The Reckoning (6 page)

One week before Thanksgiving, Royce’s plan to enjoy some quality time with his family had unraveled. Les was at the dining room table working on her project for banking school, and Craig, the sullen one, had retreated to the safety of his bedroom, leaving Royce alone in front of the TV.

On the screen, ABC’s Peter Jennings did a special on kids and violence. Royce vaguely wondered if he should invite Craig to watch it with him, then quickly nixed the idea as stupid. Frankly, his own life had been so unsettled lately he’d failed to keep up with current affairs. Hadn’t something big happened in Africa? Or was it in Afghanistan? He was always getting these backwards countries mixed up. Well, once things quieted down, he’d pay more attention.

His wife looked up from her electronic typewriter and asked, “What are Tony and Carmen doing for Thanksgiving?”

“Going to Carmen’s sister’s home.”

“And Brenda and the kids?”

“Her mother’s, I think.”

“Well, I’ve ordered a fifteen-pound turkey, so if you want to invite any orphans, we’ll have plenty.”

“Great.”

She went back to her work and Royce went into the kitchen and made himself a peanut butter sandwich. He choked half of it down with a slug of orange juice from the fridge.

“Mr. R., are you feeling all right?” Leslie asked.

“Yeah, just a little tired. My clients are keeping me busy with their year-end reports and planning for next year.” He stuffed the rest of the sandwich down the garbage disposal. “Maybe right after New Year’s we can get away for awhile, just you and me, I mean. I’d thought about getting us a computer, so you could throw away that typewriter and word process your projects like everyone else. They’re coming down in price. But maybe it would be better if we spent the money on a trip.”

She smiled. “That would be nice.”

“I mean, I know with Christmas bills coming in we can’t be too extravagant, but I saw in the paper Mexico is pretty cheap right now, with some good airfares and package deals. And Tony’s offered to take Craig for a few days.”

“All right,” she said flatly.

He knew he’d touched a raw nerve with her. Lately, she’d been even more concerned than usual about the Craig situation, going so far as to bring home some “How to Father” self-help books for him to read.

“Well,” he told her, “think about it.”

Having gone back to her project, she apparently didn’t hear him. Bruised, he went off to the bathroom and peed. On the way back to the living room, he peeked in on Craig.

The boy’s television was off and his bed was still made and empty. Cautiously, Royce intruded into the room.

“Craig?” he called softly. Maybe he’s gone downstairs, he thought.

“Craig?”

He was about to turn and leave when something in the closet caught his eye. Tiptoeing, he went over to the closet and peered around the sliding veneer door. Craig’s woeful big browns stared back. There was something bovine about those eyes. The way the child sat—knees tightly drawn to his chest—on the floor of the closet made him think of a calf in a veal pen.

Royce, embarrassed by his invasion, quickly left Craig’s bedroom and returned to the living room and his easy chair near the TV.

This new development in the “Craig thing”—as he and Leslie called it—was disturbing. Maybe those books were right: Craig, as the result of his mother’s divorce, was going through an emotional trauma having to do with feelings of abandonment, insecurity and anger.

Royce thought about telling Les, then decided against it. No use upsetting her now, what with her project to finish and the holidays to stew about and get through.

From his shirt pocket he pulled a pink business card. He ran his thumb over the embossed letters spelling “Naughty’s.” He flipped the card over, looked at the home phone number written on that side.

He wondered what Monica Pleshette was up to tonight.

The next morning Leslie had to attend a seven-thirty power breakfast southeast, so Craig was coerced into getting a ride to school with Royce.

“I could have walked,” the boy whined.

“I know, but it’s freezing.” Royce carefully guided the Cavalier through the narrow, snow-packed residential streets.

“Even Mom drives faster than you,” Craig said sourly. “If we had an SUV, like the other kids’ folks—”

“I know, an SUV,” he cut off the boy’s litany. How people could afford those behemoths was beyond him.

