and the cloth was quiet again.
The Commissioner, two seats away from Childe,
said, "What the hell could that be?" He blew out cigar
smoke and then began coughing. Childe coughed, too.
"It could be something mechanical up her cunt," Childe
said. "Or it could be …" He let the words, and his
thoughts, hang. No hermaphrodite, as far as he knew,
had a penis within the vaginal canal. Anyway, that
wasn't a penis sliding out; that looked like an independent
entity—gave the feeling of one, rather—and certainly the
thing had beat against the cloth at more than one place.
Now the camera swung around at a level a few inches
above Colben and several feet in front of him. It showed
the feet, seemingly enormous at this narrow distance,
the thickly muscled and hairy calves and thighs spread
out on the Y-shaped table, the big testicles, the fat
worm of the penis, no longer lolling against the thigh but
beginning to get fatter and to lift its swollen red head.
Colben could not have seen the woman enter, but he
had evidently been conditioned so that he knew she
would come in within a certain time after he was strapped
to the table. The penis was coming to life as if its ears—
buried within the flesh like a snake's—had heard her or
as if the slit in its head were a detector of body heat—
like an adder's nose pits—and it knew that she was in
the room.
The camera moved to one side so that it could start
with the profile of Matthew Colben's head. The thick
curly gray-and-black hair, the big red ears, the smooth
forehead, the big curved nose, the thin lips, massive
jawbone, chin thick and heavy as the head of a sledge,
big fat chest, the outcurve of a paunch grown with much
stuffing of steak and beer, the down-curve to the penis,
now fully up and swollen and hard. The camera moved
in for a close shot; the veins were ropes run into the
lanyard of lust (Childe could not help thinking in such
images; he fingered concepts with a Midas touch). The
head, fully exposed, glistened with lubricating fluid.
Now the camera moved up and away and took a posi-
tion where both the man and woman could be seen. She
approached slowly, swaying her hips, and came up to
Colben and said something. Her lips moved, but there was
no sound, and the police lip-reader could not tell what she
was saying because her head was bent too far over. Col-
ben said something too, but his words were undecipher-
able for the same reason.
The woman bent over and let her left breast fall so
that Colben could take it in his mouth. He sucked for a
while; and then the woman removed it. The camera
moved in to show the nipple, which was wet and swollen.
She kissed him on the mouth; the camera moved in side-
wise to show her as she raised her head a little to
permit the camera to record the tongue sliding back and
forth into Colben's mouth. Then she began to kiss and
to lick his chin, his neck, his chest, his nipples, and she
smeared his round belly with saliva. She worked slowly
down to his pubic hairs, slobbered on them, gently tapped
his penis with her tongue many times, kissed it lightly
several times, flicked out her tongue to dab its head with
the tip while she held it at the root. Then she walked
around the leg of the Y and between the legs and began
to suck on his penis energetically.
At this point, a tinny piano, like those played in the
old-time bars or in the silent movie theaters, began
Dvorak's humoresque. The camera shifted to a position
above Colben's face; his eyes were closed and he was
looking ecstatic, that is, stupidly happy.
For the first time, the woman spoke.
"Tell me just before you're ready to come, darling.
Maybe thirty or so seconds before, yes? I have a beauti-
ful surprise for you. Something new."
The voice had been printed and run off by the police
on an oscilloscope and studied. But distortions had been
introduced into it. That was why the voice sounded so
hollow and wavery.
"Go slower, baby," Colben said. "Take it easy, put it
off like you did the last time. That was the greatest
orgasm I ever had in my life. You're going a little too
fast now. And don't stick your finger up my ass like you
did then. You cut my piles."
The first time the scene had been shown, some of the
cops had snickered. Nobody snickered now. There was
an unheard but easily felt shift in the audience now.
The smoke seemed to get hard and brittle; the green
milk in the light beam became more sour. The Commis-
sioner sucked in air so hard a rattle sounded in his throat
and then he began coughing.
The piano was playing The William Tell Overture
now. The tinny music was so incongruous, and yet it was
the incongruity that made it seem so horrible.
The woman raised her head and said, "You about
ready to come, mon petit?"
Colben breathed, "Oh, Jesus, just about!"
The woman looked into the camera and smiled. The
flesh seemed to fade away, the bones beneath were
faintly glowing and cloudy. Then the flesh was cloudy;
the skull was hard and bright. And then the skull faded
and flesh fell back into place.
