by Mick Farren
The clerk made a dismissive gesture. "I suppose I could do my job and turn you in."
"How do I know it's bad forgery? I've only got your word for that."
The clerk had pulled out a dirty hundred. "You want to take a chance on it?"
"What about the one for Buffalo? You want to buy that, too?" The clerk shook his head. "If you've got some money, you might as well go on to Buffalo."
"What's the point of going to Buffalo, if I can't cross the border?"
The clerk was smiling again. "It's easy to find someone in Buffalo to take you across. It's a local industry in Buffalo."
"It is?"
"Sure."
The clerk had produced a pen. He wrote a phone number on the hundred. "Call this number when you get there. They'll take care of you."
Speedboat was certain that the goddamn clerk was running a con on him, but he was not so certain that he was going to bet his life on it. In this game, the loser went to a camp.
"I'll take the hundred."
Kline
Harry Carlisle had fallen asleep in front of the TV. He and Cynthia had spent the afternoon drinking and making love until a smug, bleary exhaustion had set in. Unfortunately Cynthia could not quite enjoy the sensation. The software in her bag had to be checked out. She could not completely bury it in the back of her mind. The uneasiness kept coming back. There could be urgent instructions or even some kind of warning. There could be real trouble bearing down on her while she was trying to lose herself drinking and fucking this quietly charming police lieutenant.
She looked closely at Carlisle. He was dead to the world. Even the noisy chatter of Channel 8's Happy Talk News did not show any sign of waking him. She climbed out of bed and slipped into the hapi coat she used as a robe. She removed the cover from the laptop. A second glance at Carlisle assured her that he was sound asleep. She turned on the power, took the software from her bag, and loaded it. She scrolled quickly through the cover program. It was a rather dull piece of cheap porn based on the romance stories of Lydia Lovelock. She fed in her recognition code, and the software down-leveled to her hidden instructions. A message appeared on the screen.
IN THE NEXT WEEK YOU WILL CEASE TO WORK WITH LONG-STREET. YOU WILL BE TRANSFERRED TO C86 COMPUTER COMPLEX. ONCE THAT HAS HAPPENED, YOU WILL ALWAYS CARRY THIS SOFTWARE WITH YOU DURING YOUR DUTY HOURS. THERE MUST BE NO MISTAKE ABOUT THIS. THE SOFTWARE MUST ALWAYS BE WITH YOU. AT SOME POINT IN THE NEXT MONTH, THE CODE PHRASE 'LOOK TO THE SKIES' WILL APPEAR ON YOUR WORKSTATION MONITOR. THE MOMENT THE CODE HAS BEEN DISPLAYED, YOU WILL LOAD THE SOFTWARE CONTAINED ON THIS DISK AND DIRECTFEED TO VIRGINIA BEACH ON THE 771-36971-2458-666 1-LINE INTERFACE. WHEN THIS TASK HAS BEEN COMPLETED, YOU WILL RECEIVE FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.
Harry Carlisle mumbled something in his sleep. Cynthia quickly closed the file and turned off the laptop. At least the instructions were not something that needed instant attention. She slid quietly back into bed. Harry mumbled again. He turned over and, without opening his eyes, reached out and placed a hand on her stomach. She wriggled close to him. There was security in the warmth of his body.
Winters
"You and I are going on a journey of discovery together to the dark of your soul. I will be both your mistress and your guide and I will expect your absolute obedience. I will take you to places that you have only imagined and didn't think could exist. I will take you even farther than that, beyond your petty fears and inhibitions, to a place where you will see visions of yourself that you will hardly recognize. Do you understand me?"
"I think so… mistress."
The tip of the leather crop moved slowly down the length of his spine. "You don't think. You are my slave and you merely obey. Repeat that."
"I don't think. I am your slave and I merely obey, mistress."
The tip of the leather crop had reached the top of his buttocks. Although its touch was as light as a feather, the skin beneath it crawled. It had to be in anticipation of the cruelties that would undoubtedly come later. Anticipation was half the experience. He knew she was well aware of that. The whip tapped against his flesh, emphasizing the point.
