Silicon Beach

by Davis MacDonald

  "Now Barbara," he said, sounding even to himself like a prudish schoolmarm, "I think we should just go. This isn't a date. This is business. And touchy business at that. This is about murder."

  She blinked at his bluntness, gave a soft sigh, and reached back inside for her coat and her purse. "All right, Judge. But you're missing a lot of fun we could have. You know you can lose your pants in my pad anytime you like." This was said with a smile that had just a hint of malice.

  The Judge blushed slightly, but ignored her allusion to yesterday’s headlines.

  "Maybe next time," Barbara whispered, putting her hand on his arm and softening her barb.

  The Judge just smiled. Barbara was incorrigible.

  They drove out of Playa Del Rey to adjacent LAX. The Judge turned left, parallel to the airport, and later turned again, on to one of the main streets crossing the northern edge of the airport, following Barbara's directions. Planes settled low over them on final approaches, all roar and dark bulk, lit here and there with flashing strobes. The distant sky was alight with more planes coming in for landing in sequence, like fireflies strung out over the Los Angeles plain.

  Barbara directed the Judge to park on the side of the road, next to an older warehouse complex, small, two story, with office space built out in front. A typical incubator space from the eighties. There was a low porch light on in front, barely illuminating small steps and an adjacent ramp for handicapped access, but no signage. Industrial blinds were closed across the small office windows and only a faint light showed through here and there. It didn't look like anything at all. Certainly not any type of club. The Judge looked over at Barbara, questions in his eyes.

  Suddenly headlights pulled up beside them, and then the car parked along the curb in front. It was a new Cadillac Escalade sporting metallic blue paint so popular with the young generation. In the Judge's opinion it was a color hard to see on the road at night and in need of constant wash.

  A man jumped out of the car, mid-thirties, animated, and walked to the rear lift-up door in back. Dressed in black slacks, black polo shirt and black sport coat, he was as dark as his car. Like a shadow. The rear hatch light went on, displaying a small overnight bag, black, and a red blanket thrown over some items arranged on the floor of the back compartment.

  The man surreptitiously looked around, not noticing the Judge and Barbara in their darkened car sitting twelve feet away and watching through their front windshield. The man lifted the red blanket. He picked up a set of silver handcuffs, unlocked them, pocketed the key, and carefully put them in his bag. Then he picked up a long whip, all green and red woven leather. Christmas colors, thought the Judge. He carefully coiled it, almost caressing it as he did so, and deposited it in his bag. He held up a pair of leather thongs, briefly admiring them before depositing them in the bag. He picked up a yellow ball, with straps dangling from it. It reminded the Judge of the balls he'd seen lodged in people's mouths. This also was almost caressed before being deposited in the bag.

  In a rush now, the man grabbed what looked like two rubber straps, a box of Kleenex, a folded towel, hand sanitizer in a pump dispenser, and a box of Trojans, tossing them all into his bag. He grabbed his bag and closed the hatch.

  "Toys!" whispered Barbara with an impish giggle.

  The Judge suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Even a tad queasy. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

  The man marched up the steps with his bag and rang a doorbell at the side, then turned and presented his face to a small video camera mounted just under the porch light. After 30 seconds there was a whirring and a buzz, and the front door apparently unlocked itself because the man pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

  "Alright then," said the Judge, finally starting to breathe again, "Shall we go in?"

  CHAPTER 14

  11:00 PM Saturday

  The Judge and Barbara followed in the footsteps of the man with the bag of toys. Barbara stuck her face up in front of the camera and they were buzzed in. They walked into a small office area, staffed by a chubby young lady behind a small nondescript wooden desk that had seen better days. The Judge could have been in any small manufacturing company's front office, except it was in the middle of the night and the young lady had enormous boobs covered only by a thin, almost see-through silk camisole. She wore stonewashed jeans and heavy violet eyeliner running up her lids and into her eyebrows. She smiled at Barbara, apparently a known patron of the establishment.