A frigid silence followed. Even with the heater going full blast, Royce felt it was colder inside the frigging car than out. The boy scrunched as far away from him as possible, really pressing his body into the passenger side door, and did his best imitation of James Dean as a Third Grader.

“Listen, Craig. I know things between us aren’t too good right now.”

The child scowled silently, not letting his stepfather off the hook.

“Just let me know if I can do anything to make it more right.” Christ, he was begging.

“Sure, you bet,” Craig replied sarcastically.

“I mean,” he bumbled on, “I know it would be better—your Mom would like it better—if you and I could get along more. I’m not trying to replace your father. I know I could never—and should never—come between you and Tom.”

“No matter what Mom says, I’m going to spend spring vacation with my Dad.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged, Craig.”

Royce pulled up at the school. Craig clawed his seatbelt off and practically tore the handle off to get out of the car.

“Just a sec,” Royce said, timidly taking hold of his stepson’s left parka sleeve. Craig glowered, and Royce quickly released his grasp, saying, “I just want you to know I’m here if you need me.”

Craig leaped from the car and slammed the door hard.

“Little shit,” Royce muttered, and immediately felt guilty for it.

Despite the icy conditions, Royce decided to take a long detour on the way to work. He drove west a few blocks to Old South Gaylord, a quaint little business district of specialty shops and restaurants.

He located Naughty’s at 1086 South Gaylord, tucked between an Italian restaurant and a French bakery. The shop’s storefront windows were completely blackened by velveteen curtains. Above the door hung one of those old-style pub signs, this one with the image of a Rubenesque woman, wearing a Victorian bodice and black stockings, carved into it; “Naughty’s Est. 1999,” the sign read.

It was eight-forty-five, which meant Monica’s store wouldn’t open for more than an hour. Royce pulled out of the parking space and headed downtown.

Brenda was hovering when he arrived at his office.

“I called Gary Ames’s secretary,” she announced to him dramatically. “About that woman.”

Royce scowled. He was weary of hearing his secretary prattle on about “that woman.”

“And?” he inquired.

“Gary Ames is on a photo safari in Kenya. He won’t be back in Baltimore until January 5th.”

“So?”

“So don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence? This Monica Pleshette—if that’s her right name—strolls in here and uses a reference we couldn’t possibly check out.”

Brenda gave him a smug, “so there” glare.

“Look, Brenda. This is a one-horse, small business consulting operation, not a European investment house. References aren’t required.”

“That bitch is bad!” she blurted.

“Oh for crying out loud!” It was a Mexican standoff between them, a battle of stares. For the life of him, Royce couldn’t figure out what was going on with Brenda. These outbursts just weren’t her style.

Finally, his secretary backed off, heading off to the Mr. Coffee machine next to the fax. “Coffee?” she called back to him.

“Sure.” He was glad she was in a more conciliatory mood.

She arrived with a cup for him.

“Thanks,” he told her, and hoped the situation was defused. “Listen, Brenda. All I ask is that you treat Ms. Pleshette with the same courtesy you treat all our clients. Let me worry about determining whether she is legit or not.”

“Then you better get started.”

“Pardon?”

“Determining if she’s legit or not. Your client has already called this morning, wanted me to set up an appointment for you to see her this afternoon—at her place.”

Butterflies in his stomach, Royce arrived at the lingerie shop just before two that afternoon. Curtains still blacked out the boutique’s windows, which kicked his imagination—and libido—into overdrive and put all sorts of notions in his head. Per the instructions on the brass doorplate, he pressed the buzzer and waited.

“Yes?” came a soft female purr. The door had opened a few inches.

“Royce McCulloch to see Monica Pleshette.”

The door opened wider. A blonde girl (couldn’t have been more than twenty) with a waif’s almost pretty face revealed herself to him and smiled. Her skin looked opaque.

“Come in, Mr. McCulloch. Ms. Pleshette is expecting you.”

He entered. The room was warm and redolent of Monica’s trademark scent. His winsome hostess modestly drew a short, filmy robe around her slender frame.

“If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll tell her you’re here.”

