* * *
I was lingering on the sidewalk as she locked the front when a pack of drunken hipsters approached.
“Sorry, boys,” she said. “We’re closed.”
“It’s only, like, ten o’clock?” slurred one.
“This is bullshit,” said the biggest of the bunch. “I know Carl, lemme talk to him.”
I moved between them, a little too eager for confrontation. “He’s not here, tough guy. You’ll have to find somewhere else to drink.”
He stepped into my chest, snorted like a provoked bull. His eyes were high and wide and glassy. One nostril held the remains of telltale whiteness. He sniffed and wiped at his nose. “The fuck are you?” he asked. “Carl owns this place.”
I’d had enough booze and sex and violence over the last twelve hours that my impulse control was nonexistent. Another sniffle from this cokehead and I was ready to break both his arms, and then take on his buddies. Uli placed a hand on my shoulder.
“Carl was my husband,” she said. “He died. Now please leave us be.”
That took the fire out of the moment. They muttered their apologies and moved off down the sidewalk with bowed heads.
“Fucking hell, Duck, really?”
“Sorry,” I said like a scolded schoolboy.
She stalked off to Canal Street. I followed. Three blocks west she turned right on Orchard without looking back. It was a warm, moonless night and the Chinatown markets gave off a rank stench. Interspersed with the old tenements and the faded signs of Chinese characters was new construction that announced the future of the neighborhood. It was one of the last frontiers of almost-affordable Manhattan, but it wouldn’t be long. Buildings were being bought and gutted, or torn down—and in their place were new, sleek condos with all the conveniences a banker could want. It was a short cab ride over to the Financial District, an easy commute. The bars announced the transformation. Bars designed for white collars, playacting at Downtown cool; for prep school grads pretending they were on the edge of something long blunted to cliché. In time the leases would run out on those Chinese markets and dumpling shops and appliance stores, and the landlords—sons and daughters of families that went back generations in the neighborhood—wouldn’t be able to resist any longer. It was time to cash out and welcome the Duane Reade drugstores and the Chase banks like every other pocket of the city.
Uli was waiting halfway down Orchard, under a blue sign that read SUCCESS and beneath it HOSIERY FOR MEN-LADIES-KIDS. Upon closer inspection, I saw it was an antiseptic art gallery, where someone’s unsuccessful hosiery business had once been. The sign left up in the name of irony perhaps.
“You can’t help yourself, can you?” asked Uli.
“What?”
“Back there,” she said. “Was that necessary?”
“Nothing ever is.”
Uli made a face. “Who finds that nihilism charming?”
“I don’t know how you deal with those people behind the bar,” I said. “I’d lose it having to be nice to coked-up dicks all the time.”
“They pay my bills,” she said. “And thanks to you, I’ve just lost four regulars.”
“I’m sorry. I promise to come back and drink for four.”
That got a smile at least. “I don’t know how Cassandra put up with you.” She approached a red door sprayed with graffiti, wedged between a new coffee shop and a Chinese trading market with a FOR RENT sign in the window.
“Have you ever been here before?” she asked.
“Don’t think so.”
“I thought not.”
She unlocked the front and walked us into a dim, narrow hallway. One light flickered by the stairs, the rest were burned out. “It’s at the end of the hall,” she said over her shoulder.
The building was still holding on to its slum past. There was little regard for the tenants in the shared interior spaces. The hall smelled of weed and stir-fry and sweat. The floors were faded green linoleum, worn down by decades of shuffling feet. Uli stopped by the last door on the left and found the key. “It’s helpful to have a space on the first floor,” she said. “Less eyes on the comings and goings.”
She turned the key in the lock and we stepped inside. The space was cramped and claustrophobic in the gray darkness. There was a galley kitchen with a bathroom to its left and a tiny living area on the right, furnished with a black futon, walnut coffee table, and no television. Despite its modest size the place was meticulous. Every surface clean, no clutter anywhere. On the only wall space wide enough for art, there was a framed print by Gustav Klimt. Judith and the Head of Holofernes—the beautiful femme fatale holding a severed head . . . I knew at once whose apartment it was. I once imagined Hieronymus Bosch or Albrecht Dürer on her walls, but I should have known it would be this Klimt. Uli saw me looking.
