Ed McBain - Puss in Boots

“No, I’m not, really. I’m sorry. But—”

“ ’Cause you better not get sassy with me, Puss.”

“I won’t, I’m sorry.”

“I thought you was a woman’d take just about anything in her mouth,” he said. “Isn’t that so? That thou hast transgressed against the Lord thy God, and hast scattered thy ways to the strangers under every green tree?” He scowled and looked at her mouth. “Just about anything in that mouth,” he said. “And here you are turning down good, wholesome food.”

“You didn’t say it was—”

“Woman who enjoys eating as much as you do,” he said. He was still scowling. He kept looking at her mouth. And then his gaze suddenly shifted to her breasts. “Oh my, are you cold, Puss?” he asked. “Or just scared?”

“Cold,” she said.

“But not scared?”

She did not answer him.

“Is that why you’re all puckered up like that?” he asked, and suddenly pinched the nipple of her left breast between his thumb and forefinger. “Because you’re cold? Or is it because you’re scared?” He squeezed the nipple hard. “Does that hurt?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said. “So which is it?” he asked. “Cold or scared?”

“Both,” she said. “Please let me go.”

“You mean let you go here !” he said, squeezing harder. “Or let you go period ?”

“There,” she said. “Please.”

“Because I will let you go, you know. Sooner or later. When I’m finished with you.”

“Please,” she said.

“Hurts, don’t it?” he said.

“Yes! Please oh please !”

He released his grip on her.

“There,” he said, and smiled. “What do you say?”

“Thank you,” she said. She was gasping for breath.

“Bet you wish you had a sweater,” he said, “the way this building stays so cool and all. Maybe there’s a nice warm sweater in this bag. Wouldn’t it be nice if I brought you a sweater?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I’m cold.”

“Oh. I thought maybe you were modest.”

“No, I’m just—”

“You mean you’re not modest?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean? Are you modest or aren’t you?”

“Whatever you say,” she said.

“Am I hearing sass again? Answer my question!”

“I meant... if you think I’m immodest, then—”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then... then I think I’m immodest, too.”

“But you don’t really think so, do you? Not really. Thou hadst a whore’s forehead, thou refusedst to be ashamed.” He smiled suddenly. “Are you cold, too?” he asked.

“Very.”

“And scared?”

“A little.”

“Only a little? Aren’t you scared I might hurt you again?”

“Yes.”

“But only a little. Maybe I didn’t hurt you enough. Maybe if you’re only scared a teeny-weeny little bit—”

“I’m very scared,” she said.

“You will be,” he said. “You’ll be very scared before I’m finished with you.” He smiled again. “Poor little Puss,” he said, “all naked and shivering and cold in her sexy red boots. Withhold thy foot from being unshod, Puss, and thy throat from thirst. Are you thirsty?”

“Yes.”

“Sure wish I had something for you to drink. Sure wish there was a sweater in this bag, too, but there isn’t. I burned all your clothes last night.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did. You won’t be needing clothes any more, will you?

“What... what does that mean?”

“When I let you go.”

“When... when will that be?” she asked.

“When I’m ready,” he said. “Stand up.”

She leaned away from the wall, eased herself onto her knees. Struggling, she managed to shove herself into a standing position.

“Move here,” he said. “Around the generator. Under the light.”

She half hopped, half shuffled to the center of the room.

“Shall I untie you?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” she said.

“No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Are you wondering if there’s food in the bag?”

“Yes.”

“There isn’t.”

“You said—”

“I said I bet you wished there was a sandwich in this bag, that’s what I said.”

“Yes, that’s what you said.”

“Something to eat.”

“Yes.”

“Because poor little Puss is so-o-o hungry, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And thirsty.”

“Yes.”

“But there’s nothing to eat or drink in the bag,” he said. “There’s only a towel and a pair of scissors.”

She looked at him. He was smiling again. And suddenly she began trembling.

“Are you scared?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

“The towel doesn’t scare you, does it?”

“No.”

“Then what? The scissors?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you shivering like that?”

“I’m... cold.”

“No. You’re scared.”

He reached into the shopping bag, took a rolled beach towel from it, and unfurled it like a flag. He draped the towel over her shoulders, arranged it over her breasts.

“Modesty, modesty,” he said, “naked, and ye clothed me,” and reached into the bag again.

The blades of the scissors caught the feeble light from the overhead lamp.

“We don’t want you getting all covered with hair, do we?” he said.

“What... ?”

He opened the scissors.

“And he shall pluck away his crop with his feathers,” he said, and clutched a tangle of long red hair in his left hand.

Oh my oh my oh my, all the hurly-burly, all the hustle-bustle, all the bullshit of a movie set. Once, when Warren was still walking a beat in St. Louis, he’d pulled duty where they were shooting a movie on location, sergeant must’ve been paid a C-note to keep order in the streets, maybe more, but none of it filtered down to the grunts.

Man, those movie people!

He never in his life had seen people act so much like walking gods. Strutting around all puffed up with the glory and the wisdom of what they were doing. Citizens standing around goggle-eyed waiting for the star to appear. The “star” was somebody on one of the television series — you blinked your eyes, he’d be gone next season. Warren had the feeling that if the director asked some lady to take her baby out of its buggy and smash his head on the sidewalk for the cameras, she’d have wet her pants and said, “Oh, yes, sir, thank you, sir, in a minute, sir, just let me comb his hair.”

Same thing here.

Small-time shit here, but the same damn thing.

Must’ve been something about making a movie that gave the people involved the feeling that they were rearranging the universe.

Big truck outside the house on Sabal Key, cars parked all over the street and even the sidewalk. Not a police car in sight, though any zealous cop could have handed out ten thousand summonses. Movie people didn’t care. They’d park right on top of a cop’s hat , you gave them the opportunity. Cables and lights in the truck, all kinds of heavy equipment. Warren walked right past it, up the driveway and into the front door of the house.

Never ask, never explain, that was Warren’s motto.

Walk in like you belonged there, Mr. Cool, bit of a strut on, dark glasses helped.

Oh my oh my oh my, here he was back again in downtown St. Louis, except that this was the backyard of a Sabal Key house and all the cameras and lights were set up around a swimming pool, and all the people running around frantically doing their godlike things were shooting a commercial for patio furniture. Didn’t matter. They could’ve been in Rome shooting Cleopatra .