“Really?”
“Could be. Or a copy. Can’t tell. Been used a lot, though.”
“Smoke?”
“Thanks. But not right now. I was okay with the fuzzwine-”
Constance dredged the dripping magnum of Dom Perignon champagne from within the ballast of the silver ice bucket.
She shot some froth down her gullet.
Passed the deep-greeen oversized bottle to Griffith’s waiting fingertips as he sat in a wobbly chair across from her.
Their hands touched.
Constance grinned like a gunman.
Edgy and tough.
“How’s the investigative front, Griffith? Is that horseshit I see decorating the soles of your deck shoes?”
“Just now took a canter across the polo field.”
“Anything show up?”
“No more than what you see on my shoes.”
“Any luck elsewhere?”
“After my chat with your assistant Morrigana, she was eager to tour me through Charity House. Plenty of places to hide-but no pearlies.”
“Surprised?”
“Not at all.”
“Your clothes look rather damp-uncomfortably so, if I do say, Griffith. Been yachting?”
“Clothes feel okay like this,” Griffith shrugged. “Little round of water sports with your friend Veronica. When I interviewed her poolside-well, I guess I just fell in.”
“I’ll bet the little snit pulled you into the pool with her. She’s like that.”
“Thanks for warning me.”
“I figured you’d make out okay with her anyway.”
“I did do that.”
“But no pearls.”
“Reet.”
“Anything pop up at all? Still haven’t told me whether you turned any clues or whether you’re given up or what.”
“No clues. I haven’t given up.”
“So what’s the story, Sherlock? Or are you stiff?” Griffith sucked down some bubbly. “I say. Good stuff you got here for the thirst. Now these pearls of yours. The ones you say are missing. You see, I say I haven’t seen ‘em around.
You say you haven’t seen ‘em around. Your housemates-ditto, they say no see.
But that doesn’t mean they aren’t around. Doesn’t mean they are. What’s your guess?”
“You think they’re gone from Charity House?”
“You mean the house itself? Yeah, they’re gone from there for sure-wouldn’t you say?”
The hunches are your department.” Constance sucked on the pipe. “So, Mister Dick Tracy, why don’t we get to some more of your undoubtedly learned and fertile ideas-about the pearls, unless you’re more interested in discoursing on opium pipes or parakeets.”
“Maybe later you want me to discuss orchids7”
Constance looked up dreamily into her forehead. She yawned as she crossed her ankles, extending her long gains toward Griffith.
“But, oh, milady-of course! To the marbles. These pearls of yours-they could be out somewhere on the grounds buried in the dirt. Or someone might conceivably have spirited them away entirely.”
He took another swig. “But I don’t think that’s likely, Constance. Do you?”
“Again-I really don’t know. Were the girls of any actual help to you at all?”
“Oh, yes. They helped eliminate some obvious doubts about the pearls’ whereabouts.” He slugged away at the bottle again. “And they also more or less pointed the way I maybe should pursue this gig. Conceptually, anyhow.”
“But no material goods.”
“Correcto.”
Images of Morngana and Veronica-wet and labile-flickered through Griffith’s internal vision. Recollection of rubyfruit Lips-burned with kisses, passionate and vicious.
Griffith popped out a cigarette. Stowed it between his choppers. He bent close to Constance, smelling her rising rut as he lit the cig in the opium brazier.
“Didn’t know you smoked,” Constance said.
“I don’t. Not when I’m working.”
Constance took the champagne bottle in her hand. Hoisted it above her head.
Drained the crisp liquid into her snout.
Poopped the bottleneck from her maw.
Sat it in her lap.
Cooling her cabbage patch.
She twitched as Griffith rose from his seat.
“Time to pack it in, Griffith?”
“Guess so. Abyssinia. My work is finished.”
“Griffith-”
“Yes?”
“I think not. Not by a long shot.”
“I think so. Police involvement is the only way you can go convincingly from here-if you want to keep up your end of whatever publicity act or insurance con you got going.”
“Bullshit, Griffith. Thought you were going to show me your good stuff. Thought you said you hadn’t given up.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t take my leave now.”
“I say not yet for day one. You have not met your professional obligations to me today, Griffith.” Constance wiggled her fanny in her seat. “Not anywhere near completely. In fact, hardly at all. You certainly haven’t looked everywhere-not by any means.”
“I looked everywhere that counts. Process of elimination. And everywhere’s out.”
“Bullshit, Griffith. Whatever are you saying? Have you no imagination?”
“Don’t need any. Not for this set-up.”
“What is this, Griffith? A stall?”
Constance felt a chill roam at will over her head, shoulders, and hinders.
“No stall. Just let’s say-that’s all, folks. I’ve searched Charity House and its grounds-not completely, but enough to get the drift. Browbeat everybody who was anywhere-except right in here. And, thank you, I will have one for the road.”
Griffith stooped to the gravel between Constance’s ankles. He snatched up the bottle of champagne from the bucket between her legs. Drained it to the dregs.
Shoved the empty bottle into the bucket.
“You tell me, lady. Am I getting warm? Those pearls feeling a little hot by now?”
Griffith stood, turned, walked.
Constance called out.
“Aren’t you going to see if-for instance-the pearls might be in the ice bucket?”
“Not when I know they’re in yours.”
Griffith snapped about-face.
He drilled his eyeballs into hers for less than a second.
Dropped smoothly into a crouch. Griffith slid a hand into the frigid liquid hugging the butt of the empty magnum bottle of Dom Perignon. Constance shivered as she saw him make a fist-as though grabbing up a handful of melting shaved ice.
Griffith brought his soaking arm out into the open in a trice. Whipped his hand through the air in a lazy slice.
Brought it home like a hammer between her thighs.
Her twat fluttered.
The ice bucket tipped topsy-turvy into the gravel as Constance’s buttocks rose off the seat. Griffith’s cold paws mauled hot meat.
“Unh.”
“Sure,” Griffith said. “I’ll go for it, honey. How much money we talking about?”
Constance’s well-versed anus opened wide.
The sphincter slid on over his thumb and forefinger. None too gingerly, Griffith twirled his fingers higher into her haunch.
“Anh.”
“Sorry, cookie, about this intrusion on your privacy. But then you know that Griffith only aims to please his client’s fancy.”
He folded his three spare fingers against the side of his palm.
Wrenched his arm.
Constance’s fanny bounced.
Her hiney humped.
Her asshole snickered on over his fist.
Constance sat impaled.
Griffith was buried to his wrist.
Constance chewed her ups. Licked her tongue furiously across her face.
“Okay,” Griffith said. “I think maybe one more twist. Let me make this good.”
“Eaugh!”
“Gotcha.”
Griffith snaked his fingers higher within Constance’s bum until they coiled about what felt like- unseen-a connected strand of smooth spheroids. He clanked them together.
“Pearls, are they?” Lance chewed. “Black pearls, by any chance?”
His forearm probed, fist deeply embedded in her haunch. She rutted her flanks.
Griffith gave his forearm a crank.
“Ouch!”
He drew his arm out in a yank.
There was a rustle in Constance’s buttocks as Griffith’s fingers flew forth.
He trailed a set of dank beads from the bud of her bung. Black pearls gleaming deeply, wrapped about his thumb.
Constance smiled smugly, the beads burping from her anus as Griffith twined them upward through his hands.
Setting off her glands anew as each pearl popped through her chuckling pucker.