“She loved that work, obsessed you could say.”
“Not surprised.”
“So you know whose place this is, yes?”
“Cass.”
“An illegal sublet, technically. Her name is not on the lease, which is why it wasn’t searched, but yes, it has been hers for some time. She never brought you here, did she?”
“Never.”
“Come,” said Uli. “Let me show you the rest.”
She produced another key and went to a locked door next to the futon. It opened onto a darkened room, the windows covered with blackout shades. Across the back of the door black foam egg crates were pinned up to absorb the noise. Uli turned on a standing lamp in the corner and let me take in the furnishings without comment.
It was a small, impeccably outfitted dungeon. Along one side was a high massage table in black. Across from it was an assortment of whips and straps and torturous toys hanging from hooks. On the wall next to the door, there was a Saint Andrew’s Cross. Restraints hung from each end of the X. In another corner a leather-padded high-backed chair, also outfitted with restraints. The floor was painted crimson, and it looked clean enough to eat off. Every other surface was black.
Uli crossed the room, took a seat in the chair, and crossed her legs. “What do you think?” she asked.
“Did she live here?”
She nodded. “For a time. This was the bedroom at first, before she transformed it. When Cassandra moved upstate, she kept it and rented it out. A sort of Airbnb for the kinky set.” Uli sat back and gazed around the room, familiar in the surroundings. “The four of us loved this room.”
“You and Carl?”
“And she and Victor. We shared similar tastes.”
“Where did she sleep?” It seemed important as I took in this private space of my former partner.
“On the futon, I presume. Cassandra seldom slept. Didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, she really is a sort of vampire, isn’t she?”
“You think she killed them, don’t you?”
Uli ignored the question. “Sit,” she said. “Let’s chat. You look so troubled, poor boy.”
I walked to the massage table, though I couldn’t imagine much massaging went on atop it. I tried not to consider the acts that had been performed here. No wonder the space was immaculate. As I sat upon it, my legs dangled over, not touching the ground. I felt like a boy indeed. A drunken boy out of my depth and reeling with revisions of the past . . . Across the room on the hooks I noted a selection of strap-ons in various sizes and colors. I squirmed at the thought. In our past conversations about Cass’s slaves, it had all existed in absurd abstraction. She hadn’t been shy about mentioning the diaper training or the pegging or the whippings administered on the cross. I just chose never to comprehend its reality. I never imagined she had her own personal dungeon at home, in addition to the work she did at the Chamber.
“I never knew her at all,” I said.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic. She spoke of you. I know she cared for you very much.”
“I know nothing about her.” It was true. “She knew everything about me, but she never let me see any of this, or anything else.”
“That’s the way she is,” said Uli. “Cassandra is a private person. Particularly when it comes to people who do not share her tastes. But that does not discount what you shared together, or what you both went through.”
“How much do you know?”
“Quite a bit, I’m afraid. We became very close, very quickly. She shared your history, your relationship, one late night.”
Uli uncrossed her legs, pulled up her dress past her knees. She lingered with parted thighs before crossing the other leg. I couldn’t tell if the gesture was for my benefit. Under the circumstances I couldn’t be sure of anything. “Your last case,” she said. “It took a difficult toll.”
“You could say that.”
“I’m sorry. It sounds horrible.”
I didn’t care to recall the horrors. I’d learn to recognize the simmering spikes of PTSD, the dissociative trauma, the flashbacks lingering at the fringes of my subconscious. I tried to push it away, focused on the subject at hand.
“Victor and Carl, they were your slaves?” I asked.
“No, they were our spouses, our partners. We were all lucky to find mates who shared similar desires. But in here”—she gave a wicked smile—“yes, you could say that Cass and I were in charge.”