“All right,” he said, and watched her depart on smooth, coltish legs and bare feet through a curtain of red glass beads. Royce didn’t quite know what he’d expected (nothing he’d admit to himself, anyway), but this wasn’t it. The luxuriously carpeted room was feminine, precious: a French Provincial love seat, two satin chairs and a gold inlaid desk on which were a leather blotter and one of those ersatz antique phones fabricated of plastic ivory and brass; in all, a look of elegant respectability.

The heavy smell of perfume or room deodorizer he could have done without.

He removed his gloves and coat and set them on the love seat with his briefcase. The walls now drew his attention, along which were pen & ink drawings of ladies wearing Monica’s fashion creations. These depictions were considerably tame compared to the photo she’d shown him in his office.

The beads clicked.

“Ms. Pleshette asked that you come back to the fitting room.”

He drew aside the beads and followed the girl down a hallway to a room junky with mirrors and all sorts of skimpy women’s underthings hanging in all states of development. In the center of the room, a tall, raven-haired model in black leather boots, black leather bustier and black nylon stockings stood on a platform and was ministered to by Monica, whose kimono draped open to display the voluptuous contours of her bosom.

Royce gulped, started to draw back. This was clearly some kind of female inner sanctum, which made him uncomfortable.

The model in black drew back her long hair (parted in the middle) from her face and giggled wickedly at Royce. It was then he noticed her boobs were bare, their ample white beauty seemingly launched from the cups of the bustier.

“Thank you, Allison,” Monica told the blonde. “I’ll need you to close up this evening.”

“Yes, Ms. Pleshette,” Allison said sweetly and left.

“I apologize for all the craziness, Royce,” Monica said, as she tied the laces on the corset, “but we had a noon showing.”

“Showing?”

“Yes, we often host lunchtime fashion shows for men. It sort of breaks the ice for the shy guy a little intimidated about purchasing lingerie for his wife or girlfriend. As sales tools, I find the shows far more effective than a catalog. Turn for me a bit, Christine. Or I should say, Mistress Christine.”

Christine pivoted, her derriere now towards Royce. Monica’s long-nailed fingers stroked up the black nylon stockings and lightly snapped the strap of the black g-string from between the shapely buttock.

“Ouch,” Christine said.

Monica hitched up the girl’s garter belt and said, “And sometimes, for our very good customers, we do private modeling sessions, which is what Christine is primping for. There.” She Jell-O-patted a tender buttock and the model pivoted, once again facing him.

Royce’s face blazed.

“I think he’s embarrassed,” Christine said to her employer.

Monica laughed. “Don’t pay any attention to Christine, Royce. She’s just getting psyched for her dominatrix role. Honestly, you can’t imagine how popular these S&M outfits are—the fastest-growing segment of my gross sales. I guess men today are crying out to be punished.”

“Interesting.” Christine was playing games with him. Now, she lewdly flickered her tongue at him. It was pierced, with a silver stud through it. Royce’s penis trembled.

Monica reached for some rouge on a nearby dressing table. “Now, for the final touch.”

Christine bent over, her breasts spilling forward. Monica used her fingertips to rouge the girl’s pink nipples the color of dried blood. Meanwhile, Christine pouted her red glossed lips, taunting him some more.

“There, finished,” Monica announced proudly.

Christine stepped down and ramp strutted—boot heels clicking—over to the object of her teasing. She pirouetted before him.

“Do you think your Mistress is pretty, Slave?”

He was dumfounded. “Yes,” he finally managed, embarrassed.

“Then lick my boot,” Christine demanded.

“All right, Christine, that will be quite enough,” Monica said. “You don’t want to be late.”

Christine glowered at Monica, then let Royce help her on with a full-length fur coat.

Monica stuffed black, opera-length gloves, a whip and handcuffs into a gym bag and pressed it into Christine’s hands. “Don’t forget these, Mistress.”

Dark eyes flaring, the Mistress bared her incisors and hissed at Royce. “I’m outta here, Slave. But I’ll be back to whip your lily-white ass.”

