Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [16]
The yellow cat's eyes watched me.
"Contact lenses." A little girl's whisper, giggling at soft conspiracies.
Candy.
29
THERE WAS a white phone on a glass table near the couch. One of those Swedish designer jobs, big round numbers in four grids of three. I left her standing by the window, picked up the receiver, and dialed the number of the pay phone on the corner. I scanned the joint while the phone rang—it looked like the waiting room in an expensive clinic. The Prof answered. "Call you back in fifteen minutes," I said, and hung up.
I sat down on the couch. Lit a cigarette, watching her. Thinking how I should look through the place first. But it didn't feel like a trap. And a woman who could change herself into something new could hide a microphone anyplace.
"What do you want?" I asked her.
She came to the couch, sat at the opposite end, curling her legs under her like a teenager.
"Maybe I just wanted to see you."
"Write me a letter."
She shook her head slightly, a fighter shaking off a punch. "I was just a kid."
I shrugged.
"You're still angry with me?"
"I'm not angry with anyone. I don't know you."
"But…"
"I remember you. It's not the same as knowing you, okay?"
"Okay."
"What do you want, Irene?"
"I haven't been Irene for a long time. That's one of the things I changed."
"What do I call you?"
"Whatever you want. That's me—I can be whatever you want. There's all kinds of candy."
"That's what you do now?"
"That's what I do."
I looked her over again, seeing it. "You got a closet full of wigs too?"
Her smile flashed. She scissored her legs off the couch, held out her hand to me. I grabbed her wrist instead, my thumb hard against the nerve junction. She didn't seem to notice. I left my cigarette burning in the ashtray. She led me down a carpeted hall, stepped into a room nearly as big as the living room. One wall was floor–to–ceiling mirrors. "My closet," she said.
One shelf was wigs, carefully positioned on Styrofoam heads. Blondes, brunettes, redheads from soft rose to flame. Every style from flower child to Dolly Parton. A wall of cosmetics: lipstick with all new, gleaming, fresh tips, standing in rows like large–caliber bullets…blusher, body powders, eyeliner, prefitted fingernails, polish, false eyelashes. Makeup table with a round padded stool, tiny row of frosted light bulbs surrounding another mirror, this one three–paneled.
The far wall looked flat. She slid back a panel. Fur coats. Fox, ermine, sable, mink, leopard. Others I didn't recognize.
Another panel. Cocktail dresses, formal gowns, yuppie go–to–business outfits. Leather miniskirts. Dresses from silk to cotton. Jumpers and pinafores.
Another section was shoes. Lizard–skin spike heels, black leather boots from ankle to mid–thigh, shoes trimmed with rhinestones, jogging shoes, little girls' shoes with Mary Jane straps, sandals.
Rows and rows of built–in drawers. She opened them smoothly, stepped aside, gesturing with her hand like a wrongly accused smuggler sneering at a customs agent. G–strings, silk panties, bikini briefs, garter belts, teddies, camisoles, cotton panties in a dozen colors. Panty hose still in the original wrappers. Stockings from fishnet to sheer. Push–up bras, front–opening bras, bras with holes for nipples to poke through, bras with straps that crossed over the back. Red, black, white, and a pastel rainbow.
There was another panel to the wall. She slid it back. Riding crops, handcuffs, lengths of thin steel chains, a leather–handled stock, leather straps at the end, like a shortened cat–o'–nine–tails. Leather belts, from spaghetti straps to thick slabs. Something that looked like a black rubber sweatshirt. Dog collars. A leather face mask, laced up the back, the mouth a zippered slash. Hairbrushes, Ping–Pong paddles, some foam–padded, others covered with sandpaper. Rings, clamps, vibrators. Dildos, from pencils to sausages. A bullwhip of braided silk.
"Seen enough?"
Her eyes were a challenge. My face was flat. I nodded.
She held out her hand again, turning it so I could hold her by the