Chapter 7: Sex and Drugs
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Around the bench on the floor of the dais was an impressive collection of sex toys: dildos and gags and whips. Judging by the marks on Carmen's body, they had been used extensively and inventively during the last hour or so. A vibrator oozed its way from between her pussy lips and fell with a soft thud onto the bench, revealing a butt-plug still impaling her ass. I stopped looking at her and looked at Geiger. He was on his back on the floor, beyond the fringe of the pink rug, in front of a thing that looked like a director's chair. Next to the chair was a tall spindly contraption, its multiple silvery arms supporting a battery of lenses and lights and microphones. The lenses were aimed at the naked girl on the bench. The recording machine was fused, overloaded, bent and smoke-blackened in several places. Geiger was wearing Chinese slippers with thick felt soles and his legs were in black satin pyjamas and the upper part of him wore a Chinese embroidered coat, the front of which was mostly blood. His prosthetic eye shone brightly up at me and was by far the most lifelike thing about him. At a glance none of the three shots I heard had missed. He was very dead. The destruction of the recording machine was the sheet lightning I had seen. The crazy scream was the drugged and bound girl's reaction to it. The three shots had been someone else's idea of how the proceedings might be given a new twist. The idea of the lad who had gone down the back steps and slammed into a car and raced away. I could see merit in his point of view. A couple of brandy glasses rested on a black lacquer tray on the end of the black desk, besides a pot-bellied flagon of brown liquid. I took the stopper out and sniffed at it. It smelled of vintage cognac. Next to the glasses was a small mirror on which lines of cocaine had been laid out, two already snorted. I had never tried the combination but it seemed to go pretty well with the Geiger menage. I listened to the rain hitting the roof and the windows. Beyond was no other sound, no cars, no siren, just the rain beating. I went over to the bench on the dais. Miss Sternwood smelled of brandy at a distance of several feet. The low moaning noise was still coming from her and a little drool oozed down her chin. I untied her wrists and ankles and knocked aside the vibrator between her legs and eased out the anal toy. I slapped her face. She blinked and stopped moaning. I slapped her again. "Come on," I said brightly, "Let's be nice. Let's get dressed." She peered at me, her slate eyes as empty as holes in a mask. "Go to hell," she said indistinctly.
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Part 1