She leered into the camera and put her head down
again, but this time she went past the corner of the Y
and squatted down below the table, where the camera
followed her. There was a small shelf fixed to one leg of
the table. She picked up something off it; the light bright-
ened, the camera moved in nearer.
She held a pair of false teeth. They looked as if they
were made of iron; the teeth were sharp as a razor and
pointed like a tiger's.
She smiled and put the iron teeth on the shelf and
used both hands to remove her own teeth. She looked
thirty years older. She placed the white teeth on the shelf
and then inserted the iron teeth into her mouth. She
held the edge of her forefinger between the two teeth and
bit gently down. Then she removed the finger and held
it so that the camera could zero in on it. Bright red blood
was welling out from the bite.
She stood up and wiped the cut on the fat glans of
Colben's penis and she bent over and licked the blood off.
Colben groaned and said, "Oh, God, I'm going to come!"
Her mouth went around the head and she sucked in
loudly. Colben began to jerk and to groan. The camera
showed his face for a second before it moved back to a
position alongside the woman's.
She raised her head quickly. The penis was jerking and
spurting the thick oily whitish fluid. She opened her
mouth widely, bent down swiftly, and bit. The muscles
along her jaw lumped; her neck muscles became cords.
Colben screamed.
She whipped her head back and forth and bit again
and again. Blood
ran down from her mouth and reddened
the pubic hairs.
The camera moved away from her to show the draper-
ies through which she had entered. There was a flourish
of trumpets. A cannon boomed in the distance. The piano
played Tschaikovsky's 1812 Overture.
Trumpets sounded again as the music faded. The
draperies shot open, propelled by two stiff arms. A man
stepped inside and posed for a moment, his right arm
raised so that his black cloak half-hid his face. His hair
was black and shiny as patent leather and was parted
down the middle. His forehead and nose were white as
the belly of a shark. His eyebrows were thick and black
and met over his nose. The eyes were large and black.
He was dressed as if he were going to a movie
premiere. He had on a formal suit, a stiff white shirt with
a black formal tie and a diagonal red band across his
chest and a medal or order on his lapel.
He wore blue sneakers.
Another comic element which only made the situa-
tion more horrible.
The man lowered the cloak to show a large hooked
nose, a thick black moustache which curved down around
the ends of his thick rouged lips, and a prominent cleft
chin.
He cackled, and this deliberately corny element was
even more horrible than the sneakers. The laugh was a
parody of all the gloating laughs cranked forth by all
the monsters and Draculas of every horror movie.
Up went the arm, and, his face hidden behind the
cloak, the man rushed toward the table. Colben was still
screaming. The woman jumped away swiftly and let the
man into the Y. The penis was still jerking and emitting
blood and spermatic fluid; the head was half-bitten off.
The camera switched to the woman's face. Blood was
running down her chin and over her breasts.
Again, the camera panned back to the Dracula (so
Childe thought of him). Dracula cackled again, showing
two obviously false canines, long and sharp. Then he
bent down and began to chew savagely on the penis but
within a short time raised his head. The blood and
spermatic fluid was running out of his mouth and making
the front of his white shirt crimson. He opened his mouth
and spit out the head of the penis onto Colben's belly
and laughed, spraying blood over himself and Colben.
The first time, Childe had fainted. This time, he got
up and ran toward the door but vomited before he
reached it. He was not alone.
2
The Dracula and the woman had looked into the camera
and laughed wildly as if they had been having a hilarious
time. Then, fade-out, and a flash of TO BE CONTIN-
UED? End of film.
Herald Childe did not see the ending the second time.
He was too occupied with groaning, with wiping the tears
from his eyes and blowing his nose and coughing. The
taste and odor of vomit were strong. He felt like apolo-
gizing, but he repressed the impulse. He had nothing to
apologize for.
The Commissioner, who had not thrown up but who
might have looked better if he had, said, "Let's get out
of here."
He stepped over the mess on the wooden floor. Childe
followed him. The others came out. The Commissioner
said, "We're going to have a conference, Childe. You
can sit in on it, contribute, if you wish."
"I'd like to keep in touch with the police, Commis-
sioner. But I don't have anything to contribute. Not just
yet, anyway."
He had told the police, more than once, everything
he knew about Matthew Colben, which was much, and
everything he knew about his disappearance, which was
nothing.
The Commissioner was a tall lean man with a half-
bald head and a long thin face and melancholy black
moustache. He was always tugging at the right end of his
moustache—never the left. Yet he was left-handed.