"Obedience is everything. As we go along, you will discover that our relationship is controlled by rules, and the punishments that I shall inflict on you when you break them. My word is the law, and you mean nothing. I require just two things from you. You obey me absolutely, and you pay me for the privilege. I don't even have to like you. I merely tolerate. Now do you understand me?"
"I understand you, mistress."
Winters was naked and completely helpless. His arms were stretched above his head and secured at the wrists by thick leather straps with chrome buckles. There was a second, wider strap around his waist, cinching him tight to the polished mahogany post in the center of the room. It was the need to be helpless that had really brought him to this place and caused him to strip and abase himself in front of a strange young whore in an exotic costume. It was a release of tensions and frustration, but the pain and the ritual somehow made it something for which he was not responsible. He did not do anything – it was all done to him. It was as she said: he paid and obeyed. The pleasure and the punishment were one. The flesh lusted and was mortified. The sin was paid for even as it was committed. Jesus could surely go along with that. There were times in the night, however, when he was not sure that Jesus was quite so accommodating.
The walls of the room were mirrored. If he turned his head in either direction he could see multiple images of himself bound to the whipping post and the woman standing arrogantly behind him, flexing the leather crop as if she were undecided as to where oil his body to lay the first stripe. She was a figure of costume fantasy. Her legs and arms were swathed in black, form-fitting patent leather; sleek thigh-length boots with high, spiked heels; and long evening gloves that reached to her upper arms. Her torso was laced into a corset of the same material in a cruel flame red. It was cut so that it exposed her pubic hair and allowed her ample breasts to swing free each time she moved. Her wig was a high-teased black bouf with flame tips, and her stark, dramatic makeup gave her the look of a depraved, contemptuous corpse.
"There will be times when you may feel that I'm too cruel to you. There will be times when you may wonder if my punishments are too harsh, too out of proportion to your wretched little transgressions. There will be times when you'll beg for mercy."
"I wouldn't do that, mistress."
"Did I ask you to speak?"
It was all part of the game.
"I'm sorry, I – "
"I'm tired of listening to your whining, I'm going to gag you."
He watched her in the minors as she went to the equipment rack on the far wall. When she came back with the rubber ball gag, he struggled a little as she forced the gag into his mouth.
"No… please…"
His protest earned him three quick cuts of the crop. All that was part of the game, too. He might struggle and protest, but they both knew that she was doing exactly what he wanted.
When she finally released him from his bonds, he sank to the floor at the bottom of the post. He was emotionally drained, so drained, in fact, that he did not move when the phone on the wall by the soundproof door gave a soft purring ring. The whore's high heels clapped across the hardwood floor. She picked up the phone and listened. Finally she nodded and hung up.
She looked down at Winters. "You better get your clothes on. They want you down in the basement right now."
Winters was confused. "The basement?"
"The private dining room, where they get down to the really weird shit."
She hung the whip on the equipment board and opened the door. "Behave yourself."
She was gone. A bemused Winters picked himself up off the floor. It had to be the Magicians. Rogers had as good as said so. Winters had no idea what to expect. He pictured some dark Masonic Temple with ceremonies and swords, but somehow that was not quite right. The Magicians were more than just playacting businessmen. They meted out life
and death. They were faceless and all-powerful.
As he took his shirt from the hanger, he caught sight of his back in the mirror. It was a mass of crisscrossing red welts. The skin was broken in a number of places, and he could see streaks of fresh blood. He quickly dressed. Guilt had started to set in, and the usual questions were beginning to nag at him. Why did he come to places like this? Why did he always have to give in to his dark impulses? The routine was always the same, and he could usually count on the guilt lasting well into the next day. But this time, the pattern was broken. As he rode down in the elevator, guilt was quickly replaced by an excited anticipation and more than a little fear. If this was really the start of his induction into the Magicians, it could well be the making of his career. He felt as if he were on his way to an examination or an audition.
