Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brethren to dwell together in unity . . .
—Psalms cxxxiii:1
"I'll show you some of the Function Rooms first," Tim said as we strolled down the hall.
I was startled. "You hold conventions here? Speeches and panel discussions?"
He chuckled. "Not that kind of function room. I mean each one has a specific function. You just left the Teenager's Bedroom, male version. The female version's pretty much the same, and it's occupied at the moment anyway. Same for the Doctor's Examining Room and the Executive's Office. But here's the Locker Room—"
I understood him now. Fantasy scenario rooms. I'd heard of such things—but I'd never expected to see any as realistic as the one I'd just left . . . or the one we entered now.
It even lacked a doorknob, like real locker rooms do. And when we got inside . . . well, it was funny: it smelled right, and it didn't. I mean, there were enough authentic locker room smells—soap, water, terry cloth, basketballs, talcum—to make your subconscious accept it as a real locker room . . . but it didn't have the sour sweat and old mildew smells that usually make you want to leave one as quickly as possible. The benches between the banks of lockers were a little wider than usual, and there were more mirrors than I was used to. There was a working shower room off to the left, with a non-skid floor that wasn't completely dry yet.
"Boys' or girls'?" I asked Tim. Echo of locker room tile . . .
"Depends on which bank of lockers you open. Each bank has a full complement of utensils, in the locker with the lock on it. As a matter of fact, you might end up spending time here, if you decide to join us: we haven't got a good Gym Teacher at the moment."
For the sake of my cover, I tried to look as if I was giving it some thought. Beneath the surface, I gave it some thought.
"If that suits you, of course," he added. "That's the very best thing about this place: no one ever has to take a gig or a client they don't want."
Now that was something I'd never heard of before in a whorehouse. If it was true, then maybe it was conceivable that I might, for a few days, experimentally, in the line of duty . . .
"But you've got the build for a gym teacher, and a macho face," Tim finished.
There's a way he could have said that and pissed me off—not that I would have showed it. But he didn't say it like that, like flirting; he said it like a casting director. I decided I had nothing against the guy.
"Maybe," I agreed. "That leads to a few fairly basic questions, though."
"Ask away, Ken. By the way, has anybody ever told you that you look a hell of a lot like—"
"Yeah," I interrupted flatly, and he had sense enough to drop it. "First of all, what's the split here for beginners?"
He looked startled. "We're starting from square one, then. Brace yourself, Ken. There is no split. We're on straight salary here."
I stared at him. "Straight salary?"
"Weekly check, withholding taken out and everything. You get a nice chunk of circus money back from the IRS every spring."
I didn't get it. "Then you don't have any incentive to hurry up and get to the next customer."
"Exactly," he said, nodding as if I'd said something intelligent. "Some of the artists who are already pros when they get here take a while to unlearn that habit. The Lady says good art shouldn't be rushed."
Like I said, there's nothing I hate as much as trying not to look surprised. But I was beginning to like this place. "What's the starting salary?"
"Oh, we all get the same. Only way to avoid squabbles." He named a sum. "Plus room and board, of course."
Let's just say it was significantly more than a PI makes, okay?
"And tips?" I managed to say.
He looked a little sheepish. "Well . . . tipping is discouraged. But it's gently discouraged; if somebody just insists. . . ." He grinned. "But bragging about it is strongly discouraged. Ballpark, I'd say you could take in anything from Zilch to—twenty-five percent of your base salary. I can tell you I never have any trouble keeping up my Christmas Club deposits during vacation."
"Vacation?"
"Mandatory. You pick when, but it has to add up to three months a year. Paid."
I gave up: this was one of those conversations where even the hero can be forgiven for looking surprised. "Paid?"
"Full salary. To discourage you from free-lancing somewhere else. The Lady says she doesn't like to see a good artist burn out."
I was beginning to wonder if I really was in the wrong line of work. If he was telling the truth about never having to take a gig you didn't want . . . Maybe, if I did a real good job on this caper, Lady Sally would consider letting me stay on staff.
