isn’t zoned for commercial enterprises.”
“And it’s not big enough. And neither is the M?bius. But,
yes, you’re right. We’ll need the perfect location. Lots of rooms
to play in. A big room for a big dungeon. A bar, too, but we’ll
keep the alcohol consumption in check. More or less.” “More,” S?ren said.
“You’re a Catholic priest. Aren’t you all drunks?” “If I wasn’t before, being back in your life might drive me to
drink. Between you and Eleanor it’s a miracle I’m even lucid.” Kingsley pointed at him. “I take that as a compliment.” “You would.”
“Maybe an old hospital,” Kingsley said, turning back to
his photographs and f lipping through them. “Are there any
old abandoned hospitals lying around Manhattan? Or a mental asylum?”
“A mental asylum might send the wrong message,” S?ren
said.
“Oh, you know what they say,” Kingsley said with a wide
grin at S?ren. “We’re all mad here.”
“Who’s mad?” Blaise asked, as she strode into the office
without knocking first. She had what looked like a newspaper
in her hands. Not a good sign where Blaise was concerned. “My girlfriend is mad for interrupting us when we’re working,” Kingsley said, feigning disapproval, which was Blaise’s
favorite form of foreplay. The more peeved he was at her, the
harder she worked to get back into his good graces. “I told you, I am not your girlfriend,” Blaise said. “I am
your submissive.”
“She has a point,” S?ren said. “They’re quite different con
cepts.”
“Thank you, Father.” Blaise gave S?ren a curtsy, which
was an act of submission and exhibitionism, as her pale green
kimono-style robe barely made it past her hips. At least she
had underwear on.
For now.
“What, pray tell, are you doing in my office when I told
you not to interrupt?” Kingsley asked, grabbing Blaise by the
arm and pulling her down on to his lap. In addition to sternness, she also adored a good manhandling.
“I need ten thousand dollars, please,” she said.
Kingsley looked across his desk at S?ren.
“She’s right. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my ex-girlfriend.” “This is serious, King.” Blaise scrambled out of his lap and
sat on his desk facing him. “It’s for a good cause.” “Oh, God, not another cause.” Kingsley collapsed back
in his office chair and groaned. “No more causes. That’s an
order.”
“Listen to me, you French fascist,” Blaise said. “I need to
picket a church.”
“Chouchou, you know I adore you, but you can’t picket
God,” Kingsley said.
“You can picket God,” S?ren said. “No prohibition against
that in the Bible, to my knowledge.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the support,” Blaise said. Without smiling she looked back at Kingsley. “Listen to me. This
is a bad church. They’re the ones who are always on the news
with the ‘God Hates Fags’ signs and ‘Abortion is Murder’ signs.
And they’re coming to our city. Your city. Read it.” Kingsley grabbed the newspaper from her hands. He took
his glasses out of his desk and put them on.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Blaise said with a purr in her voice. “I can’t be mad at you when you have your glasses on. You look too sexy. Doesn’t King look sexy in his glasses?” she
asked S?ren.
“I am overcome,” S?ren said. Kingsley glared at him over
the top of his glasses.
“Just read it, King. There’s a church called The Way, The
Truth, and The Life, and they’re trying to take over Manhattan. Those people who have been protesting at the M?bius
are part of that church.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I asked them last time I was there. They tried to tell
me strip clubs exploit women.”
“What did you do?”
“Flashed them.”
“Don’t reward bad behavior,” Kingsley said, wagging his
finger at her. “If they think they’ll see your breasts again, we’ll