“Right behind you, sweetheart. Damn, I spilled my drink.”
“This way, Frankie. Tawnee going to show you good time, you see.”
“Might just be the other way around, honey,” the man, an American, slurred. He was clearly inebriated.
“I take care of your big cock. You see.”
“Bet your ass you will.” The man stumbled, bumping into walls like a pinball.
“You like that, Frankie?”
“Yeah, that’s wonderful.”
“You want to go in room now, Frankie?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“Okay, but money before is for boss man. You give Tawnee big tip, yes?”
“Let’s talk about it in the room.”
Michael froze. He saw the doorknob turn.
“No, Frankie, this way,” the whore said.
The door shook. “Damn door is stuck.”
“Over here, Frankie. That sign say no enter.”
“Fuck the sign, sweetheart. I’ll get us in. You just keep rubbing my balls.”
“No, Frankie, wrong room.” Her warnings were more urgent now, but Frankie did not pay heed. “That’s boss man’s room, Frankie. He get mad. Come over here. Frankie!”
Frankie threw his shoulder against the wood. The lock grudgingly gave way. Michael’s eyes widened as the door began to swing open.
“No, Frankie, wrong room.” The whore quickly reached through the portal. She maneuvered Frankie out of the way, fixed the lock, took hold of the door, and began to swing it closed. For the briefest of moments she looked at Michael, her eyes stained with fear and sympathy. Then she turned away. Michael’s heart sank as the door closed.
“Come on, Frankie,” the whore tried to enthuse. “We go have fun. You like too much.”
“I hope so, sweetheart. Let’s party!”
Then Michael heard another door open and close.
FRANKIE’S penis remained flaccid.
“What’s the matter, Frankie?” Tawnee asked. “You no like me?”
Frankie looked down. The whore was licking his balls—and doing a yeoman’s job of it too. Still, no hard-on. Super-strange. Frankie’s sexual dysfunctions usually came from the flip side of a softy: premature eruption of ol’ Mount Vesuvius. Not being able to achieve a serviceable, gargantuan erection was something new to him.
Super-strange.
It wasn’t the alcohol either, though he had drunk enough to knock out a battalion. Shit, Frankie had been blitzed plenty of times. Plenty. But his “Throbbing Warhead” had never had any trouble engaging in the past. The Big Fella was usually swollen to the size of a Louisville Slugger by now, splitting the little lady in two nice, even pieces. And it wasn’t the chick’s fault either. She was a pro in every way, her tongue licking gently at him like a kitten near a saucer of milk. A beautiful thing really. Screw the cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel—getting sucked off by a working pro was one of his favorite things.
But suddenly the dog had bitten, the bee had stung, he was feeling sad. Check that. He was feeling unhorny. And why?
Because he was a basketball fan.
“Lie down, Frankie. Relax.”
He obeyed, but his mind was elsewhere. He had read in the International Herald Tribune a couple of days ago about the kidnapping of Michael Silverman. Super-strange stuff. It had happened in some AIDS clinic on the East Coast of the USA.
So then why the hell was Silverman chained to the floor of a Thai whorehouse?
Simple, Frankie. You’re drunk. Check that: you’re shit-faced, you thick-dicked macho hunk. You imagined the whole thing. How long was the door open, Super Stud, two seconds? You barely saw the guy.
Good point, except for one thing. Frankie never hallucinated. Drinking loosened him up. Drinking made him feel good. Drinking made him pass out and pee in his pants. Drinking did not, however, cause him to imagine kidnap victims chained to a floor. He had to tell the police, and he had to tell them right away. Could be a reward in it for him.
“Whoa, honey, slow down a second,” he said.
The whore lifted her head. “Something to please you, Frankie?”
He stood and grabbed his pants. He zipped slowly, making sure he kept his Trouser Snake from running wild and getting caught in the metal teeth. “Don’t take it personal, sweetheart, but I gotta go. Maybe next time.”
“But, Frankie—”
“Here’s fifty bucks. I’ll tell boss man you were great. Don’t worry.”
He winked and then headed out the door.
Tawnee shrugged and picked up the fifty-dollar bill. Poor man, she thought. It was sort of sad. She had seen more than her share of penises in her day, but the thing in that guy’s pants looked like a baby’s pinkie.
So sad.
SARA arrived at the family estate a few minutes before eight. Cassandra met her at the front door.
“Hi,” Sara said.
“Hi.”
That was the extent of their conversation.
They sat on either side of the den and waited in silence. Their eyes never met. They seemed to be avoiding each other, like teenagers left alone on a first date, but above all they looked weary. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked away, the only noise in the still surroundings. Sara began to tap her leg and sing an old classic from Thin Lizzy, but the words died away quickly.
“Sara?”
“Yes.”
“I hope Michael is okay.”
Sara nodded, a thin smile on her lips. “He is.”
They heard the familiar sound of the Mercedes diesel engine. Their father was home. With great effort Sara made her way to her feet. Cassandra did likewise. As they headed down the corridor, past portraits of ancestors and the fine wooden paneling, John Lowell entered.
John saw his two daughters immediately and stopped. He did not call out to them or try to back away. He just stood there for a moment, staring, a defeated look on his face.
Cassandra stepped forward. “I told Sara. I’m sorry—”
John interrupted his daughter with a raised hand. “You did the right thing,” he said.
“What’s going on, Dad?” Sara asked.
“Perhaps we can explain.”
“We?” Cassandra repeated.
John lowered his head and stepped aside. From behind him Senator Stephen Jenkins entered the room. His appearance had changed radically since the Cancer Center gala nearly two weeks ago. Bradley’s father looked drawn. His eyes were unfocused and bewildered.
The senator tried to smile. “Hello, ladies.”