Skunk Hunt (36 page)

"What deal?" I asked.

"You want Dog to pull out your asshole before
or after we brain you?"

Things were getting rough. Rougher. Terminal
roughage. Dog bounced a sour glance off the rearview mirror that
seemed directed at Carl. I sensed he wanted to tell his alleged
master he could do his own trash talk, thank you very much, and put
more convincing bite into it.

My ignorance was pounding me like the worst
headache. I unreeled my last conversation with the dogmatic duo in
an attempt to find evidence of a deal, but all I found were threats
and coercion.

Where Cary Street narrows to a single lane
Dog made sure to beat every car trying to win the head of the line,
then ripped down past Windsor Farms, another dotty enclave of
wealth and privilege. We got stuck in the Carytown traffic and I
seriously considered bolting. Carl seriously considered stopping
me, proof of which came in the form of a gun that he pulled out and
rested on his lap like a pet porcupine. There had been a couple of
daylight shootings in the area, so plugging me wouldn't be
unprecedented.

Scared? You bet. But along with fear came a
powerful resentment. There was a complete communications breakdown
at work here, and I wasn't allowed to give my side of the story.
And I wasn't too pleased with Barbara, abandoning me like this to
her co-workers. Hey, pleasantry had been kicked in the butt, so why
shouldn't I join in? These chumps were her pimps, plain and simple.
Why they weren't decked out in fur bucket hats and fish tank shoes
was a mystery.

"I—" I began.

"Shut up," said Carl. He petted the gun,
which I found pretty repulsive. It was like he was jerking off, and
didn't mind who watched. The situation was too fraught with lethal
consequences to mention the inadequacies this gesture represented.
"You have the most annoying voice I've ever heard. Do you know that
you whine?"

Oh great, he could openly insult me and I
couldn't shoot back because I couldn't shoot back. All I could risk
was a feeble protest. Uh...a whine.

"A man should sound like he has a cock and
balls," Carl continued. It was almost a rant. "A man should sound
like he's ready to ram it up the first hot chick he sees."

Sounded a lot like rape to me. It was likely
that Barbara had done a stint on his casting couch. I had a
vomit-inducing vision of his flabby body on top of my sister. You
don't form fond memories out of images like that. Carl's image as a
likable rogue was heading south fast. A jerk with no redeeming
qualities makes for a cookie-cutter villain. I think I muttered
something to this effect.

"What was that?" Carl glared.

"Uh...nothing."

"You said something."

"I said, 'be kind, please rewind'."

"Yeah? OK. Shut up and stop whining." He gave
me an inquiring look. "When's the last time you got laid? I mean a
real piece of ass, not like your brother."

Dog barked something that sounded like a
warning. Carl grunted and shrugged. It was an enigmatic exchange
that meant nothing to me. Hadn't Dog told him about me scaling Ms.
Everest? I thought they would have mined that for laughs all day.
But what was that about Jeremy? Could my dear brother be a regular
patron of Panty Free Zone? It wouldn't surprise me, except that
there had been no hint of recognition at the farm house. I recalled
the tense moment when Dog had plugged Jeremy with a gunload of
blanks. Really bad chemistry from the get-go. Then again, maybe
Jeremy had pulled out a gun because he knew too well the kind of
people we were dealing with.

Twice we passed police cruisers. I was so
desperate I was tempted to toss my anti-cop upbringing and flag for
help. Would Carl really shoot me with that kind of witness looking
on? Actually, like a lot of people threatened by guns, I couldn't
believe he would pull the trigger. It was all bluff, wasn't it? The
problem with bluffs is when they cross the line. The fake becomes
the real in a flash, almost by accident. Life on Earth began much
the same way, I believe.

I gave up on the police, who were only
marginally better than the goons I was with. I would be exchanging
one gun for an arsenal and put myself in a crossfire.

We passed the nest of government office
buildings put forward as evidence that Richmond was the capitol of
Virginia and entered Shockhoe. Abraham Lincoln opened a big
production in Shockhoe back in 1865, to mixed reviews. But I wasn't
feeling very liberated.