  "Hi Leslie," said Barbara with a conspirator's smile.

  "Hi Barbara. Who's your handsome escort?"

  "This is my special friend for the night." Barbara sounded almost coy. “He goes by the name, ’Judge.’"

  Leslie extended a hand laden with three rings and violet nail polish, softly shaking the Judge's paw. The Judge felt himself being assessed by skilled eyes, as if by a merchant in the bazaar.

  The Judge produced his most benign smile, playing his role as uninitiated newbie, which of course he was.

  Leslie pressed a button under her desk and a separate door unlatched behind her, allowing the noises of a large party in progress to drift in.

  "Have fun, kids," said Leslie. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do." The look that passed between the two women raised the hair on the back of the Judge's neck.

  Barbara swept through the door into the inner sanctum, territorially leading the Judge by the hand around a modesty wall that shielded a view of the bigger space from the open office door. The room was cavernous. Black walls supported a high black ceiling from which black air ducts and track lighting were suspended. A small stage rose at the other end of the room, surrounded by a semi-circle of sofas, small café tables and chairs, and a few benches.

  The room was packed with people yelling at each other to be heard over the din, all the seats taken, with a large crowd left standing.. There might have been 250 people. It was hard to tell. Many wore outrageous costumes, or semi costumes. It was a kaleidoscope of color and movement and… sexuality. You could cut the pheromones in the air with a knife.

  There was an auction of some sort going on atop the stage.

  "It's the Saturday slave auction," giggled Barbara.

  The Judge edged closer to her for security. Feeling very uncertain..

  A small pink man, mid-forties, with a shaved head, was being introduced on stage by the auctioneer, a middle-aged lady of amazing girth with tousled blond hair and blue eyes peering out from puffy lids and pink cheeks. She wore a pink flapper's dress, pink pearls, and a pink boa wrapped around her neck, matching her cheeks. She was reading off a list of dos and don'ts. Mostly don'ts. Things the man apparently would not do.

  "No water sports."

  "No bloodletting."

  "No drugs."

  "No bareback."

  "No needles."

  "No piercings."

  "No penetrations except with prior consent."

  Satisfied, she folded the form she was reading, apparently filled out by the soon to be slave, and gestured for a round of applause which was fairly given.

  The small pink man stepped out to the edge of the stage, waved at the crowd, and proceeded to disrobe. There was a titter from the audience, mostly from females but also from a few males, as the slave took off the skimpiest tightest leather briefs the Judge had ever seen, to display very modest plumbing, made smaller no doubt by the attention. He looked very shy. The Judge felt himself shriveling in sympathy.

  The auctioneer lady reminded everyone they needed to have auction dollars to bid. They were to deposit canned goods stage left as part of a food drive for the homeless, in exchange for auction dollars. The Judge saw a large stack of canned and dry goods, packages of spaghetti, rice and such, and a small line of people with boxes and cans in hand, waiting their turn to make contributions in exchange for auction dollars. It was a macabre scene. Stacked food on one end of a stage, and the small pink man, nude, swirling his leather briefs over his head on the other.

  The man made a bow, s
lowly turned to face the rear of the stage, and did another low bow, exposing what little had previously been left to imagination. This brought another round of enthusiastic applause and a few wolf whistles.

  Then the auction began. And spirited it was. After early bids had washed out, the auction settled down to a price duel between two bidders. A tall thin man in the back corner of the room, late thirties, white, crewcut, small mean eyes and a tight smile that was almost a smirk. And a buxom blonde at the front, mid-fifties, pleasant features, but with leathery skin suggesting too much sun. The blonde won.

  She bounced over to the corner of the stage where a brief sidebar was held between the new slave, the auctioneer and the blonde, after which the slave retrieved his briefs and put them on. The Judge sighed in relief. A paper was produced, filled in and signed, perhaps a contract.