Of course, that raised the disturbing question, was I talented enough? Ten minutes earlier the question would never have occurred to me. Now, I wasn't so sure. This was a class operation.
I unbuttoned my coat and loosened my tie. "This place is something else," I said, and meant it.
"You said a mou—" Tim began, and checked himself. "Excuse me. You have to watch it around here or the double-entendres get a little thick on the ground. Uh . . . 'You said a great deal.'"
I was starting to like him. So what if he was a little kinky? It was none of my business, was it? "Around here, that's a double-entendre too, seems like."
He grinned. "You won't get an argument out of me."
Idly, I opened a locker. Hanging from a hook was a middy blouse and some girls' underwear. Not Frederick's of Hollywood stuff. I mean plain white cotton like real girls wear. Gym shorts and tee shirts were folded on the top shelf. I continued giving thought to being a Gym Teacher, and closed the locker. "The Lady must whack the johns pretty good to pay that well."
Tim's grin flickered. "We don't call them johns, Ken. We don't think of them as johns—or janes. Or tricks. They're clients."
"Sorry," I said.
"I heard the Lady say once that she'd call them 'patrons and patronesses,' if the word 'patronizing' didn't have such unfortunate connotations these days. But that's the relationship. We're performance artists, and they're patrons of the art. It just happens that about eighty percent of the time, the art involves orgasm for the client. And about the same for the artist."
My understanding was that prostitutes rarely really climax themselves. Female ones, anyway; I guess it'd have to be different for guys, wouldn't it? And—"Not a hundred percent? For the clients, I mean."
"Well, a few don't want orgasm. A small percentage of unfortunates aren't capable. And some folks get to having such a good time downstairs, they forget."
I tried to imagine having such a good time at a whorehouse that I forgot to get laid. I was beginning to understand what Lady Sally meant about rupture. Just about everything I thought I knew about whorehouses was wrong. Well, here, anyway. "Downstairs?"
"In the Parlor and the Lounges."
"Tell me about them."
"Ah, you must have come in the VIP entrance. Well, there are three others, two little Lounges and a big Parlor. It's the Parlor that's the most fun."
"Why three?"
"Some people that come to a House, especially newcomers, feel a little easier if they know that all the people they're going to meet of the opposite sex are artists. And some prefer to associate with their own sex. So we have a Male-Only and a Female-Only Lounge, with entrances on the east and west sides, respectively. Clients are asked to use discretion in cruising other clients there . . . but it isn't prohibited. But generally, the best party is the Parlor. We'll come to it, don't worry."
I grinned. "'Get' to it, you mean. Those double-entendres again."
He smiled back. Then suddenly one eyebrow raised. "That's up to you, Mr. Taggart. Uh . . . the Gym Teacher's office is right over there . . . and the other boys have all gone to class. And if I don't pass Gym, my Dad is gonna kill me . . ."
Now here's a funny thing. I was not interested, okay? But I didn't get mad either, and I'm not sure I can tell you why. Maybe it was that he didn't make the offer as if he already knew the answer, if that makes any sense. I didn't feel insulted by it, any more than you'd be insulted if somebody offered you a Coke when you prefer Pepsi.
So there wasn't any anger to try and keep off my face. I studied his . . . and saw that he was not going to judge me, one way or the other, whatever I decided. So I used the rest of the second or two I had before I had to make some kind of response to let myself actually imagine what such a thing might be like—
—and I guess I must have blushed—for the first time in twenty years!—because he went right on smoothly, ". . . . but the night is young, and you've got a lot to see. Maybe you'd rather continue the tour right now."
"If that's okay," I said.
"Sure," he said, and held the door for me. I took one last look around the place, thought briefly about what would have happened if a pretty girl had made me the same offer. Lady Sally was no fool. I went back out into the hall.
As we went by a door its red light went out, and it opened. A client came out, smiling beatifically, and gave us a friendly nod. I carefully avoided staring, just nodded back and kept on my way. As I got about three steps past, he registered. Long brown hair like a hippie. Big full beard too. Broad shoulders and sensitive features. Work shirt, jeans and beat-up boots. A carpenter's tool belt around his hips. And he was on a crutch . . .