We drove past the front of the PFZ and
circled to the alley out back. Oddly enough, my hopes rose as Carl
hustled me out the door. Their intention might be to torture some
kind of information out of me, but I doubted they would foul their
nest with murder. Not only that, with the police raiding the
gentleman's club on such a regular basis there was a chance I would
be rescued before the proceedings got underway. As I was pushed
inside, I caught a glimpse of a notice from the city plastered on
the wall. A pesky reminder that Carl's liquor license had been
revoked yet again.

I began to sweat, and it wasn't just nerves.
Either they kept the heat on in July or the building was
constitutionally sultry. PFZ had opened for an early buffet, and as
I was escorted up a narrow hallway we encountered a row of girls
busily pulling tiny strips of spandex over their bumps and
orifices. It looked as if Carl was too cheap to provide dressing
rooms. Dog let out a low growl and they pressed against the wall to
let us through. I caught my breath as I squeezed past them. Each
patch of flesh that I more or less fortuitously brushed against
raised my temperature, until the sweat was gushing. The air was
heavy with scents that reminded me of jasmine and thyme. The girls
seemed ready to smile in my direction, if only perfunctorily, but
when they realized I was under guard they lowered their eyes. I got
the impression I was not the first captive they had seen. 'Don't
ask don't tell' was implemented fully on the premises.

There was no sign of Barbara. With $20,000 in
hand there was a good chance she had taken the day off. I wondered
what my sister did to entertain herself. Go to the opera?

A bright light ahead announced the stage, but
Dog grabbed me before I could step out and make a spectacle of
myself. We turned into another dimly lit hallway which opened onto
a broad aisle lined with mirrors, makeup tables and wall lockers. I
doubted the girls had come to work dressed as they were and
wondered where they put their street clothes. The clothes hooks
shimmered with filmy skin-huggers, spangled briefs, masks, and
costumes. There was a leopard, a lioness, a phantom, plus the
standard leather paraphernalia. There was even a costume of a
giraffe. What kind of shows did they put on here, anyway? The
atmosphere was saturated with pheromones. Under normal
circumstances, two whiffs guaranteed an erection and three would
send the average male over the top. At the moment, though, any
change in underwear that I might require would result from
peristaltic fear. I was being escorted deeper and deeper into the
bowels of a sex club, past pleasure, past perversion, past Kinsey.
I anticipated a realm of unadulterated pain.

"Damn," Carl complained, wiping sweat off his
face. "I shouldn't be doing this by myself."

Dog, the perennially underappreciated
employee, ogled him with incredulous disdain. The traditional
comeback of the third-party onlooker went unspoken. It might be
hard to find good help these days, but under the circumstances it
was a case of 'far-be-it-for-me-to-say-so'.

We arrived in Carl's bland, functional
office. A metallic gray executive desk, dark wood, somber, bare
walls. Why plaster it with pinups when all he had to do was step
out the door? I found the ladderback chair in front of the desk
alarming in the extreme. It was perfectly situated for tough
interrogations. A turn of the lamp on the desk would put unwilling
guests under the spotlight. 'Where were you on the night of...'

I wasn't surprised when Dog shoved me into
the chair while Carl slid into a high-backed executive chair behind
the desk.

"Think we should tie him up?" Carl asked Dog
jovially.

In response, Dog went to a nearby file
cabinet and pulled out a length of rope. Jeez, I marveled, T for
Torture. What else was in there? Whips and chains? These guys were
clowns
deluxe
.

"The cuffs might be neater," Carl sighed,
like some back lot prophet dismayed that his acolyte had taken his
parable too literally. OK, so maybe they didn't bind and gag all
their interviewees, but that begged the question of why the rope
was there in the first place. Maybe it was reserved for more
refined moments. Maybe it was Carl's personal stash. I would have
to check his wrists for rope burns.

Dog reached into the cabinet and pulled
out a pair of handcuffs. Didn't they keep any
files
in there? What next, the French
tickler?

"I'll stay put," I gulped as Dog
approached.

"Not after we start on you," Carl said
calmly.

"What if I cross my heart?"

