Older Man, the avuncular

figure who would need only five or ten years to become the Lovable Grandfather. I must have

frowned at him.

"Good morning, Maureen," Lady Sally said. "This is my very dear friend Phillip. He will

not bite you, unless you specifically request it." She still sounded just the least bit tipsy, in

that cheery-glow phase.

He kept . . . not staring. Just looking at me pleasantly. Enjoying my company, in no hurry

to get the conversation rolling. His grey eyes twinkled. If you had a bad acid trip in Grand

Central Station you would thread your way through all the leering gibbering zombies until you

found this man, and then you would be all right.

"Sorry," I said. "I was dreaming; thought you were someone I knew. Hello, Phillip. Good

morning, Lady Sally. Where's the werebeagle?"

She looked politely puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"

"The one you went up that alley with. I saw him change."

"Ah." She took a closer look at me. "Charles is not here at present. He's gone home. You .

. . er. . . did not find his metamorphosis upsetting?'

"To be perfectly honest, I found it terrifying. But friend of yours is a friend of mine."

"Broad-minded of you, child. Good for you."

I realized for the first time that her British accent was bogus, an affectation. She did

it well, but if you listened long enough, you could tell. "Thank you for saving my life."

"Think nothing of it, my dear girl. One cannot of course spend one's life hunting pimps;

the supply is inexhaustible; but if Fate offers me a chance to assault one without going out of my

way, I can only be grateful." We were going to drop the subject of Charles.

I sighed. "Well, I can't say I'll miss Travis, but he did have his uses.

"A tiger in the kitchen will keep the cockroaches away," Philip said. His voice was soft

and deep and furry.

Oh yeah? I wanted to say. I 'ye got that tiger trained as docile as a pussy cat-but

apparently that was not correct.

In truth, I was shocked at the extent of my misjudgment. It was more than the

disappointment felt by an owner whose pet tiger has gone savage and had to be destroyed. Damn it,

I had liked Big Travis. I had, in a way, cared about him. I had thought that beneath his necessary

macho armor he cared about me. I was his special girl. The one he almost didn't want to make whore

for him. All the while, deep down, he had thought me such a trivial possession that it had been

simpler to kill me than to bother disciplining me. The knowledge put a deeper, sharper hole into

me than the knife had.

"I'm in a lot of pain," I said. "I need another shot."

"Shot?" Lady Sally said.

"That stuff Mary gave me, Placebo."

She blinked. "I'm not sure I approve of her giving you that. Oh well, the damage is done.

Let me summon your physician. Phillip?"

He rose, went to a phone on the dresser, punched a three-digit number and asked for Doctor

Kate to be sent to Mary's room. I gritted my teeth for a wait. Doctors never come promptly.

She arrived almost at once, carrying a black bag. Reading from the top, she wore a

doctor's reflector headband, square severe glasses, unbuttoned white doctor's jacket, stethoscope,

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white lace garter belt, white cobweb stockings, and white high heels. Oh yes, and a wedding ring.

She was a natural redhead.

Where the hell was I?

"Patty's keeping his vital signs stable," she said to Lady Sally, and to me, "Hello, dear,

how are we feeling today? You're looking much better. You had a close call, but you were lucky."

She reached the bedside, took my pulse. I could feel her pulse. High and strong and steady. "Are

you in a lot of pain?"

Her question took precedence over her costume. "Yes. Lady Sally says I have to see you to

get some more of that painkiller Mary gave me last night."

"Placebo," Lady Sally enunciated. Doctor Kate looked thoughtful. It was weird to see that

judicious doctor-look above a pair of large seminaked breasts. Disorienting. "Yes," she decided,

"I can let you have some more of that. Mary's judgment is usually sound. Did she say what dosage?"

I thought hard. "Fifty milligrams. In some solution with a long name."

She frowned. "That's a lot. You'll have to take it orally from now on. Here." She took

ajar of pills from her bag, gave me one.

Damn. It wouldn't hit as fast, or as hard. Oh well, it would probably last longer. "Looks

just like aspirin," I said as she fetched cold water from a bathroom to my right.

"Trust me," she said, returning. "It isn't aspirin."

I gulped it dawn, lay back to wait for it to work. "It isn't addicting or habituating

either," she said~ "In case you were wondering."

"I'd have gotten around to it," I muttered wearily "I've got to change your dressing now,"

she said. "I call your attention to the fascinating ceiling."

I snuck a peek and it was pretty bad, but the medicine was beginning to come on and it

helped. When it was over I found that Philip had come to sit beside me and hold my hand. I half

expected him to tell me a bedtime story.

"Philip ...," I asked him quietly, while Doctor Kate was off washing her hands in the

john. "Look, where the hell am I? I mean what kind of place is this?"

One corner of his mouth crinkled up. "I'm not sure that could be put into words. In fact,

I'm not sure I'm wise enough to know."

There was nothing wrong with Lady Sally's hearing. "This is my House," she said clearly,

"and you are safe here. You may stay as long as you like, or until I take a notion to throw you

the hell out, whichever comes first."

A chilly sensation began just below where my ribs met. I think I kept my face straight,

but m~ hands closed into fists under the sheet. I was a long time answering her. Oh my God, I kept

thinking, How could I have been so dumb?

"Thank you, Lady Sally," I said finally. "That's a very generous offer. I already owe you

more than I could ever repay."