I turned around to take a second look at him. He was gone. I hadn't heard the door open again . . .
Naaaaaaah.
I told myself not to get punchy, and turned around again and hurried after Tim.
"Neither Dungeon is in use at the moment," he said, "but I wouldn't go into Mistress Cynthia's without asking first. I'll show you Master Henry's. They're pretty much identical."
The door we went through was just like the others. But the room inside was made of immense grey stone blocks, genuine ones—which meant expensive floor reinforcement. But that was the least of its unusual aspects. It wasn't the kind of room you could take in at a glance.
Oh, a glance told you it was a dungeon. It looked like any movie dungeon you ever saw, with chains dangling from the walls and ceiling here and there, and a scattering of the usual props, cages and racks and bondage crosses and suspension rigs and so on. But there were a lot of gadgets I just plain couldn't figure out at first.
One, for instance, was simply a vertical pole, with what looked like a model of a steamboat's paddle wheel at its base. I recognized the object on the top of the pole, of course, but: "What would you want one that high off the ground for?"
Tim kind of twinkled. "That's the Stairway to Hell. Once Master Henry has someone perched up there, they kind of have to rest their weight on the wheel down below. Only the wheel turns . . ." He turned it with a foot to demonstrate. "So you sort of have to keep climbing, until Henry's good and ready to let you down. Which, of course, is the minute you say whatever code word you and he have worked out. It's an interesting sensation, for as long as you're enjoying it . . . and it does wonders for the calves and thighs."
I was a little distracted. When he'd turned the wheel, something had glowed briefly on the floor nearby. I had never seen a light bulb quite that shape before. It drew power from the treadmill through a long slender cord—presenting the treader with an interesting dilemma. "For the female clients only, I assume?" I asked pointing.
"No, it can be used for men too, with a couple of rubber bands. But don't worry: an Olympic sprinter couldn't get it hot enough to really burn. Quite. Nothing in this room can really hurt you, no matter how much it looks like it, not if an expert like Henry's using it."
To each his own, I kept thinking to myself. I could think of a couple of people I'd like to see on the Stairway to Hell. But Tim made it sound like a roller coaster ride—"fun, while you're enjoying it." I glanced around the room to hide my confusion. "That looks kind of weird here. What's that gizmo there under . . . Oh!"
At first glance it was a kid's swing set, with a single swing. I noticed the two holes in the seat—the big keyhole-shaped one in the middle and the small bolt-sized hole just behind it—at the same time that I identified the "gizmo" on the floor just beneath it as another light bulb (this one a conventional heat-lamp) on a pole, wired to a wall socket. A second after that I noticed the spring-clips high up on either chain of the swing . . .
"That's another of Henry's endurance trips," Tim explained. "Once you're seated and slotted and the lamp's heated up underneath, you pretty much have to keep swinging. Henry likes setups that do a lot of the work for him. And he does enjoy the challenge of a moving target."
There was something else odd about the room. I stopped looking at individual items of equipment and tried to figure out what it was. Finally it came to me: the place didn't smell like a dungeon. I mean, I always expected one to smell kind of moldy and dank and sweaty and funky—and this smelled kind of more like a good hotel room. And there wasn't a bloodstain to be seen anywhere. Not even a fake one. I cast a quick glance over a sort of tool rack on the wall. "Some of that stuff looks like it could really lay a hurtin' on somebody."
"Improperly used, hell yeah," Tim agreerd. "Henry generally asks the clients beforehand exactly how long they want to remember the experience afterward, and I've never known him to be off by as much as an hour. Ask him to let you sit in sometime: he can teach you more about the human nervous system than anyone but Mistress Cynthia. Even Doctor Kate asks him stuff sometimes."
A voice came out of the ceiling. The same one as in the Teenager's Bedroom, the invisible Mary. "Will you be much longer, Tim?"