"We'll do that for you." But seeing that they
might get what they wanted without going to more effort, Carl
relented and waved Dog off. The biscuit eater tossed the cuffs back
into the cabinet drawer without comment. He knew I wasn't going
anywhere, no matter what. Not until I spilled whatever it was I was
supposed to spill. Besides, he was distracted when Monique charged
into the office.

Her heart-shaped pasties announced an
abundance of love, both above and below. I don't care what the
letter of the law says. This gal was naked. Her seamless sensuality
gave me a hard rap on the head. From across the room I could smell
something like confectioners' sugar. She was a walking funnel
cake.

"It's just a girl," Carl snapped. "Ogling is
for paying customers."

I would have thought employees got first dibs
on merchandise, but it was obvious Carl was including Dog in his
rebuke. Shoplifting among the staff is a chronic problem for
retailers.

With Dog so obviously losing his focus, I
should have used the opportunity to make a break for the door. It
would have provided Dog with the perfect excuse to become ensnarled
with Monique as he chased me. Carl's gun lay on the desk, but the
girl would have blocked his line of fire.

Yes, I thought of this line of action. But a
fine-looking girl in the flesh and in the raw isn't something I
have the privilege of seeing every day. You might think I'm being
juvenile about all this, but prurience is an instinct as strong as
survival, and you can guess which won out. Well, you don't have to
guess. I'm telling you. Sex won out. I had sometimes thought that,
had sex been a weapon and had anyone bothered, I would have been
killed long ago. I wondered if I should raise this possibility with
Carl. Leave me in this room with Monique for half an hour, and I
would walk out a corpse. Not only that, but I would spill the
beans, so to speak.

"You know better than to barge in here like
this," Carl said to Monique.

"Yeah, I know, and I know you shouldn't have
me do my set in front of a bunch of pussywhips."

"What are you talking about?" said Carl,
puzzled. "This is the Panty Free Zone!" He seemed offended by the
notion that his customers might be ill-mannered.

"It's
lunch
time, for crying out loud!" Monique thrust
her confectionary buffet in Carl's direction. "These are mostly
state employees! They shouldn't be drunk."

"So write the governor."

"You don't even have a liquor license!"
Monique stormed. "They're sozzled before they get here!"

Being reminded that his liquor license
had been revoked made Carl drunk with rage. He slammed his fist on
the desk and howled, "Don't you have half a brain? We're lucky to
get any saps at all without that license. Have you or have you not
noticed: I've been reduced to serving
buffets
! The only difference between me and Aunt
Sarah is you! So get out of here and get back on stage!"

Monique was only mildly fazed by her
employer's wrath. I suspected some form of protection beyond the
presence of Dog, who was fit to be tied on hearing Carl yell at his
lady-love this way. She probably could spread tales of his kinky
sex habits. Something to do with gerbils, for example. Or maybe he
wore his condoms backwards, with the doodads inside. Not out of
preference, but stupidity.

She didn't exactly stare Carl down, but held
his gaze long and hard enough to let him know he was only a
part-owner of his emotions. Her eyes drifted to Dog, all jittery
from a kind of canine angst, a drooling act that could have made
him the star of Animal Planet if any of us had seen fit to bring a
camera. Judging from her expression, Monique had a bucketful of
painful memories from past encounters. She quickly flicked those
lovely spangled peepers away from him. They landed on me, the last
of the sorry lot.

"You," she said.

"We met—"

"Don't remind me how we met," she huffed
nicely, but with more emphasis than justified by our brief
acquaintance. "Last time I saw you, you had chest of money."

Weakened by the proximity of guns and gals, I
nodded feebly.

"So what, they're trying to squeeze more out
of you?" To my horror and delight, she accompanied her suggestion
by briefly closing her hands over her breasts, as if to say she was
familiar with the routine.

"I don't know why I'm here," I answered
weakly.

"I know how you feel," Monique nodded. I
wanted to disagree. She might not know what she was doing, but at
least she was making a buck doing it. I seemed to be doing the
reverse. Then she added, puzzingly, "This is early in the day for
you, isn't it?"