Michael Slade - Headhunter

Frowning, Crystal walked over to the window. At the end of the side street, where it intersected with Royal, she could see the parade of floats and, for a moment, even the figure of Comus holding his goblet high. The crowd cheered as he went by, swept away as if caught up in a surging tide. Crystal sighed.

"Must we miss the party?" she asked.

"Sweetheart," the woman said softly, her eyes now glazed and her face flushed by the cocaine's effect, "you must realize that some things are more important than others. Like this man tonight. He is very important for us."

Crystal nodded absently, suddenly feeling the jittery intoxication of the drug. Her face felt frozen and there was no sensation in her teeth. When she looked down at her chest it seemed as though her heart was beating wildly in an effort to break free, each tick of the clock vibrating this room into sharper focus.

The room would have been similar to any other rich, elegant parlor in New Orleans were it not for the walls. To Crystal, it was eerie to have so many empty eyes watch her every move. Suzannah had decorated this half of the upper floor of the ancient Lafon house entirely in antiques. Most of the furniture was by the cabinetmaker Prudent Mallard, immense, ornate, and Victorian. Though Mallard had used carved rosewood, Suzannah had used the masks.

There were more than a hundred different masks covering the walls.

On the wall opposite the window were the masks of Africa: an Oule Mask from Bobo and a Senufo Fire-spitter; a Nalindele Mask and an Ashanti Fertility Head.

On the wall to the right of the window were hung the masks of the Near and Far East: a Mummy Mask from Egypt and a Roman Mask of Pan; a Japanese Gigaku and a Chinese T'ao t'ieh Face.

In the wall to the left of the window there were three closed doors, and around the jambs, framing them, were the masks of America: a Death Mask from the Inca and a Salish Spirit Mask; a Six Nations Iroquois False Face and a Hopi Katchina Doll.

And on the window wall were the modern masks. To the left of the pane was a Beelzebub by Theodore Benda and a German Executioner's Mask. From above it leered a Corbel

from England, a Creon Mask from Stratford, a Death's Head Hussars Busby. While to the right hung a New York Yankees' catcher's guard, a World War I gas mask and a shroud from the Ku Klux Klan.

Out beyond the window were the masks of Mardi Gras.

Catlike, Suzannah padded across the floor and began to stroke Crystal's hair. Together they watched the parade.

"What does all this mean?" Crystal asked. "That's what I'd like to know."

"Mean? It doesn't mean anything. It's just something you feel. You let yourself go."

Crystal closed her eyes, moving her head in time to the stroking of her hair. It felt so good.

"You see," Suzannah added, "Carnival appeals to a basic human urge. Almost everyone has the desire hidden within them to occasionally don a mask. There is no culture in-history in which masks have not played a part." Suzannah whispered, "Come with me."

Together they walked to one of the doors set into the wall to the left. The woman swung it open and they entered the bedroom beyond.

This was a room in conflict, a riot of red and black. The walls were of red satin, the curtains of red velvet, the spread draped across the bed a red patchwork quilt. The carpet, however, was black. The furniture — a dresser, a wardrobe and a mirrored washstand — was of black ebony and onyx. And attached to each of the four posts supporting the canopy bed were chains and handcuffs of forge-blackened steel.

Suzannah crossed to the washstand and sat down on its chair. As she picked up a jar of makeup, she was staring at her own face in the mirror, thinking the reflection was showing signs of age. The small creases at the corners of her full mouth and green feline eyes had been there last week. The lines on her forehead had not. Concerned, she rubbed one hand across her shaved head, noting the blue veins that spread like fingers reaching up from her temples, counting the pulse-rate at which her heart pumped blood.

Suzannah opened the jar of stage makeup and began to blacken her eyelids. Spreading the grease with her index fingers, she worked the shadow in a narrowing slit around the sides of her head. Then she cleaned her hands with cream and began chalking her entire face white. As she did this, her eyes seemed to sink further and further back in her head. Fascinated, Crystal sat down at the foot of the bed and watched.

When she had finished, Suzannah painted her fingernails a bright scarlet red — the same color as the satin walls of the bedroom. Then fanning her hands to dry the lacquer, she turned to the girl and said: "You and I, Crystal, we have a lot in common."

"We do?" the girl said, surprised.

"Well, of course. That's why I asked you here. A few years ago, after I got rid of my husband, I did just what you've done. I too escaped down the Mississippi River. Only I made a mistake. Whereas you were smart enough to get a job in a laundry, I spent half a year removing my clothes in a sleazy Bourbon Street strip joint. It was awful!"

"You were married?" Crystal said, surprised again.

"Yes, dear. We lived at the top of the world. But let's not talk about that. The man turned out a bum. Oh he was tough on the outside, shiny buttons and all, but inside where it counts he was a sniveling little boy — lost and living in the shadow of his father. In fact, love, he was the last man to lay a hand on me. But I took care of him. He doesn't matter now."

"When were you divorced?" Crystal asked with interest.

"Divorced? We were never divorced. The man just died. That was Christmas Eve, 1955."

Suzannah stood up and crossed to the dresser and pulled open one of the drawers. From it she removed a pair of sheer stockings, then carried them back to the washstand. As she walked her breasts swayed, her shoulders softly rolling to keep them moving. Crystal stared transfixed.

"Good coke, eh?" the older woman said.

"Can I have some more?"

"Later, dear. This stuff is stronger than you think. Believe me."

Suzannah sat down on the chair and raised one of her legs to pull a stocking on.

"Do me a favor, love. You see that drawer second down? Open it and bring me one of the scarlet ones."

Crystal moved to the dresser drawer and pulled it open. Inside, it was filled with wisps of lace and nylon, all of them black or red. The girl removed the tiniest of garter belts and brought it to the woman. Suzannah fastened it around her waist, tethering the stocking tops with two snaps at each thigh. Then she looked up.

"How do I look, sweetheart?"

"Stunning!" Crvstal said. She was beginning to shiver her throat suddenly dry. She tried to wet it by swallowing, but all she got was a taste of bitterness running down her throat from her nose.

Suzannah stood directly in front of the girl. Her suspenders ran like blood-red transversal lines down to the white of her thighs. Crystal could hear the material rasp ever so softly.

"Do you understand, love, how men make women whores? You can see them in every city, every house, every office building. Well, it makes me sick. Women like I was, stripping in clubs and letting men ogle their tits and ass. Millions of women sitting on their fannies adding up figures or typing words. Women working in laundries and washing dishes. You want to know a secret, love? Just between you and me? Each day those women peddle their ass for peanuts — never once realizing that there is a market just waiting to be tapped. A market where women can get back their own."

Suzannah flicked her eyes at the clock. The time was 12:09.

Turning from the girl, she walked over to rummage in the wardrobe and remove a set of clothes. She carried the outfit over to the bed and set part of it down on the quilt. Then as Crystal watched, Suzannah wiggled her body into a black leather corset.