He questioned me with his eyes, and said, "No, we're pretty much done here, Mary."
"Thanks, Tim. Henry and Brandi are on the way with a client."
"We're out of here."
We left and continued on down that amazing hall. "You've seen enough of the Function Rooms to get the idea," Tim said. "Now I'll show you my Studio. It's pretty typical."
"You have Studios, too?"
"Well, the Function Rooms are fun . . . but that much theater can get a little, I don't know, elaborate as a steady diet, don't you think? I'd say half of the clients that use them are newcomers. Generally they try half a dozen, then stick with one or two for a few more nights, and then they get it out of their systems and spend most of their time in a regular Studio. Or in the Parlor, some of them."
That reminded me of something. "You never did get around to saying what all this costs the clients."
He looked embarrassed. "Do you know, I don't know? It's different for everybody, I know that much. But I couldn't even guess at an average."
I stopped walking. "Different for everybody?"
He stopped obligingly too. We were just passing the top of a spiral staircase. Party sounds drifted up from below. "The first time a client comes here, Lady Sally interviews him or her in her office. At the end of the interview she names a fee. Flat-rate, just like we're on salary. You get billed at the end of the month, I understand. I don't understand what she bases the rate on, but I do know it's subject to renegotiation if your financial situation changes one way or the other."
"What if a client doesn't tell Sally he got a raise?"
"He prays she doesn't find out, I guess. It doesn't happen often. Anyway, all I can tell you for sure is that some of my clients are stockbrokers, and some are waitresses or garment workers."
I found myself wondering what she charged PIs. I would have to ask, when all this was over. Maybe it would be smart to do a good job even if it didn't get me on staff here . . .
"That's the Women-Only Lounge just downstairs, by the way," Tim said. "You'll see the Men's Lounge later, and it's the same basic layout with different decor. It's over in the other wing."
I was slowly getting it through my head that this entire block-sized four-story building was all Lady Sally's House. How could you possibly finance something like this, pay the wages she did, and take busboys for clients? Then I remembered who had sent me here. It didn't take too many clients of that caliber to bring up an average.
Then I forgot all about the economics of Lady Sally's Place. Three people were coming up the hallway toward us, from the direction we were headed—and all of a sudden I realized one of them was holding a gun on the other two!
I started to go for my own heater, and remembered I was not heeled. He had me cold.
I was considerably more embarrassed than I had been back in the Locker Room when Tim had made his gentle pass—and mad at myself. This, I told myself, is what happens when you start letting things surprise you. The first thing you know, some guy draws down on you and you don't even see it coming. Yeah, Sally was going to be real happy with my work. Inside of fifteen minutes I managed to find the guy . . . and get taken by him. I felt adrenalin flowing . . .
Could I depend on Tim for assistance? On balance, I didn't think so. The guy with the piece looked like a real hardcase, shaved head and shoulders like a gorilla. The couple he was herding, an old guy and his young wife, looked terrified; they were both useless or worse, I planted my feet and got a good grip on the sap and tried to identify the caliber of the gun—
—and that was what really paralyzed me.
"Hi, Tim," the guy said as they all went past us.
"Henry," Tim said, nodding, "I see you brought dinner home."
"Rare," Henry agreed, and ushered his two prisoners into the Dungeon ahead of him. The old guy went in first—and as the girl followed, she turned her head and gave me a wink! The door closed behind them.
"That was Brandi," Tim said, "You'll like her. She's great."
I took a deep breath. "People shouldn't oughta point guns," I said very quietly.
Tim was instantly apologetic. "I'm sorry, Ken, I should have realized: you're new. Anyone else here would know it was a water pistol."
"Pretty damned realistic one." I was angry, that special kind you get when you know your anger isn't reasonable.
"Henry keeps it full of perfume. Bad perfume. People try hard not to get shot."
I let it go. "So Brandi is an artist too?"
"Yeah, a submissive like me. That poor client is going to have to sit there helplessly and watch while Henry does terrible things to his 'wife' . . . and I guarantee he'll be astonished by how much she likes it."
