Hard Candy - Andrew Vachss [73]
122
CANDY answered her phone.
"It's me," I said quietly. "You were right. I want to get it back. Hold the leash in my hands."
"I don't like the way you left me the last time."
"I did. That's how I knew you were telling the truth."
"That's my baby. Anytime after three, okay?"
"I'll be there."
123
THE DOORMAN was sneaking a smoke just outside the building. The Prof yelled "Yo', Roscoe my man!" at nobody and the doorman turned. Max and I went inside. I took the elevator to the top floor.
The wig was strawberry blond this time but the yellow cat's eyes were her own. Wearing a white terry–cloth bathrobe. "It all starts back there," she said. "Come on."
We went to the last bedroom. She dropped the robe to the floor. The choke collar was around her neck, leather leash dangling to her knee. I sat on the psychiatrist's couch, pulling hard on the leash. She came to the couch obediently, eyes dreamy. I pulled again. She sat on the couch, slipped onto her hands and knees. I stood up. "Stay there," I told her.
I walked behind her. She dropped her shoulders to the couch, her round butt seemed to shimmer in the dim light. "Stay the way you were," I said.
She pushed herself back up on her hands, saying nothing.
"I know where the stuff I want is. Stay there."
I went to her closet. Found what I needed. When I walked back, she hadn't moved.
"Put your hands behind your back."
The handcuffs were leather–lined. I snapped them home. Looped the leash through one of the rings in the floor.
She licked her lips. Cold cat's eyes. Feral and fearless.
I knotted the leash. Her shoulders came forward, bent, touched the couch. I stepped behind her. Her slim ankles were close together, muscles bunched on the backs of her thighs. I cuffed her ankles together. Held a length of chain in my hands. She crooked her feet back over her butt in an arch, holding her cuffed hands back toward her ankles, waiting to be hog–tied the way another woman would wait for a bus. I linked the chain to the cuffs holding her ankles. But then I pulled back, hard. The front of her calves hit the couch. I tightened the chain around one of the couch legs. She was spread out, on her stomach, chin on the couch. The way I'd been on those subway tracks.
Her body was faintly coated with sweat, like she'd been oiled. I put a tube–shaped leather pillow under her hips.
"I can't move an inch," she purred. Like it was magic words.
I put one knee on the couch next to her. Patted her butt lightly. Slid my hands up to her shoulders.
"There's a mirror. Behind the screen. If you want…"
She was still talking when I pushed the ball gag into her mouth, slipped the elastic over her head.
Then I went looking for what I'd come for.
There had to be another room someplace. I found it off the dressing room. A butcher–block desk with one of those tiny designer lamps. A high–tech phone with a row of unmarked buttons down one side. I wrapped a handkerchief over my finger. Pushed each button, watching the stored number come up on the liquid crystal screen. I filed the numbers in my head, hanging up before they could ring even once. Ten buttons. Only four had numbers stored.
I stepped into one of the bathrooms. Flushed the toilet. Candy had it backwards. It wasn't her who knew me. Now.
I was back inside the last bedroom in a couple of minutes. Slipped the elastic off her head. The ball gag popped out.
"You okay now, baby?" she asked.
"Not yet."
"I thought…"
"I'm not finished," I said, unlocking the cuffs from her ankles. She wiggled her hips. It wasn't to get the feeling back. I unlocked the cuffs from around her wrists. She waited. I unknotted the leash. Pulled her to her feet.
"Get dressed."
Her eyes were downcast, voice soft, feeling her way. She wasn't good at ad–libs. "Tell me what to wear. Tell me everything—I can't get dressed unless you tell me what to put on."
"A sweater and a skirt."
"Should I wear a bra, honey?"
"Yeah."
"Panties?"
"Yeah."
"What color?"
"It doesn't matter."