"Nonsense, dear child," she said. "On the day I leave a stranger to bleed to death in an

alley, there'll be a brisk trade in ice skates in Hell. As the old joke goes, it has been the

equivalent of a formal introduction."

Doctor Kate came back from the jake. "Will you excuse me, Maureen? Your Ladyship- I have a

patient waiting."

"Thank you, too, Doctor," I told her. "I peeked while you were fixing my-bandage, and you

did a good job."

"Wait'll you sec the size of my bill," she grinned, and was gone.

I thought: I'll bet you think I think you're kidding.

"I'll bet you think she's kidding," Lady Sally said.

I smiled. "I'm grateful that you didn't bring the cops into this. Like, report it or

anything. Thank you." I already knew why she hadn't, but I was mildly curious to see what lie

she'd use.

"I detest official formalities. Unoflicial ones, though, are a different matter: you are

welcome, girl. All puns intended."

I made a small sick-patient sound. Phillip frowned in concern. "What's the matter,

Maureen?"

"Nothing. This painkiller is making me sleepy." I yawned.

"That's common," he agreed. "Get some rest; -you need it. I have an appointment coming up,

but I'll look in on you later." He and Lady Sally got up and left.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, I closed my eyes tight and groaned.

Now it all made sense. All of it. Oh, I should have guessed! Aw, Jesus.

Lucky Maureen. Saved from death and a fate worse than death by a kindly old auntie, a

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wealthy Good Samaritan who leads werebeagles around on leashes and just happens to be a trained

street fighter. I'd always said if I ever met one real Samaritan in my life, one person who gave

without taking, I'd kiss my own ass-and for a minute there, I'd almost been ready to bend over.

I'd almost forgotten what the Professor used to tell me, over and over... Always look for the

other guy's angle. If it seems too good to be true, it is. What a chump

She'd said it with a capital H.

"This is my House," she'd said.

A goddamn madam!

Of course she'd stopped Big Travis from wasting me. Simple conservation. Waste not, want

not. Some people can't stand to see a good horse mistreated.

I was in a goddamn whorehouse, and from the looks of Doctor Kate and Robin, a very kinky

whorehouse, and unless - I played my cards just right, I was never going to get out of it.

There are basically three kinds of prostitute: street hooker, call girl, and house whore.

Each kind is convinced that the other two are the lowest of the low. I was a little more

sophisticated: I had started as an independent call girl, then shifted tracks after a few

unpleasant incidents persuaded me that it was good to have a protector. But I still had nothing

but contempt for house girls.

For one thing, I knew who ran the whorehouses in New York. Better to work the streets! I

knew a girl named Marcie who'd been in a House in L.A., once, and she said it combined the worst

features of a girls' reform school and a gang rape. You had to work sixteen hours a day, and take

on any john who wanted you, had do a lot of the perverted kinky stuff. She showed me scars. You

weren't allowed to ask them to use a condom because you were so expensive, yet you got less of the

money you made than many street hookers did. Marcie had managed to escape and come East-she'd even

managed to kick the drugs they'd hooked her on-but she always used to say that one day they would

find her. One day I stopped seeing her around.

My side was giving me hell, but I embraced the pain. I was going to have to get used to

it. I was not going to let them give me any more of that Placebo shit. Phillip did come by to

cheek on me later, but I pretended to be asleep so I wouldn't have to talk to him. Then awhile

after that, Doctor Kate came back, Her I did want to talk to.

"Look, Doctor Kate-"

"Just ~Kate, dear. We're going to be friends, I hope."

"Kate, I'm not exactly a blushing virgin-"

"I've treated very few debutantes for stab wounds."

"-I've figured out that this place isn't a Bible Society, okay? So tell me, what's it

like? How's Sally to work for?"

"This is the best place I've ever worked," she said happily. "Including some fancy-

schmancy hospitals, back when medicine was my main career. And Lady Sally is a total dear."

Uh huh. I wondered whether she was brainwashed, or a tool of management, or just too

scared to tell the truth. I decided it didn't much matter which: for my purposes she was useless.

I'd already figured out that all the rooms would be bugged-but I'd been hoping for a wink or a

grimace or some other sign.

"Really," she was saying, "this is a House-of healthy repute-no sleaze, fleas or social

disease. You have no idea how lucky you are."

"I'm learning. Are we in the city?'

"Brooklyn," she said. "Not far from where you were injured."

"Huh," I said. "Funny. Somehow it doesn't feel like Brooklyn."

That made her smile. "No, it doesn't, much."

I wanted to ask for a more precise location, but did not dare. I took another tack. "Kate?

I don't mean to be a bother, but. . . would you bring that phone on the dresser over here by the

bedside? And tell me what number to dial to reach you? I yelled for help a little while ago, and

nobody heard me."

She frowned slightly. "Oh, you must have dreamed it, Maureen. These rooms are very well

soundproofed, it's true. But Mary monitors every room in the House during working hours, and even

a squeak for help would have brought her on the run.'

Maybe that was the cue I'd been hoping for: an open admission that the rooms were bugged

here.

"But we are between shifts, now, and Mary's off duty. Besides, you might have people on

the outside you want to contact, let them know you're okay. Here you go-"

She brought me the phone!

"What was the matter anyway?" she asked, setting it down on the bedside table. "Are you

all right now?"

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