  The slave kneeled down on all fours. The blonde produced a shiny silver collar from her purse with a dog leash attached. With great tenderness she affixed the collar around the slave's neck. He was walked off by the leash, crawling on all fours, down the stage steps and off to the side. Toward private rooms at the back, Barbara informed him gleefully.

  Another round of applause went up as he was led off. It was a lusty audience.

  A very well-endowed blonde, female, mid-thirties, squeezed into a too tight bikini that looked like it might explode across the top, ascended the stage next and waved at the crowd. Another roar of appreciation. She was the next slave to be auctioned.

  The Judge leaned over to Barbara and whispered, "Do you see Carl's friend in the audience?”

  "No, Judge, but he might be in one of the back rooms behind the stage. Let's take a little tour."

  They squeezed through the crowd and down the side of the stage, stepping around the pink man in his leather briefs and silver collar, still on all fours, still at the side of the stage, being asked to sit on his haunches and allow the crowd to pet his head.

  There were a series of small rooms behind the stage, outfitted with various fixtures and furnishings. The first room had a king size bed with mirrors on all four walls and the ceiling. Barbara whispered that couples could stay the night here if they reserved it in advance, then gave the Judge a stage wink.

  The next room held a large wheel with a polished wooden rim and iron spokes running from its center hub to the rim, big enough to tie someone onto it spread-eagle. Barbara pointed out the large array of iron spokes, explaining that arms could be tied at almost any angle, from high over your head, to perpendicular or straight down, and your legs could also be tied at various angles.

  “Why is that important?” asked the Judge.

  "Some club members are older and find it difficult to be tied on at a position with arms bound perpendicular, Judge. So this allows a 60 degree angle, or a 40 degree, or even a 20 degree."

  “And what happens after you’re tied on?”

  “Judge! You’re so cute. This is where your partner flogs you with a soft whip.”

  “Oh,” was all the Judge could manage. His stomach was starting to churn again. He was regretting the heavy steak and the two martinis earlier.

  The next room seemed to be a dress wardrobe room. Racks ran around three sides holding expensive gowns and dresses. The outfits all seemed unusually large.

  "Are all the women Amazons?" he asked, pointing at the dresses and spreading his hands to show how large and long many were.

  "Oh no, dear," said Barbara. "These outfits are for you, Judge, and other big men who enjoy cross dressing."

  “I don’t enjoy cross dressing,” muttered the Judge.

  “How do you know if you’ve never tried, Judge?” asked Barbara. “I’ll bet you’d find it very liberating to be in a sequin dress and no underwear. You might want to skip the heels though, Judge. They’re tricky.”

  "Good God," was all the Judge could manage. He seemed to have run out of vocabulary this evening.

  The next room was the toy room. The shelves and bins running around its three walls were loaded with all manner of paraphernalia. Whips, chains, vibrators, rope, rubber ball gags, masks, gloves, hoods without eyeholes, paddles, handcuffs, floggers, hog ties, ticklers, and various other restraints and toys beckoned from the shelves.

  "You can check out whatever you want here, Judge," explained Barbara. “It’s like a lending library of toys.”

  The Judge quickly shoved his hands into his pockets, not wanting to touch anything. Barbara moved from bin to bin, picking up various implements and caressing each one gently. Explaining to the Judge which ones were the most fun.

  The Judge suggested they move on, suddenly focusing on the possibility someone here at the party might know him.

  Another room held a couch and a small bed. There was glass partition mounted floor-to-ceiling on one side, behind which sat an expensive looking TV camera on a mechanical pedestal.

  "The club rents this space out to people who have porn websites. They can perform right here and blast it out across the net, just like a movie studio."

  Further along there was a room with a large spa bubbling away. Awaiting frolicking bodies later in the evening.

  There were two other rooms with beds, couches, and mirrors, one with a dining tables but no chairs, the other with two sets of head stocks right out witchcraft New England in the 1700s.

  The Judge didn’t ask about them. He didn't want to think about it.