"And one client can tie up—I mean, occupy two artists at once? With no time limit?"
"If that's what he or she wants. Art takes whatever it takes. I don't know: I suppose if someone consistently wanted large numbers for unreasonable periods, the Lady might raise their rate. I'm not really sure."
Now I was baffled by economics again. Screw it: Lady Sally's finances were none of my concern. "Let's see that Studio."
"Well, we're actually out of the Function area now: all the rest of these are Studios. But mine is around the bend. This way."
We turned a corner at the end of the hall, and midway along that corridor passed another spiral staircase, much bigger than the last one, and with much more riotous party sounds drifting up from below. I smelled booze faintly, and tobacco even more faintly, and not much else. There was a live piano down there, somebody playing Hoagy Carmichael. "That's the Parlor," Tim said. "We'll be going down there soon. Don't worry, you can't miss anything: it's always fun there."
Just around the next bend to the left, into the wing paralleling the one I'd just seen, Tim stopped and opened a door. Inside was a studio apartment with bath.
I looked around, surprised yet again. It looked like just what I said, a studio apartment—a pretty nice one. Beer fridge. Stereo. Small TV on a mahogany dresser. (None of the three seemed to have a power cord. Sally must go through a lot of batteries.) An armchair and a closet. There was even a window, with nice curtains. The only unusual item visible was the large mirror on the ceiling over the bed—and it had a cloth tapestry covering it, with a cord dangling down near the head of the bed that let you pull away the tapestry if you wanted.
I opened the top drawer of the dresser experimentally, and now it was an artist's Studio. Very impressive selection. Same brand of condoms I use. The fur glove looked interesting. I closed the drawer and flicked on the TV. They always cop your attention, but this one tried harder than most. I shut it off again. "That closed circuit from somewhere else in the House?" I asked idly. I saw no cables of any kind.
Tim looked shocked. "Jesus, no! Anybody that likes to be watched can always go down to the Bower—I'll show you later. Anyone else here has their privacy respected, at all times."
"Is that right, Mary?" I asked.
"You're goddam right," she said from the center of the room.
"Mary has to keep an ear on the place," Tim said a little defensively. "What if a crazy got past all the screens, or a client had a heart attack? The rooms are all soundproof, they have to be. And yes, there are tape backups in case she gets distracted for a minute. But they're erased every week, and no one hears them except her and sometimes Lady Sally. And we try not to talk about it in front of clients if we can avoid it. The only way people can really relax here, Ken, is if they have confidence that nothing they say will leave the room."
"Well, that makes sense."
"I mean it. Clients are not used here against their will. If you like to work in places where they have hidden cameras, you're in the wrong place."
I realized he was really angry. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything. I'm glad to hear it, okay?"
He relaxed. "Okay."
"No offense, Mary?"
"No offense," she agreed.
"So this is where you live, Tim?" I said, looking around again.
Again he looked shocked. "God, no! This is where I work, most of the time. My apartment is upstairs on the third floor with everybody else's. You've worked places where you had to sleep in the same room you worked in?
"Well, I've heard of them," I temporized. "And this room doesn't look too hard to take."
"The one upstairs isn't a lot different," he agreed. "But it's home. This is more like the office." He smiled. "You're right, though, it's a pretty nice office. Want to see home?"
I guess it's silly that being invited to see a prostitute's home should feel somehow more intimate than being invited in to see his Studio. Well, it does, that's all. "Maybe a little later. I'm kind of curious to check out that Parlor."
"A much better deal," Tim agreed. "I'm a rotten housekeeper."
I glanced around. "Doesn't look like it to me."
"Oh, Robin keeps all the Studios tidy. Have you met him?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Well, let's go downstairs."
"In just a second," I said, and then waited.
So did he.
I lit a smoke, pocketed the lighter, and decided to get it off my chest. I was curious . . . and when would I ever get another chance to ask somebody? "Uh, Tim—"
"Just lucky, I guess."
"—huh?"