I remembered Crowley’s account, how he’d met Cass in similar environs. “I heard she liked to switch roles on occasion.”
“Oh, really? And whom did you hear that from?”
“From her latest master,” I said.
“Her master? What was his name?”
“James,” I said, watching her reaction.
Uli sat up straighter. She recognized it.
“And his last?” she asked.
I shrugged. “You tell me.”
She stood and stepped toward me. The room seemed to shrink; she seemed to grow. When she was standing over me, she reached out, held my chin in her hand, and leaned in to make close eye contact. “This is no place to be coy,” she said.
“I don’t know,” I lied. “Honestly.”
She held the stern pose until I pulled back, rattled by the shifting dynamic. She gave a strange smile and let go, patted my cheek. “Dear boy,” she said. “I see what Cassandra saw in you.”
“And what’s that?”
“Damaged, untamed, so angry, such a challenge.” She turned and went back to her chair.
“You know who I’m talking about, don’t you?” I asked. “Your look said so.”
“Afraid not, love. You fancy yourself quite the perceptive investigator, don’t you?”
“Just an observation. I’ve been known to be wrong.”
Again she uncrossed her legs, paused, and crossed the other. Her eyes never leaving mine.
“What happened between the four of you?” I asked.
She gazed around the room, scanning all the implements of pain and pleasure. Her eyes settled upon a long black flogger. She sighed, said, “We were so close, for a short time, but so close. What happened was our boys’ book project, launched the night Mickey Knight made the introduction. The three of them were thick as thieves, so pleased with themselves. After that, Cassandra and Victor would come down from the mountains to see us. We would take turns playing here and then return to the bar, where Carl and Victor would talk and drink and plot their story, while Cassandra and I would chat and indulge our men. Then Victor wrote a proposal and began to search for a publisher. Carl was thrilled. I was surprised he was so eager to share his story with the world. I thought he had more dignity than that, but I was mistaken. At first, Cassandra was happy for them. She loved seeing Victor so inspired. It’s an attractive quality, inspiration. I understand he’d written another book once, years ago, but that he had not worked for some time. I think Cassandra liked being his muse. Though that changed.”
“Why?”
“Perhaps it has something to do with this other gentleman you’ve referred to?”
“Dr. James Crowley,” I said, done with the games.
Uli gave a sad smile. “Ah, yes.”
“You knew him. You knew about their affair.”
“I knew,” she said. “It is not so unusual in our world. Many times even the most committed mistress will tire of all the control, all the responsibility, and we long to submit. I think Cassandra was also feeling a little bit neglected. Victor was an obsessive person. For a time he was obsessed with Cassandra, and she liked that. But then this story took over, writing the book became his new obsession. Combine that feeling of neglect with a growing desire to let go and submit to someone else’s control. Those on the outside may not understand, but it very much made sense to me. I didn’t approve, I knew it meant the end of our foursome, but I understood.”
“She told you?”
“She did.”
“That doesn’t mean she’d kill him,” I said. “And why would she have any motive to kill your husband?”
Uli waved her hand around the room. “Do you see all this?” she asked. “It is fantasy, yes? A harmless means of release, a form of satisfying therapy for most. We are all attracted to it for different reasons, but there are those drawn to its darker side. Some are true sadists, sociopaths. Others begin innocently, and change. Years of inflicting pain can desensitize some, especially those working through fresh trauma.”
“So you think Cass cracked? You think she got rid of her slave boyfriend and then went after Carl? Why?”
“Because he knew,” she said. “He knew she was cheating on his friend. When Victor died, Carl instantly suspected her. He never warmed to her, even when the four of us were playing family. But when he learned she was with this Dr. Crowley of all people, then she was dead to him. You understand who Crowley is, don’t you?”
“The doping doctor. Dr. Lipke’s partner at their clinic in Miami.”