  Beyond the ‘private’ rooms, at the back of the warehouse, was a larger room, perhaps a third of the size of the front hall, with its own small stage decked out in ropes, rope swing, and hammock suspended from the ceiling. A bar ran down one side, with two busy bartenders, and a crowd clamoring for drinks.

  Barbara pointed to a medium-size man, with powerful arms and shoulders encased in a beautifully cut sport jacket. Grey slacks offset a starched white dress shirt with French cuffs, open at the collar with several buttons undone, exposing the beginnings of a forest of hair.

  He had dark hair tightly cropped in military fashion, slightly receding, and a beard running down the sides of his jaw and ending in a modest goatee. His swarthy complexion and features suggested Southern Italian descent. Lively light brown eyes peered out from under bushy eyebrows, intelligent and warm.

  Barbara tucked her arm in the Judge's and swanned them over to the end of the bar line in which the man was standing, leaning her head slightly on the Judge’s shoulder.

  The Judge wondered if there would be damning powder or make up on his coat. This little soiree could get him in a lot of trouble if he weren't careful. Unfortunately, it was a bit late for such concerns.

  The man appraised the Judge keenly as they approached, then smiled as he recognized Barbara.

  "Hello, Barbara," he said. "And who’s this distinguished guest on your arm? My name’s Allan Clark." His hand shot out to give a firm handshake.

  Barbara introduced the Judge.

  "Well, well," said Allan. "So you're the famous 'Judge'. I've heard about your exploits. Wasn’t it Palos Verdes? And then in Avalon?"

  "You get around," said the Judge.

  “I hear things.” said Allan. “What brings you to our club? Are you in the play?”

  “He will be,” interjected Barbara. “He’s just never experimented before. But I’m going to help him along. He has the makings of a real player. I’m certain.”

  “No. No,” protested the Judge. “I’m just a tourist here tonight. It’s all very interesting. But not quite my cup of tea.” He gave Barbara a soft nudge with his elbow.

  “Oh, Judge,” giggled Barbara. “See Allan, there’s a part of him that really wants to play.”

  It was the final straw. The Judge wanted to keep to the business at hand. And then get out of this… this… club..

  "Actually, Allan, I 'm now looking into the death of Carl Greene, a member of your club. Barbara tells me Carl was a friend."

  Allan looked startled, poker face sliding down to replace the smile.

  "Well, you’re direct, Ju
dge. I'll give you that."

  “Perhaps we could have a private chat for a minute.” Said the Judge. “I'd very much welcome any information you might have about Carl." Deliberately softening his tone and trotting out his best smile.

  Allan's posture unstiffened a little, and warmth came flowing back to his eyes.

  "Of course, Judge. If I can help in any way, I'll be glad to. I was horrified to hear about Carl."

  The Judge stuffed a 100 dollar bill into Barbara's hand and asked her to buy drinks for the three of them. Barbara was miffed to be excluded, but couldn't think quickly enough to get around it, so she took over Allan's place in line, sticking her tongue out over Allan's back at the Judge as she did so.

  Allan discreetly steered the Judge away from the drink line and over to an unoccupied corner at the side of the stage, making small talk as they walked. He produced a gold embossed card that declared him a customs broker, giving it to the Judge with a flourish. He was a charming bastard.

  Leaning with Allan against the stage, the Judge said, "I understand you sponsored Carl for membership in the club."

  "Yes. The club's not for everyone. But Carl and I had great fun exploring its unique character."

  The Judge didn't want to imagine what this meant. Where was his elephant?

  "When's the last time you saw Carl?"

  "About two weeks ago. He said he was resigning his membership. It was an odd conversation. He said he didn't feel safe here. That he needed to avoid certain people in the club.”

  "Did he say why?"

  "He implied there was some business offer he had turned down. The other side was not happy with the rejection. They were taking it personal, he said."

  "Do you know what the business proposal was about?"

  "No, not really. Something to do with technology Carl had invented was my impression."

  "Did they threaten Carl?"

  "I don't know."

  "Do you know who it was in the club Carl was referring to?"