Childe had observed this habit and wondered about its
origin. What would the Commissioner say if he were
made aware of it?
What could he say? Only he and a psychotherapist
would ever be able to find out.
"You realize, Childe, that this comes at a very bad time
for us," the Commisioner said. "If it weren't for the …
uh, extraordinary aspects of the case ... I wouldn't be
able to spend more than a few minutes on it. As it is …"
Childe nodded and said, "Yes. I know. The Depart-
ment will have to get on it later. I'm grateful that you've
taken this time."
"Oh, it's not that bad!" the Commisioner said. "Sergeant
Bruin will be handling the case. That is, when he has time.
You have to realize …"
"I realize," Childe said. "I know Bruin. I'll keep in touch
with him. But not so often he'll be bugged."
"Fine, fine!"
The Commisioner stuck out a skinny and cold but sweat-
ing hand, said, "See you!" and turned and walked off down
the hall.
Childe went into the nearest men's room, where several
plainclothesmen and two uniformed men were washing
the taste of vomit out. Sergeant Bruin was also there, but
his fly. Bruin was rightly named. He looked like a grizzly,
but he was far less easily upset.
As he washed his hands, he said, "I gotta hurry, Childe.
The Commissioner wants a quick conference about your
partner, and then we all gotta get back on this smog thing."
"You have my phone number, and I got yours," Childe
said. He drank another cup of water and crumpled the pa-
per and threw it into the wastepaper basket. "Well, at least
I'll be able to move around. I got a permit to use my car."
"That's more'n several million citizens got right now,"
Bruin said cheerfully. "Be sure you burn the gas in a good
cause."
"So far, I haven't got much reason to burn anything,"
Childe said. "But I'm going to try."
Bruin looked down at him. His big black eyes were as
impenetrable as a bear's; they did not look human. He
said, "You going to put in time for free on this job?"
"Who's going to pay me?" Childe said. "Colben's di-
vorced. This case is tied up with Budler's, but Budler's
wife discharged me yesterday. She says she doesn't give
a shit any more."
"He may be dead, just like Colben," Bruin said. "I
wouldn't be surprised if we got another package through
the mails."
"Me neither," Childe said.
"See you," Bruin said. He put a heavy paw on Childe's
shoulder for a second. "Doing it for nothing, eh? He was
your partner, right? But you was going to split up, right?
Yet you're going to find out who killed him, right?"
"I'll try," Childe said.
"I like that," Bruin said. "There ain't much sense of
loyalty kicking around nowadays." He lumbered off; the
others trailed out after him. Childe was alone. He looked
into the mirror over th
e washbowl. The pale face resem-
bled Lord Byron's enough to have given him trouble with
women—and a number of jealous or desirous men—ever
since he was fourteen. Now, it was a little lumpy, and a
scar ran down his left cheek. Memento of Korea, when a
drunken soldier had objected to being arrested by Childe
and had slashed his face with the broken end of a beer
bottle. The eyes were dark gray and just now much blood-
shot. The neck below the slightly lumpy Byronic head was
thick and the shoulders were wide. The face of a poet, he
thought as he had thought many times, and the body of a
cop, a private investigator. Why did you ever get into this
sordid soul-leaching depressing corrupting racket? Why
didn't you become a quiet professor of English or psychol-
ogy in a quiet college town?
Only he and a psychotherapist would ever know, and he
evidently did not want to know, since he had never gone
to a psychotherapist. He was sure that he enjoyed the sor-
didness and tears and grief and hatred and the blood,
somewhere in him. Something fed on contemptible food.
Something enjoyed it, but that something sure as hell
wasn't Herald Childe. Not at this moment, anyway.
He left the washroom and went down the hall to an
elevator and dropped while he turned his thoughts so in-
wardly that he did not know whether or not he was alone
in the cage. On the way to the exit, he shook his head a
little as if to wake himself up. It was dangerous to be so
infolded.
Matthew Colben, his partner, had been on his way to be-
ing his ex-partner. Colben was a big-mouthed braggart, a
Don Juan who let his desire to make a pass interfere with
his business. He had not allowed his prick to get in the way
of business when he and Childe had become partners six
years ago. But Colben was fifty now and perhaps trying to
keep the thoughts of a slowing-down body and thickening
flesh and a longer time to recover from hangovers away
from him. Childe didn't accept this reason; Colben could
do whatever he wanted after business hours, but he was
cheating his partner when he cheated himself with the
booze and the women. After the Budler case, they would
be through. So Childe had promised himself.