"Weren't you going to ask how a nice boy like me ended up in a place like this?"
"Well . . . close. Uh . . . look, I got no problem with gay—or bi, or whatever. I can kind of understand gay, I guess. I just don't understand the submissive thing." He didn't look offended . . . but he didn't take me off the hook, either. "Well, I mean, you're the first guy I knew to talk to that . . . uh . . . took that kind of work. I guess I was wondering if maybe you could, you know, explain it to me. Not what happens, I understand that part . . . I mean, how you could let some guy do stuff like that to you. If you don't mind my asking."
Look, I've got an image to think about, and part of me did feel silly, being apologetic to a masochist. But I found myself wanting to like the guy. That meant I either had to understand his kink, or make believe he didn't have it. A detective shouldn't ought to do that last one. So I asked careful.
And I guess I did it right, because he didn't get pissed off. He just gave it some thought, like if I'd asked him how come they put mailboxes in front of the post office, and then took a shot. "I guess," he said, "what I like best is the sense of being in control."
"Huh?"
"Calling the shots. Running things." He misunderstood my expression. "I know, pretty immature, huh? The Lady says not to worry, I'll outgrow it when I'm ready. She says it's not bad as power complexes go. I just love being the one who runs the fuck."
Paradoxes I was prepared to accept from this place, but outright contradictions seemed a little excessive.
This time he figured out my face. "Oh. You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? Don't feel bad: it surprises everybody the first time. It is sort of counterintuitive. You see, Ken, no one in any sexual relationship has as much control as the bottom in a dominance and submission scene. The tops are there to concentrate on producing intense but very specific sensations in you; their own are their own business. You're the complete center of attention, most of the time you're passive, you don't have to make any decisions, and all you really have to do is receive surprise gifts, from a rigidly and specifically limited menu of choices. The one thing you can be certain of is that if you say the First Word—or make the First Grunt, if you happen to be gagged—whatever is happening to you will ease off a notch . . . and if you say the Second Word, it will stop instantly."
"And sadists will all actually respect that? Every time?"
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a good bottom? Once you do, you don't want to risk annoying them. Oh hell, of course it's different with real sadists, outside in the world. The ones who aren't playing, I mean. But you go to any S&M club in the world, and tell me if you've ever heard anyone as apologetic and sheepish as a top who's just been given the First Word by a new bottom. Didn't you ever see some rich person take guff from a servant?"
"I guess."
"Once about five years ago a sicko managed to slip past Lady Sally somehow. Not interested in repeat trade. This happened to Brandi, not to me. The second time he ignored the First Word, Mary called Priscilla. During working hours, she's never more than sixty seconds away from anywhere on the second floor. They said it was twenty-seven seconds from the call until Pris arrived. He was just ignoring the Second Word. Pris . . . well, let's just say she broke something. But that was after she hit the quick-release knots and turned Brandi loose."
"What if they hadn't been quick-release knots?"
"She'd have been upstairs sooner—before the second one was tied."
"What happened to the guy?"
"The Lady gave him a permanent invitation to the world. Had him tossed out on the sidewalk and barred for life. Nowadays I imagine he spends his nights in search of a woman with a right-angle bend."
I winced, and shifted my Lucky to the other side of my mouth as if smoke in my eye had caused the wince.
"Sort of poetic justice, really. I mean, if penetration is possible at all for him, it must require extreme cooperation."
Time to change the subject. "So anyway, what you're saying is, nothing happens to you here that you don't enjoy?"
He nodded. "That's it. It just happens that I enjoy a slightly more exotic range of sensations than most people."
"I guess right there is what I don't get. I mean, to me, pain hurts. And fear is scary."
"Me, too. If I stub my toe on the way into the Dungeon, I swear as loud as anybody—and I'm terrified when I walk through Times Square, say. But pain and fear are slippery things to define, Ken. So is enjoyment. Have you ever been on a roller coaster?"
"Sure."
"Did you 'enjoy' it?"
I took a drag, and didn't answer right away.
