Ms. Draper was seemingly unperturbed. “If you’re shy because you have a micropenis, don’t be. I’ve seen all types. It actually makes it easier for me to deep throat. And if you got a problem getting it up, I can stick my finger up your ass, work that prostate.”
The rental car guy reached for the phone on the counter.
“You know what, assbag?” Ms. Draper said. “Tomorrow I’m going to be a million dollars richer. And I’m going to buy your goddamn little car rental business here, and make you clean toilets with your tongue for six bucks an hour.”
She threw up her hands in a dismissive matter and spun around, facing Mal and Deb.
Several things flashed through Deb’s mind at once. The first was Draper’s million dollar comment. Obviously she had been invited to Butler House as well. The second was that this green and pink haired woman had pocked scars covering her face, as if she’d had a severe case of acne as a teen. But these also covered her neck, and as Deb’s eyes travelled down her low-cut blouse, her cleavage as well.
Those weren’t acne scars. They were man-made.
“Enjoy the show?” she asked Deb, a sneer on her face.
“Very much so,” Deb replied. “You want to ride with us? We’re heading to Butler House.”
The woman raised an eyebrow. “No shit. Really?”
“Sure,” Mal said. “And you don’t have to suck my Slim Jim.”
“But if you want to stick your finger up his ass,” Deb said, “be my guest.”
“Please don’t stick your finger up my ass,” her husband said. “I’m cool.”
Ms. Draper eyed each of them up and down, apparently taking notice of Deb’s prosthetic legs and Mal’s rubber hand. Then she smiled.
“I’m Moni Draper. Pleased ta meetcha both.”
There was a round of hand shaking, and Mal approached the clerk at the desk.
“Would you really have blown the rental car guy?” Deb asked.
“Girlfriend, I’ve done a lot more for a lot less, back when I was strung out.” She dug into her shoulder bag and took out a pack of cigarettes, even though there were No Smoking signs posted everywhere throughout the airport. She lit up with one of those jet lighters, where the flame was blue-green and hissed. Deb noticed her hands were also covered with pock marks.
“So what do you do?” Moni asked.
“I’m an athlete.”
“With no legs? No shit. Good for you, babe. What sport?”
“Marathons. Triathlons.”
“You can make money like that?”
“I’ve got sponsors,” Deb answered.
“Wait a sec. Were you that bitch in that energy drink commercial?”
Moni used the word bitch like she used the word babe, with obvious affection.
“That was a while ago.”
“I used to drink that stuff all the time. I remember you, on that bicycle and shit. In those cute little biking pants.”
Deb still had those biking pants, and they were, indeed, cute.
“What do you do?” Deb asked.
“Model.”
Deb wasn’t sure what to say to that, then Moni winked.
“Kidding, of course. I’m actually an escort. Topping. Domme stuff.”
“Like a prostitute?”
“Back in the day I was. Streetwalker. But I had a close encounter with a maniac who cut me up pretty good, as you can plainly see. So now I only do in house calls to select clients. The scars are actually a plus, because they make me look scarier.”
“So a domme is a dominatrix?”
“You betcha. Money is better, and I don’t have to fuck them.”
Deb was curious. “So what do you actually do to guys if you aren’t sleeping with them?
“All kinds of crazy shit. Tie ‘em up. Slap them around. Spank them. Make them lick my boots. Pee on them. Figging.”
“Figging?”
“You don’t want to know. Point is, I’m in control, the bottoms love it, and the money is good. At least, it used to be good. I’ve been semi-retired for a while.” Moni took a big draw on her cigarette, then blew the smoke out of her nostrils. “Went back to school. But I’m almost out of money, and I figured I’d have to start scheduling clients again. Then I got the invite to this fear thing, and I was like, holy shit, I finally got a lucky break. Hopefully I’ll never have to fig a guy again.”
“You have to tell me what figging is.”
Moni grinned and winked. “Trust me. You’re better off not knowing.”
Mal motioned for them to follow him, and they were led to the parking garage and a mid-size sedan. The clerk made a concentrated effort to ignore Moni. Deb, however, was really starting to like the woman. The incident at the restaurant back in Pittsburgh had really rattled her. But Moni was getting Deb’s mind off of that, and also helping break the tension between her and Mal. Deb knew her husband was going on this trip for her, and didn’t think any good could come from it. What Mal didn’t understand was that Deb needed to do something, anything, because it beat doing nothing. Even if it didn’t work, it was worth a try.
“So you can run with those fake legs on?” Moni asked.
“Not well. These are my walking legs. I’ve got a different pair for running.”
“Cool. And your husband, does he have different hands too?”
“Mal just has the cosmetic hand. It isn’t functional. It’s just for show.”
“But they have functional ones. I’ve got a client, a real live private eye, he’s missing a hand. He can break a beer bottle with his fake one. Also, it vibrates.”
Deb shot Moni a that’s bullshit look. “Seriously?”
“Variable speeds and everything. The guy is a bit of a nut, but that fake hand is something every man should have. Make your hubby buy one.”
Mal never bought a mechanical prosthesis. He felt it would be a constant reminder of what he no longer had. Instead, he tried to pretend that his entire left arm no longer existed.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Deiter,” the clerk said after having Mal walk around the car and signing the agreement stating it had no damage. “Enjoy your stay in Charleston.”
“Oh, we’re not staying in Charleston. We’re going to Solidarity.”
“Not… Butler House?” The clerk’s voice had gone up an octave.
Mal didn’t answer, and Deb knew why. When they’d called to confirm their attendance, the recording said informing others about the experiment would disqualify them.
“What’s Butler House?” Mal asked, obviously playing dumb.
“It’s… it’s the most evil place on earth. Whatever you do, stay away from that house, Mr. Deiter. And may God go with you.”
The clerk did a quick about-face and rushed past Deb and Moni, in a sudden and unwarranted hurry. Deb watched the man as he passed, and the expression on his face was pure fear.
He looked like he’d just seen a ghost.
Tom
The private driveway leading up to Butler House wasn’t paved, and Tom almost missed the turn because the entrance was overgrown with brush. Only a sign reading 683 AUBURN ROAD, hanging on a wooden post mostly obscured by vines, gave any indication there was a road there.
“We’re about to get bumpy,” he told Frank and Sara as he pulled the car off the paved street and onto a dirt trail.
Bumpy was an understatement. Ten yards into the woods, Tom realized he should have rented something with all-wheel drive. First they hit a ditch that made their undercarriage scrape against the ground, then the car almost got stuck on a mound of dirt, Tom having to gun the engine before the tires gained traction.
The pair in the back seemed to be enjoying themselves, the rough terrain giving them an excuse to bump into each other. During the car ride, Tom had ascertained they’d just met, but they seemed to be hitting it off very well. The Dutch courage he smelled on their breath might have been one of the reasons for that, but Tom also felt strangely comfortable with the duo. Tom remembered meeting Joan, and at the same time he’d also met two guys named Abe and Bert. Tom still spoke with Bert regularly, and he and Bert visited Abe in the hospital six months ago. Abe, a used car salesmen, had sold a clunker to a man who was unhappy with his purchase, and even unhappier with Abe’s refund policy. The guy had expressed his displeasure by chasing Abe around the car lot with a baseball bat and ultimately breaking his leg.