He took a step back from the bitch. His chest hurt.

The “leathered one” left in a theatrical huff, and Monica gave her guest a shrug:
c’est la vie
.

“Now you know just how crazy my business can get. Still game for getting involved?”

A rush like a fast-moving subway train had filled his ears. Still, he was able to smile. “Sure.” He was sweating profusely.

“Good,” she said, smiling. “Come on. I know where we can talk and not be disturbed.”

He followed her to the far end of the hall and a door marked PRIVATE.

“My home away from home,” she explained, showing him into a room that looked like part study, part bedroom. “I have a condominium overlooking Inner Harbor, but work often dictates I sleep here. I guess you’d call it a working boudoir.”

Occupying nearly half the room’s floor space was a queen-sized waterbed that undulated gently. A little shaky now, Royce took a seat in a chintz armchair beside a coffee table and touched his fingertips to his clammy brow.

“Are you all right?”

“Uh?”

She was leaning very close to his face, that bosomy chest straining to bust out of her kimono. The woman’s cloying odor hit his stomach.

“You’re perspiring, Royce.”

He exhaled. “Yes.”

“Here.” She loosened his tie. “And get that jacket off.”

Monica got his suit coat off of him and he slumped back down in the chair. His shirt was soppy, and he trembled from the sudden chill.

His hostess whispered into a phone. Shortly, Allison entered with a snack tray that she placed on the coffee table.

“Thank you, Allison. You may go home now.”

“Thank you, Ms. Pleshette.” The girl gave Royce a wide-eyed look before departing.

Monica poured him a cup of green tea from an earthenware pot and encouraged him to help himself to a plate of “homemade” Rice Krispies bars made with marshmallow cream and butterscotch bits.

“I have low blood sugar,” she said. “If I don’t get my afternoon munchies, I start to fade.”

“Ah, yesss,” he slurred. Jesus, he wasn’t feeling any better. He reached for the steaming teacup and got down a shallow sip before spilling it on his thighs. “Jeezzz. Ah, Christ!” he wailed from the pain. “Sorry. I—”

“Don’t fret about it.” She was behind him, fingers poised at his shoulders. “There, there,” she simpered, starting to rub his back. “You’re just stressed out. That’s all.”

Her firm touch caused a soothing wave to radiate from the base of his skull. His jaw hinged open; the cords in his neck went slack.

“Better?”

“Much.”

She webbed her fingers across the point of his chin and gently drew him into her. Her silky nipples stroked the back of his head.

“Like that?”

“Mmmmm.”

“You just need to relax more. Doesn’t your wife give you massages?”

“No. Well, not like this.”

“Well, you should tell her a massage is the kindest thing you can do for someone.”

“Yes,” he agreed. His entire body was sprung.

“Later, you can give me a massage,” she said matter-of-factly.

His shoulders went back.

“Calm down now,” she scolded. “I mean it, Royce. I want you to relax.”

“Okay.” He was out of breath.

“Come with me,” she whispered in his left ear.

At that instant, he decided he would not—could not—resist any longer.

“All right,” he acquiesced.

She helped him to the waterbed.

“Flop down, darling.”

With an accompanying sloshing sound he stretched out on his back. The bed pitched under his weight. The bed heaved again, this time from his client’s added weight. She tenderly cradled his head in the crook of her left arm and used her right hand to untie and part her kimono. The breasts flopped heavily out, and she offered them to him.

Eagerly, he suckled the smothering orbs, their flesh warm, sinfully delicious. The perfume he licked off her skin reached his throat, settled in his stomach with a narcotic effect.

Monica made baby talk: “That’s what you want, isn’t it. Yes. Oh yes!” Her fingers worked at his belt buckle.

Overeager to nurse, Royce burped from taking too much air into his gut. Almost simultaneously, his nostrils pinched closed between the mammoth cleavage and he choked.

“Take it easy,” she soothed. “It’s all right now. You’ve come home to Momma.”