“The boy has done his homework,” she said. “Yes, Dr. Eberhard Lipke, our former doctor in Leipzig. He treated both Carl and myself, when we were young athletes in the DDR.”
“You knew each other back then?”
“Not well, but yes. I was a few years younger. We were both a part of the system, among the guinea pigs. We were in different sports, so there was not much contact, but we all dealt with Dr. Lipke. He was the scientist responsible for all those gold medals.”
“And all the side effects that came later.”
“Yes, those too.”
“So, when Cass took up with Lipke’s partner . . .”
“My husband was outraged. It was unforgivable, a betrayal of the worst sort. He was going to tell Victor. I don’t know if he ever had the chance. We heard of his death soon after, and then you came to see us at the bar the night that Carl was killed.”
“Have you ever crossed paths with Lipke’s son?” I asked. “Name’s Oliver. I understand he adopted him, somewhat recently. I had the displeasure of meeting him.”
Uli gave me a quick look. Then she blinked, looked away for the first time. “No,” she said. “I wasn’t aware he had a son.”
She couldn’t look back at me.
“He works for both of them,” I said. “A neo-Nazi scumbag who seems to be at the center of all this. I think he killed your husband, not Cass.”
She shook her head. “I think you drink too much. You have crazy ideas. A neo-Nazi? No, I do not believe that.”
“Seems Crowley has some bigoted tendencies himself,” I said. “Maybe Lipke too.”
“Duck, we are both friends with Cassandra, yeah? Do you really think she would associate with someone like that?”
“Maybe she didn’t know that side of him,” I said. “She was skilled at keeping certain sides of herself hidden. Maybe Crowley was the same way.”
I couldn’t be confident of what fit and what didn’t, but I was sure that Cass had lied to me when she first called. Used me to establish her alibi. Played me like a pawn as she pretended to help with my investigation. I wondered what might have happened if she’d made it through security at LaGuardia that day. What if we’d flown to Miami together and gone
to see Lipke? Was she setting me up for a fall as well? All betrayals that couldn’t yet be processed, but what I couldn’t shake was what she failed to do before all this.
She never got in touch, after our last case together, when we barely escaped with our lives and maybe not our sanity. She fled upstate. Claimed she stayed there, in love in the mountains. When, in fact, she had been returning to her dungeon lair, renting it out to others in the scene, enjoying double dates with a like-minded kinky couple at their bar down the street. While I was a five-minute cab away . . . never a word from someone I once considered my closest friend. We took bullets for each other, almost died for one another. I was never anything more than an amusement to her. And when it got too hot and too real, when the pain and the blood was no longer a game, she was gone.
“Dear boy, look at you,” said Uli. “You look shattered. Come here.”
I slid from the table and crossed the room to her. She opened her arms and I sat on her lap like a troubled child.
“She took my Carl too. I will never forgive her either. But it’s over now. She’s going to pay for her crimes.”
“But there’s still this Oliver character,” I said. “You’re sure you’ve never heard of him? Dr. Lipke claimed him, proudly, showed me a picture of them together. Then Crowley put that word ‘son’ in quotes. He said it wasn’t the way it sounded. I just can’t believe that Cass would—”
“Shhh,” she said. “Enough for now. In the morning, with a clear head, I’m sure it will make more sense.”
Uli wrapped her arms around me, pulled me close, and stroked the back of my head. I burrowed my face, breathed her scent. Felt her sigh beneath me. Then my lips found her neck as her hands slipped under my shirt. I raised my face to kiss her, but she stopped me.
“Let Uli take care of you now,” she said.
I nodded in submission.
Let her do her worst.
Chapter 31
I escaped with my dignity, barely. I limped home through the Lower East Side and up the Bowery, eschewing lit cabs. I needed to walk it off. The warm spring night brought out the drinkers in happy droves. The bars were full, and in front of each, smokers smoked and spoke too loud next to ignored signs about respecting the neighbors upstairs. I felt no urge to enter any of them.
Against Nature Page 24
