"Hang on."
The headlights were getting closer, slowing as they approached the corner of Greenway. I pressed myself up against the wall, sliding down and behind a bush.
From inside, I heard a bolt being turned, and then the door opened a crack. I was grateful that Trixie did not turn on the front light and expose me to whoever was coming up the street.
I forced the door open and burst in, closing the door behind me and throwing the bolt even before Trixie had a chance to do it.
"Oh God, thank you," I said, turning to face her, holding the ledger out in front of me. "You've got no idea the mess I've gotten -"
And then I stopped.
Trixie had not come to the door in her pajamas. Clearly, I had not roused her from a deep sleep.
She was decked out in a leather corset, wide garters that supported thigh-high black stockings, shiny high-heeled boots that came over the top of her knees, and in her right hand she held what appeared to be a whip.
"You picked kind of a bad time," she said, somewhat sternly.
From someplace else in the house - it sounded like the basement - came a very strange sound. Muffled sounds, of a man, it seemed to me. Groaning.
"Why don't you pour yourself a coffee," Trixie said, nodding her head in the direction of the kitchen. "I'm gonna have to go untie this guy and send him on his way. You've done me out of a thou, you know, and that's not counting the tip."
Chapter 24
"So you're not an accountant," I said when Trixie sat down across from me at the kitchen table. She had slipped on a robe, but every time she shifted in her chair, or leaned forward to get some cream for her coffee, or got up to put something in the fridge, I could hear the erotic creak of leather, the swish of nylon rubbing up against nylon.
"Yes, I'm an accountant," Trixie, slightly indignant, said. "I've got my degree and everything, worked for one of the big firms downtown. I was very good at it, still am. I can still do your taxes if you want. But I'm making a lot more now than then, and ever since Enron and Andersen and all that, I think I moved into a profession with more respect and dignity." She blew on her coffee and took a sip, leaving lipstick marks on the edge of the cup.
"I'm really sorry," I said. "About barging in."
"Whatever. It's just as well you showed up when you did."
As it turned out, she'd done up the chest strap on her client a little too tightly, and had asked me to come down to the basement to help her undo it.
It was not your typical rec room. The walls were painted black, and the red bulbs screwed into the sockets cast a sensuous, eerie glow. One wall was covered in pegboard, with hooks, the kind of thing you see in a well-organized workshop for hanging tools of every description. But these hooks were draped with ropes and straps and handcuffs and bungee-cord-type thingies with bright chrome buckles that looked like they would do a terrific job of strapping your luggage to a roof rack if you were taking a long vacation with the kids. But that, clearly, was not their intended use, as evidenced by George, the man strapped to a huge X made of timbers that was leaned up against the back wall. George, pasty, overweight, and extraordinarily white, was wearing nothing more than a black leather jockstrap arrangement, and a red ball in his mouth held in place with straps that went around the back of his head.
A broad leather strap around his chest helped secure him to the crossed timbers, and when Trixie had tried to release him, she couldn't pull far enough back on the buckle. That was when she called me down.
"Zack, this is George," Trixie said. "George, Zack." George, still gagged, nodded. "George, I did this thing a bit too tight, but let's not forget who asked for it that way. Now, I don't quite have the strength to pull this back, and I could cut it, but I hate to do that, so I'm going to get Zack here to help me out."
I obliged, pulling the belt back far enough that it was cutting pretty deeply into his flabby bosoms. "There," I said.
Trixie went about untying his wrists and ankles, and removed the ball. "I'm really sorry about this, George. I know it's very unprofessional, sending you on your way early, but something's come up."
"That's okay," George said meekly. "Nice to meet you," he said, extending his hand to me. We shook.
George slipped into a downstairs bathroom, where he changed back into his regular clothes. Through the door, Trixie said to him, "No charge tonight, George."
"Are you sure?" he said from behind the door. "I still got half a session, so I'm not complaining."
"No, it wouldn't be right. I tell you what, we can just let this one go, or you can pay me, and next time it's on the house. I'll even do the thing with the cream cheese, no extra charge."
That sounded fair to George, who, once he'd emerged from the bathroom in a pair of dress pants, a crisp white shirt without a tie, and a sports jacket, discreetly slipped Trixie a wad of bills.