"Ever get pinched during sex, harder than you'd tolerate from a chiropractor, and like it?"
"Well—"
"Or have you ever been in danger, been under fire or something, and realized part of you was enjoying it?"
Oof. He was getting close to where I lived, now. That was half the fun of being a PI: those occasional adrenalin-charged moments on the edge, dancing with Death . . . living fully and totally, at the edge of the void. I remembered the faint sense of disappointment I'd felt, just for a split second, when I'd realized that it was a water pistol Henry was packing, the brief feeling of having been cheated.
"I guess," I said slowly. "I guess I just never thought of combining that with sex."
"Neither do most folks. Lady Sally has over forty artists on staff at the moment—and two of us are submissives, and two dominant."
"Wait a second—what about that Robin guy?"
"Oh, Robin's not an artist! He's a client, Probably the most devoted customer Lady Sally has."
"Oh."
"And I'm not exclusively submissive either . . . because there just isn't enough demand to keep me busy full-time at it. One thing you'll find out here is that pretty much nobody is anything exclusively. Even Cynthia and Henry have clients who just want to go into a Studio with them; the flavor is enough for them."
"But Cynthia and Henry never go submissive."
"Well, back when they were training, sure: you can't be a really good top if you've never been a bottom. But they don't take that role any more these days, no. I guess it's like me with my power hangup: one day they'll relax a little too, maybe, but in the meantime there are people that need them, and vice versa. Their business."
I nodded. "I just want to get this straight. You submit to, uh, male and female clients, both? And Brandi too?"
"Right, and Cyn and Henry switch-hit too. No pun intended. I'd say a little more than half of the male artists are bisexual at least occasionally—and about ninety percent of the women. But Lady Sally has nothing against monosexuals. She says the only real perversions are nymphomania, satyriasis and celibacy, and she even tolerates them in the House."
"Don't you artists worry a lot about AIDS? And other VD?"
"Sure. But most of what happens here is safe sex. And every client has to leave a blood sample with Doctor Kate, before their first visit and once a month thereafter—once a week if they're into risky practices. On the rare sad occasions when someone tests positive, we restrict them to safe-sex only . . . and if it's AIDS, we send them to Ruth. She's good at counselling the dying. So far we've never had an artist infected with anything worse than crabs."
I began to feel somewhat easier in my mind about this whole thing. If you'd have told me an hour before that I'd ever find myself a little sheepish about being straight . . . "Is it all right if I ask, Tim: how did you get to the place where you found you didn't mind a little pain?"
He smiled gently. "I don't think I know you well enough to tell that story, Ken. Yet I rarely tell it voluntarily. People usually have to make me . . ."
Oh. "Oh. Well, maybe another time, then." I thought to myself that if I had my druthers, I'd ruther ask Brandi the same question. But I had to admit I was intellectually curious. A little, anyway . . .
"Right, I'm supposed to be showing you around. But I'll give you a quick, short answer for now: one day I figured out it is absolutely impossible to rape someone who refuses to withhold consent."
I was going to have to think about that one.
"All right, enough of the second floor," he went on. "Time for you to see the Parlor."
True enough. I'd been in a bordello for something approaching an hour, and with the exception of a flash glimpse of the Cardinal's Companion (most of her obscured by his robes), all the women I'd seen so far had been fully dressed. Surely things would be different at an orgy. "Sounds good to me. Uh . . . is there any easy way I can tell the, uh, clients from the artists?"
He looked surprised, and gave it some thought. "I don't see how. But it won't matter. If you see someone you want, just ask politely if they'd like to go upstairs with you. Since no money changes hands, it doesn't make much difference if you guess wrong."
I still had a little capacity for surprise left. "The Lady doesn't mind if a couple of artists goof off together?"
"Ken, as far as I can tell, Lady Sally doesn't mind anything human beings can do that doesn't involve former food or former people. If two artists started spending a lot of time together during working hours, she might talk to them long enough to make sure they realize they're falling in love; maybe suggest they consider working a double act. But an isolated incident or two she'd chalk off to employee morale, as long as there weren't customers being ignored. She's easy to work for—if you be straight with her."
