“Oh, well, in any communal activity you’re going to see some deviance. For God’s sake, look at marriage! The S-M community apparently does attract some actual psychopaths. You read the various S-M newsletters, you see photographs of guys with captions, ‘This is John Jones, stay away from this stinker, he hurt me.’ Like that. That’s why it’s actually unusual to find real what you’d call really violent sadists in S-M gatherings. It’s like you wouldn’t expect to find real professional killers at those fast-draw exhibitions where everybody dresses up like the Cisco Kid.”
“Amazing! As a matter of fact, I’m going to one of those clubs tonight.”
“Are you? Fascinating! Are you going to participate?”
Marlene hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I’m not sure. It’s never really attracted me. I guess I’ll have to see what the scene looks like.”
“Well, then,” said Malkin, “if the opportunity arises for you to pee on some guy’s face, I would encourage you to do so, if not for yourself, then for me.”
After depositing Lucy back at the loft, Marlene spent the late afternoon doing some special shopping. Later, after the children were safely in bed, Marlene decided to push the New Openness by modeling her purchases for her husband in their living room.
“So? What do you think?” she asked.
Karp took his time replying. His wife, heavily made up with scarlet lipstick, glittered eyeshadow, and thick mascara on her real eye and the other one covered by a thin wash-leather patch of the type favored by members of the Prussian general staff, was wearing lace-up knee boots with six-inch spike heels, a leather mini-skirt that barely covered her buttocks, black fish-net stockings held up with lace garters, and a black leather neck band with little chrome studs on it. Over this ensemble she had thrown her old black motorcycle jacket. To prompt his response, she threw open the jacket to reveal that on her upper body she wore only a skimpy black leather bra decorated with little spikes arranged in a spiral pattern.
“Jesus H. Christ!” said Karp.
“Impressive, no?”
“You could say that. I hadn’t realized we were so short of money. Don’t bring home any diseases.”
“How dare you!” said Marlene in mock indignation.
At this juncture snorts and giggles were heard nearby. Marlene turned to see the faces of her daughter and her nursemaid peeking around the doorjamb.
“Far out, Marlene!” said Posie.
“Mommy, you look like Kiss,” was Lucy’s contribution.
“You! Bed!” said Marlene in her best dominatrix tone. To Karp she added, “And as for you, I resent the implication that I look like a …” and observing that her daughter had not budged, spelled the word.
“Mother! I can spell, you know,” said Lucy indignantly. “And I know what a prostitute is, for your information.”
“I bet you do. Scram! I mean it, girls.”
They scurried off, giggling.
“So,” said Karp. “What’s with the outfit?”
“I got a date with Wolfe. We’re going to visit a leather bar. We’re checking out some characters who could be involved in the Edie Wooten stalking.”
“I see. A plausible cover. Look, Marlene, I can see where you might be tired of me, you want to try some new things-”
“Oh, stop it!” cried Marlene, laughing and throwing herself down next to him on the couch.
“No, really, I understand. I get the ratty bathrobes, he gets the leather and lace … Ow!”
She had dug her knuckles painfully between his ribs.
“What is this, the home version? A little sadism before … no, don’t touch me-I’ll scream.”
“You faker! This is turning you on, isn’t it?”
“Me? I’m a public servant. I’m a pillar of the community.”
“Yes, and I can see it right there in your pants.”
He ran his hand slyly up her thigh. “What are you wearing under that …”
“None of your business, buster,” she said, slipping away from him and slapping his hand. “You pervert!”
That left him speechless and laughing, and she skipped out of the room.
TWELVE
They drove north up the Bowery in Wolfe’s old tan Caprice, a light rain spotting the windows, to the beat of the wipers and the radio, which was tuned to a soft rock station. Wolfe had his usual stolid expression on, one that went oddly with his outfit, which was black and moderately vicious. He had a well-studded leather vest on over a long-sleeve black turtleneck, engineer boots on his feet, and a chain belt around his waist with a clasp in the shape of a grinning demon. He seemed like an unusually dour farmer on the way to the milk barn rather than a stud primed for an evening of kinky fun. His car was well kept, remarkably well kept, and scented with artificial pine. Marlene, who had traveled in a large number of bachelor vehicles in her time, imagined he had cleaned it especially for her that evening, which she thought rather sweet. The car stereo, she noticed, was not the standard Delco crap but a pretty good Kenwood deck, with good Jensen speakers.
“Wolfe, got any tapes?” she asked.
“I keep most of them in the trunk, sorry,” he answered. He slowed the car, rummaged under the seat, and pulled out a dusty cassette. “Conway Twitty?”
Marlene suppressed a snort. “Um, no, we’re almost there anyway. And we’ll probably get more music than we need at this joint.”
This was, as it turned out, the case. Marlene had not been to a real club since her spinster days, and while she was vaguely aware of the growth of the club scene in lower Manhattan, she had never felt the slightest desire to participate in it. In this she was like the majority of her fellow native New Yorkers, and unlike those who came to the city from elsewhere. Marlene did her drinking in working-class saloons, of which there were, thank God, still two surviving in Little Italy, and would occasionally, very occasionally, drag Karp out for an evening of jazz. She was prepared, however, for noise, mediocre performance, crowds, bad drinks, and discomfort, and was not disappointed.
Cuff’s was located on the ground floor of a Bowery building that had once been a flophouse. The street windows of the floors above had been blanked with sheets of galvanized steel. The bouncer, an appropriately shaven-headed, pierced, and tattooed ogre, gave them the eye at the door and, apparently pleased with their equipage, passed them in.
It was immediately apparent to Marlene that you didn’t go to Cuff’s for the music. At the end of the black-painted room was a low stage, upon which a suitable leathered and painted quartet was doing a cover of a New Order song, the lyrics to which consisted largely of the words “baby” and “body,” heavy on the feedback and writhing, at glass-cracking volume. When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, Marlene saw that they were in a large room that occupied the entire floor of the old flop, with a bar along one side, a dozen or so round tables in the center, and a dance floor in front of the stage. Everything that would take paint was painted matte black, of course, and the room’s only light, aside from the glow behind the bar, came from red and blue mini-spots focused on the stage and on the obligatory spinning glitter ball, the great seal of the republic of fun. The walls were decorated with mock-ups of antique torture implements-at least Marlene hoped they were mock-ups-and a remarkable variety of dusty whips, chains, and manacles hung from the ceiling, like the webs of large, messy spiders. There were about fifty people in the room, all dressed to kill, or at least to harm, in the sort of outfits Marlene and Wolfe were wearing.
“Nice place,” said Marlene to Wolfe. “See anyone we know?”
Wolfe made a noncommittal noise and cast his eyes around the crowd, as did Marlene. No Ginnie Wooten, no Evarti, unless, like many of the patrons, they were wearing masks. The two pushed their way to the bar and ordered a pair of five-dollar Schlitzes. Marlene paid with a twenty and asked the bartender, “Has Ginnie Wooten been in tonight?” The bartender was wearing a laced leather vest over a hairless chest. He was a skinny, hatchet-faced man with a badly pocked face, and to improve his appearance he had dressed his hair into three Velcro-like tufts with shaved furrows between them and driven a chromed twenty-penny nail through his nose, like a cannibal chieftain in a cartoon. It gave his voice a curious buzzing quality.