Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [73]
Strike that: really nauseous … sweating like a pig. He had loaded nachos about 4 p.m. He thinks of the sour cream slathered on the chips, then thinks, Jesus, it’s food poisoning!
But Mell has slipped off her right fuck-me stiletto, distracting George from his sour stomach. She’s massaging his crotch with her stockinged foot. She says: “Don’tcha think it’s time we go to your place? You do have a place, George?”
She stands … reaches under the table with her left hand and pulls up a big black bag—something between a large purse and a briefcase.
George takes her extended right hand, trailing her through the packed pub to the door. His head is swimming … Jesus, didn’t even need pills for the bitch … must be a fucking wild ride.
The wet cold air is a fleeting respite, soothing him … sharpening his focus.
But the cab is too cozy. George mumbles his home address and slides into a void.
In that void: polluted with conversation … Mell and the cabby—engaged in meaningless small talk. He just hears bits of some unfair barbs from Mell: “Poor George—he so can’t handle his booze … full-on scuttered.”
George would object if he could find his voice.
He’s cold.
George blinks his eyes, looks around.
Jesus Christ! Fucking naked and spread-eagled on his back on his own bed.
His hands are cuffed to the bed posts … ankles, ditto.
Mell’s standing there at the foot of his bed, sneering in her slinky black dress.
“He has risen,” Mell nods at George’s still-hard cock.
“What the fuck is this?” George’s tongue is thick and he hardly understands himself. He thinks he might vomit.
“Fecking caffler,” Mell says, “you really have no idea what’s going on?”
Groggy, George mutters, “Uh, no …”
The woman crosses her arms, feet spread wide. “Brill. Let me help: You’re coming through a smallish dose of Rope—or Rohypnol … the original date-rape drug. If Valium was Superman, well, Rope is Superman’s bigger, meaner older brother. But you know that, don’tcha, George?” She raises her hand—sheathed in a white latex glove—and his baggie of Rope flops down. Mell scowls, looking hurt. “Meant this evil shit for me, eh, Georgie?”
With her other rubber-gloved hand, the woman suddenly grasps George’s erection and squeezes. George winces, willing himself soft. Surely in this circumstance, he’ll go soft … but he stays hard. Maybe gets harder.
Mell says, “Hmm. No baz. Not appealing.” She then adds, squeezing him again, “This wood of yours is the result of a Viagra knock-off. If you’re online, you’ve probably gotten Spam e-mail offers for it. You’ll stay hard at least another two hours, George … maybe three. You’ll stay real hard, regardless of anything—hardness that could be confused for excitement. But, I jump ahead.”
“What is this?” George sneers unconvincingly, hearing his dope-stoked drunkness in his slurred voice. “Fuck you doin’, Mell?” Drool slides from the corner of his mouth. “These fucking drugs … they could fucking kill me.”
The woman sits on the edge of the bed and shakes her head. “Stay easy. I’m a doctor. Know what I’m doing. And it was a half-dose of Rope. I wanted this talk with you.”
A doctor. Now George is in full panic mode … Stories he always thought were urban myths about organ thefts … Pick up some chick … take her to a hotel … and then you wake up with a kidney missing … Jesus fuck! He blubbers, “You want my fucking kidneys.”
A husky laugh. “If that was the game, you’d be in a tub of ice now with a hole in your back. Two, if I was really ruthless.” Mell leans in now, searching his eyes. George thinks about screaming and maybe she senses it—she drives a fist into his solar plexus and he doubles up … chafing skin off his wrists and ankles … his mouth open, gasping for air. Suddenly, there’s a rag in his mouth.
“You’re done talking, forever. I asked you if names are important. Well, they are important, George. Here’s a name for you: Nora MacKiernan. That name ring a bell?”
George shakes his head.
“Well, she remembered your name, George. You were dumb enough to use your real first name, just like you did with