The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [23]
Stefanovitch had heard about one or two highly expensive, very private bordellos in New York. So this was what they were like. “He took a Quaalude,” he said. “I don’t know what she had in her hand.”
Standing in front of Silver Hair, the prostitute slowly stretched the straps of her gown down over slender, freckled shoulders. The silk gown was finally bunched at her waist, her breasts revealed to the man, but not to the camera.
Next, she reached forward, underneath the man’s robe. Sarah felt that she finally understood the word “courtesan.” Things she had only read about in police reports were coming to life.
“I really missed you, Gerard,” the blond woman said in a soft stage whisper.
“Touch yourself down there, too.” The older man suddenly seemed humble. He slowly began to stroke himself.
Touch yourself down there, Sarah silently mocked the scene. She was angry at the man for using the young girl. When she had heard about her husband Roger’s lover in California, she’d felt betrayed and used herself. She had also felt that somehow she must have been at fault for losing him.
“You’re such a beautiful, beautiful man. You’re so elegant. You do everything with such style, Gerard. I’m not just saying it because… you know.”
Sarah could tell that the silver-haired man needed to believe the words he was hearing. She had an urge to talk back at the movie. The scene was powerfully moving. Across the small room, Stefanovitch self-consciously cleared his throat.
“I have some Halls Eucalyptus, Lieutenant,” Sarah said. He deserved every zinger she could come up with.
Stefanovitch felt his face flush. His neck and his chest were tingling. He nearly laughed, though. Sarah McGinniss was quick on her feet. “The pills probably made their bodies more sensitive,” he finally said.
“Have you used Quaaludes yourself?”
“Once or twice,” Stefanovitch said. Then he frowned when he thought about his remark ending up in her book. Many, if not most, New York City detectives use illegal drugs themselves.
“Let me undress you all the way now.” Silver Hair’s voice was a low, sibilant whisper.
“Not yet. Don’t rush this… Gerard?… There’s something even better we can do. Is that all right? …You trust me?”
“Of course. Whatever you want to do is fine.” Suddenly he was sounding closer to his age. Unsure of himself.
The call girl rose from the bed again. She moved two steps away.
Very sensually, she slid the straps of her gown back up onto her shoulders. She let her long nails slowly trail down her legs, making a long scratching sound.
Stefanovitch thought of a few steamy Hollywood movies he’d seen. Body Heat. A remake of The Postman Always Rings Twice. They were tame and prudish compared with this.
And nothing had even happened yet. Just some foreplay… But the real stuff. Not wooden-Indian actors and actresses playing make-believe.
Midnight? Stefanovitch wondered again. What was Midnight? If it was the Midnight Club, what was the connection? Had the Club come after Alexandre St.-Germain?
Or was someone coming after members of the Club? There was a big difference right there. A huge difference for his investigation.
The blond hooker’s profile was turned sharply to the camera now. Did she know the scene was being filmed? By her employers? By someone else? Her lips parted, and they were ruby red and moist; they opened like an exotic string bag.
Her breasts were erect. If she was faking everything, she was a brilliant actress, much too good to be doing this film. Her palms rubbed against her nipples, blood rushing into her breasts.
With one hand, she reached underneath the gauzy white gown. Her knees were bent as far forward as possible. She was on her toes, her slender ankles arched.
Suddenly, the silver-haired man started to spasm. It was the first time he