The elevator doors opened, and Winters had to restrain himself from taking a quick step back. A tall bulky figure in a dark suit was waiting for him; a blue metal-flake helmet completely covered the man's head, and a black visor hid his face. "I am the Master-at-Arms," he announced ominously.
Winters force himself to step out of the elevator. "Where do we go?"
"We wait here until we are summoned."
There was an electronic distortion on the Master-at-Arms' voice, no doubt some kind of gizmo built into the helmet. The Magicians appeared to take pains to maintain their anonymity, Winters reflected. The two of them waited in front of the basement elevator for almost five minutes before a red light flashed and a tone sounded. The Master-at-Arms indicated that Winters should follow. They walked down a short corridor that led to a pair of solid double doors with Victorian brass fittings. The huge man opened them with a solemn flourish.
"Deacon Winters waits without, in answer to summons."
Another electronically distorted voice came from beyond the doors. "Let Deacon Winters enter and be recognized."
The Master-at-Arms beckoned. Winters took a deep breath and walked forward. The private dining room was large and gloomy. It was not exactly the Masonic Temple he had imagined, but it had many of the same elements. The walls were draped in purple velvet, giving the long, narrow room a kind of ecclesiastic hush. A long dining table was the centerpiece of the room, and a very lavish dinner had just been completed. Port and cognac had been circulating, and the smell of cigar smoke was in the air. The Magicians, if that was who they really were, appeared to look after themselves very well.
By far the most striking feature of the basement dining room was the men grouped around the table. There were thirteen of them, six on each side and one presiding at the head. Each wore a different color motorcycle-style helmet and a black, all-concealing visor just like the Master-at-Arms. The presiding officer's helmet was gold. The overall effect was not unlike a high-tech version of the Ku Klux Klan. Winters had to presume that the helmets had been put on for his benefit. He could not see how anyone could eat, drink, or smoke a cigar while wearing one of those things.
There was a vacant chair at the foot of the table. Winters suspected that it was for him. He was also pretty sure that the thirteen for dinner was a symbolic number and not the entire membership of the Magicians.
The presiding officer in the gold helmet raised a hand. "You are Winters?"
Winters wondered how many familiar faces were hidden behind the dark visors. Maybe Rogers was among them. "I am."
"Please remain standing and raise your right hand."
Winters did exactly as he was told. It seemed to be a night for unquestioning obedience.
"Please repeat after me. 'I swear by almighty God and on my oath as a deacon…' "
"I swear by almighty God and on my oath as a deacon…"
" '… that I will never reveal to any third party the nature of this meeting or anything that may pass between us at this or subsequent meetings.' "
"… that I will never reveal to any third party the nature of this meeting or anything that may pass between us at this of subsequent meetings."
"'On pain of death.'"
"On pain of death."
"Do you understand the oath that you have just sworn?"
"I do."
"You may be seated."
Winters sat down. The man to the right of him, wearing a green metal-flake helmet, leaned forward.
"Would you care for a cognac, Winters?" His voice, too, was artificially distorted.
Winters hesitated. It could be a personality test. "I…"
The presiding officer laughed. The sound came out of the distortion gizmo as a harsh grate. "Have a drink, man. Here we judge a deacon by his spirit, not by his capacity for abstinence."
The others laughed. The helmets and the distorted voices put a decidedly bizarre edge on the whole proceedings. The officer in the gold helmet again raised his hand. It was the sign for what appeared to be a prepared speech.
"Deacon Winters, we are off duty, and we allow ourselves a degree of informality, but please don't be confused. The founding principles of this society – The Society That Does Not Speak Its Name – are deadly serious. We are all well aware that our nation and our faith are in a state of siege. All around us there are enemies, threatening our borders and even infiltrating the very fabric of our culture. The heretics, the communists, the Satan worshipers, and the atheists are ranged against us in a war to the death. The shuffling hordes of the genetically inferior are poised to overrun us. They would show us no mercy, and we, in turn, must show no mercy to them. It is unfortunate that what we think of the civilized niceties make it all too easy for the agents of chaos and Godlessness to move in among us, causing murder and destruction, and for their sympathizers and fellow travelers to spread their poisonous and pornographic sedition."