"I'm beginning to get that through my head," I agreed. I stubbed out my cigarette. "Okay, on to the Parlor."
As we went back outside, I saw two people in the hall. The one I saw first, facing me, was why the preacher danced.
She was blonde, five-six, maybe one-forty. She was wearing slippers. A real blonde, or a thorough fake. Now this was more like what I'd been expecting when I started. I controlled my face and walked forward . . .
Within a few steps I had registered her companion: an American Indian, with long straight hair in an embroidered headband, and a profile like you used to see on nickels. He was replacing one of the little red peanut bulbs next to a door. As I approached, the blonde handed him the new bulb. It was an interesting thing to watch.
"Greetings, Many Hands," Tim said, and the Indian nodded gravely. "Hi, Arethusa. I want you guys to meet Ken Taggart. He might be coming to work here."
The Indian nodded again . . . and Arethusa came into my arms and kissed me.
I don't know how long it lasted. I remember thinking that she wasn't completely naked after all: in addition to the slippers, she was wearing a mild, pleasant perfume. I remember thinking that her double-breasted suit beat mine all to hell. And there was a time when I wasn't thinking anything at all.
She stepped back finally and smiled. "You're certainly equipped for it," she said positively. "Welcome aboard, Ken: I hope you stay. Time we had some fresh . . . uh . . . blood around here."
"Thanks," I said. "You make it attractive." She dimpled nicely.
"We're just on our way to the Parlor," Tim explained.
"Well, if that doesn't do it, nothing will," she agreed. "Maybe I'll see you later, Ken."
"It wouldn't surprise me," I said. Tim collected a kiss of his own, shorter than mine but just as intense, then turned her loose and led the way onward. She didn't move aside as I brushed past.
We turned the corner and headed for the big spiral staircase. "What did you say her name was?" I whispered to Tim. "I didn't catch it."
"Arethusa," he said, and spelled it for me. "It may be the loveliest name I've ever heard for a blonde artist. It was the name of a nymph in classic antiquity. Now it means an orchid, Arethusa Bulbosa—which you have to admit is a pretty accurate description—and the books say that orchid is characterized by a 'solitary rose-purple flower fringed with yellow.' Is that great or what?"
I had to grin. "You're right. That's the best—" The penny dropped, and I stopped in my tracks at the top of the staircase. "Hey!"
"What?" Tim asked innocently.
I sighed. "All right. God damn it. I get it. What's the Indian's real name?"
Many Hands make light work. Right . . .
I guess it was sort of the equivalent of the berry juice thing, but the employees' version. And again I had passed. He grinned wickedly, and slapped me on the back. "You'll do just fine here, Ken. Just wanted to see if you were paying attention. Believe it or not, his real name is He Wears Funny Hats. 'Hats' for short."
"People make puns around here, huh?" I guess even Paradise has to have flaws.
"If you're thinking of working here, it's only fair to warn you," he admitted. "The Lady has a sign downstairs saying, 'No phanerogams in the Parlor, please,' for instance."
"That one I don't get. What kind of gams?"
"No, no. It's another scientific term. Means, 'one with visible reproductive organs.' And if you ever want to tickle the Lady, tell her she's 'spathic.' It's a geologist's term for rocks; it means, 'having good cleavage.' As you can see working here isn't always easy."
"Well; you picked a good time to tell me. That was nice perfume Arethusa had on." I don't know, the segue made sense to me.
"That perfume," he said, grinning archly, "she always has on."
"Seriously, I just realized: I've smelled perfume a few times so far . . . and it just came to me, it's always the same one."
"Oh sure," he said. "We all vote on the house perfume once a week. You have to: you wouldn't believe the cacophony of smells you'd get out here in the hallway otherwise."
I was slowly getting it through my head that there were subtleties to this artist business that I had never considered. I thought all you needed was an adequate supply of clean sheets.
"Let's go downstairs," I said.