a gush that flowed over my hands and onto the carpet. She kept coming—all the months, the anguish, releasing, cleansing themselves in the hot flood of victory. I unhooked the leash and picked her up, made the few steps to the couch. The afghan that lay on the back enfolded her smoothly. I handed her the water.
She sipped gratefully, her eyes never leaving my face as I undid the cuffs and laid them aside. I took the glass back and only then did she relax. I stood, dried my hands on the towel Victor offered me, and finished my wine.
I let him lead me toward the door.
“I’ve never seen her like that; even at the club.” He clapped me on the shoulder, caught between amazement and jealousy.
“Well, Victor, I’d like to thank you. It’s been a very pleasurable evening.”
“No, thank you. And if you know anybody else that might want those heads.”
“Sure.” I shook his hand and nodded to Genevieve, now staring at me over the back of the couch.
“Thank you.” I left, got to my car, and flipped open my phone. “Cleebourn,” I said, sitting back until he picked up.
“Dalton,” he said, “why’re you calling? Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem.”
“Did he have them?”
“Yes, all twenty.”
“I knew that shit stole them.” Cleebourn paused. “So, again, why’re you calling?”
“I want a favor.”
“A favor? You’re already well paid. Why should I do you a favor?”
“Because it’s small and I’ll give you a referral to make up for the inconvenience.”
“Speak, I’m busy.”
“There’s a woman named Genevieve there. I want her treated good and taken out.” Genevieve’s old friend, Dame Vicky, would be happy to see her again until I had cleared my calendar.
“What’s the referral?”
“I have a buyer. Guy named Blake. He’s got money and a taste for antiquities that’s not so refined it needs clean provenance.”
There was a pause. Cleebourn knew I was good. That’s why he retained me so often. It was no skin off his nose or his profit. “Okay. Anything else, Dalton?”
I paused, remembering that marble head with its flattened cheekbones and the livid bruise on Genevieve’s face.
“Tell him I don’t like his work.”
There was silence. “Okay, I’ll make sure he knows before they’re finished with him. Go on, tell ’em whatever you want. I’m busy.” I dialed another number. A man answered.
“It’s me, Dalton. There’s been a little change in plan.”
I’d have time to gather the tools that delicate and subtle work demanded to fully smooth over the damage done. Then I’d explore Genevieve’s new shape.
Down Below
By
Jean Roberta
“Do your students like Poe?” asked my department head, Dr. Dorothy Kipperwell. She generally discouraged modern informality in the English Department, but she had asked me to call her Kip. “Do they understand the language?”
“They do when I explain it to them,” I told her. “A lot of first-year students are still teenagers, Kip. They understand extreme emotions. Adolescence is a gothic period. Remember how it felt to be that age?”
I knew that I was peeking through the keyhole of a locked door. Kip was almost butch enough to pass for a man (suave, witty, and middle-aged, but with plenty of controlled aggression) and she had told me enough about her life to let me know that her youth had been hell. The classic teenage whine that “nobody understands me” had been very true for her. Her lonely coming-of-age had made her tough, discreet, and determined to survive on her own terms. Beyond all reason, I wanted to be the one person on earth who could pierce her armor and learn her secrets.
Kip smiled in a way that raised the fine hair on the back of my neck. I hoped my nipples weren’t poking up shamelessly under my low-cut red silk top, and I didn’t dare look down.
Kip looked coolly professorial in a navy-blue sweater and pants. She also looked amused. “You like to revisit that period,
She sipped gratefully, her eyes never leaving my face as I undid the cuffs and laid them aside. I took the glass back and only then did she relax. I stood, dried my hands on the towel Victor offered me, and finished my wine.
I let him lead me toward the door.
“I’ve never seen her like that; even at the club.” He clapped me on the shoulder, caught between amazement and jealousy.
“Well, Victor, I’d like to thank you. It’s been a very pleasurable evening.”
“No, thank you. And if you know anybody else that might want those heads.”
“Sure.” I shook his hand and nodded to Genevieve, now staring at me over the back of the couch.
“Thank you.” I left, got to my car, and flipped open my phone. “Cleebourn,” I said, sitting back until he picked up.
“Dalton,” he said, “why’re you calling? Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem.”
“Did he have them?”
“Yes, all twenty.”
“I knew that shit stole them.” Cleebourn paused. “So, again, why’re you calling?”
“I want a favor.”
“A favor? You’re already well paid. Why should I do you a favor?”
“Because it’s small and I’ll give you a referral to make up for the inconvenience.”
“Speak, I’m busy.”
“There’s a woman named Genevieve there. I want her treated good and taken out.” Genevieve’s old friend, Dame Vicky, would be happy to see her again until I had cleared my calendar.
“What’s the referral?”
“I have a buyer. Guy named Blake. He’s got money and a taste for antiquities that’s not so refined it needs clean provenance.”
There was a pause. Cleebourn knew I was good. That’s why he retained me so often. It was no skin off his nose or his profit. “Okay. Anything else, Dalton?”
I paused, remembering that marble head with its flattened cheekbones and the livid bruise on Genevieve’s face.
“Tell him I don’t like his work.”
There was silence. “Okay, I’ll make sure he knows before they’re finished with him. Go on, tell ’em whatever you want. I’m busy.” I dialed another number. A man answered.
“It’s me, Dalton. There’s been a little change in plan.”
I’d have time to gather the tools that delicate and subtle work demanded to fully smooth over the damage done. Then I’d explore Genevieve’s new shape.
Down Below
By
Jean Roberta
“Do your students like Poe?” asked my department head, Dr. Dorothy Kipperwell. She generally discouraged modern informality in the English Department, but she had asked me to call her Kip. “Do they understand the language?”
“They do when I explain it to them,” I told her. “A lot of first-year students are still teenagers, Kip. They understand extreme emotions. Adolescence is a gothic period. Remember how it felt to be that age?”
I knew that I was peeking through the keyhole of a locked door. Kip was almost butch enough to pass for a man (suave, witty, and middle-aged, but with plenty of controlled aggression) and she had told me enough about her life to let me know that her youth had been hell. The classic teenage whine that “nobody understands me” had been very true for her. Her lonely coming-of-age had made her tough, discreet, and determined to survive on her own terms. Beyond all reason, I wanted to be the one person on earth who could pierce her armor and learn her secrets.
Kip smiled in a way that raised the fine hair on the back of my neck. I hoped my nipples weren’t poking up shamelessly under my low-cut red silk top, and I didn’t dare look down.
Kip looked coolly professorial in a navy-blue sweater and pants. She also looked amused. “You like to revisit that period,
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