Gold Helmet paused to let his words sink in. Winters nodded to show that he was in complete agreement. There had been a moment when he had thought he recognized the voice, but then he was not sure. Gold Helmet continued.
"This society was formed by a small group of officers who decided that, although regrettable, it was time for them to sacrifice those niceties and to take the fight to the enemy with the single-minded determination and cold ruthlessness that makes our enemy so implacable. We work alone and in secret, but make no mistake about the reasons for this. We are in no way ashamed of what we do. There can be no shame in doing the Lord's work, no matter how distasteful it may be. In a conflict of this kind, secrecy is power, secrecy is freedom, secrecy enables us to operate as unhindered as our enemies. Do you understand me, Deacon Winters?"
Winters nodded vigorously. "Indeed I do. I understand fully."
"We do not suffer a Satanist to live, Deacon Winters."
"Those are my sentiments entirely."
Green Helmet refilled Winters' brandy snifter.
The officer on Gold Helmet's left took up the story. His helmet was silver.
"Before the enemy can be eradicated, he must first be identified. Although society has the considerable resources of the service at its disposal, it still depends on individual input to detect the degenerates who walk among us. Many of them are in protected positions and can only be reached by unorthodox means. I believe you have information regarding just such a subversive?"
This time Winters' nod was slow and deliberate. "Yes, I do."
"His name?"
"Lieutenant Harry Carlisle of the NYPD. Even in his public conversation, he constantly borders on open heresy. God knows what he – "
Silver Helmet cut him off. "We have already had a number of reports on Lieutenant Carlisle."
"You mean I'm not the only one?"
"Far from it."
Winters was puzzled. If other people had already fingered Carlisle to the Magicians, why had he been summoned? It hardly made any sense. Then Gold Helmet gave him the answer.
"Deacon Winters, would you be willing to assist in the execution of Lieutenant Harry Carlisle?"
It was better than he had hoped. They did not only want his information, they actually wanted him to take part in
the hit. They had to be considering him for admission to the society. He thought of the pain that Carlisle's kick to his groin had caused, and he answered without hesitation.
"I'd be honored."
"Then you will be contacted."
EIGHT
Mansard
Charlie Mansard lay flat on his back on the king-size bed, staring at Lynette working out on the La Lanne unit. She was bent forward in what he thought of as the doggy position, and all she had on was a pair of net stockings. Her eyes were closed, and her body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. He had called Lynette earlier in the hope that a little sexplay might help to slow down the army of ideas that insisted on marching about in his head. But after three bottles of champagne, a doomer apiece, and some rather inconclusive dalliance, he still felt strange, in what he could describe only as a state of counter-excitement. His imagination simply would not quit; it also would not focus. He could not lose himself in Lynette's accommodating body, and he could not get drunk. Even when he admitted that he was physically exhausted and settled for the role of the passive voyeur, he could not concentrate on her moving flesh for any protracted period. His mind refused to stop jumping, and his whirling thoughts carried him along from one random point to the next.
His single consolation was that Lynette probably did not mind. Apart from anything else, Lynette was paid very well not to mind. Right at that moment, he was using her as a piece of living pornography, and he was not even able to give her his full attention. Still, she did not complain. Over the years they had maintained their strange relationship, he had given Lynette a great deal of money to tolerate his foibles and mood shifts. There were times when he felt almost paternal toward her. Back in the old days, before Faithful and his jackals had grabbed power, she probably would have been a lawyer, perhaps an actress, at least a corporate executive. Now all those options, with the exception of that of the actress, had gone. She had to settle for being the plaything of an alcoholic but highly paid sky designer. The worse condemnation of the times was that a woman in New York, alone and without money, could have done a great deal worse. He paid for her apartment; and he gave her ample pocket money. At the very least, she had time to read, to listen to music; she even had time to think, something that made him very envious now and then.
