Lawrence Block - A Dance at the Slaughterhouse

"What's the matter?" she said. "I'm not allowed to touch?"

Before I could answer, the woman on the screen took the boy's penis in her gloved hand. Then, with her other hand, she swung the glove and struck him hard across the scrotum.

He said, "Owww! Jesus, cut that out, will you? That hurt! Let me down, let me off this thing, I don't want to do this anymore-"

He was going on in that vein when the woman, her face a mask of cold fury, stepped forward and drove her knee into his unprotected groin.

He screamed. The same off-camera male voice said, "Tape his mouth, for Christ's sake. I don't want to listen to that shit. Here, get out of the way, I'll take care of it myself."

I had assumed the male voice belonged to the cameraman, but there was no break in the filming while the voice's owner stepped into the picture. He looked to be wearing a skin diver's wet suit, but when I said as much to Elaine she corrected me.

"It's rubber wear," she said. "Black rubber. They have it custom-made."

"Who does?"

"Rubber freaks. She's into leather, he's into rubber. 'Can This Marriage Be Saved?' "

He was wearing a black rubber mask as well, actually more of a hood that covered his entire head. There was a hole for each eye, and another for his nose and mouth. When he turned I saw that there was an opening as well at the crotch of the rubber suit. His penis protruded, long and limp.

"The man in the rubber mask," Elaine intoned. "What has he got to hide?"

"I don't know."

"You couldn't skin-dive in that thing, not unless you wanted the fish to give you a blow job. I can tell you one thing about this guy. He's not Jewish."

He had by this time covered the boy's mouth with several lengths of tape. Now the Leather Girl handed him her glove, and he left more red marks on the boy's skin. His hands were large, with dark hair on their backs. The rubber suit stopped at the wrists, and because his hands were nearly the only exposed part of him, I noticed them more than I might have otherwise. He was wearing a massive gold ring on the fourth finger of his right hand. It was set with a large polished stone I couldn't identify. It was either black or dark blue.

He dropped to his knees now and took the boy in his mouth. When he had restored him to an erect state he drew back and wrapped a rawhide thong tightly around the base of the boy's penis. "Now it'll stay hard," he told the woman. "You stop the vein, the blood flows in but it can't flow out."

"Like a roach motel," Elaine murmured.

The woman straddled the boy, taking him into the opening in her leather pants and the corresponding opening in her flesh. She rode him while the man caressed them in turn, now cupping her bare breasts, then tweaking the boy's nipples.

The boy's face kept changing expression. He was frightened but he was also excited. He winced in pain when they hurt him, but the rest of the time he looked wary, as if he wanted to enjoy what was happening but he was afraid of what might happen next.

Watching, Elaine and I had ceased to comment on what we were seeing, and her hand had long since withdrawn from my thigh. There was something about the performance that stifled commentary as surely as the square of white tape quieted the boy.

I was beginning to have a very bad feeling about what we were watching.

My apprehension was confirmed when the pace of Leather Woman's ride picked up. "Come on," she urged, breathless. "Do his tits."

Rubber Man moved out of the frame. He came back holding something, and at first I couldn't see what it was. Then I recognized it as a gardener's implement, something you'd use to prune a rosebush.

Still riding the boy, she worked one of his nipples between her thumb and forefinger, rolling it, pulling at it. The man laid one hand on the boy's forehead. The boy's eyes were rolling wildly. Gently, tenderly, the man's hand moved to smooth back the light brown hair.

With his other hand he positioned the pruning shears. "Now!" the woman demanded, but he waited, and she had to say it again.

Then, still stroking the boy's forehead, still smoothing his hair, he tightened his grip on the pruning shears and cut off the boy's nipple.

I triggered the remote and the screen went blank. Elaine had her arms folded so that each hand was cupping the opposite elbow. Her upper arms were pressed against her sides and she was trembling slightly.

I said, "I don't think you want to watch the rest of this."

She didn't respond right away, just sat there on the couch, breathing in and out, in and out. Then she said, "That was real, wasn't it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"They cut him, they, what do you call it, pruned, that's it, they pruned his nipple. If they got him to a hospital right away they could reattach it. Didn't one of the Mets-"

"Bobby Ojeda. Last year, it was the tip of one finger."

"On his throwing hand, wasn't it?"

"His pitching hand, yes."

"And he was rushed to the hospital. I don't know if it would work with a nipple." Deep breaths, in and out. "I don't suppose anybody rushed this kid to the hospital."

"No, I don't suppose so."

"I feel like I could pass out or throw up or something."

"Bend over and put your head between your knees."

"And then what, kiss my ass goodbye?"

"If you're feeling faint-"

"I know, to get the blood back in my head. I was just making a joke. 'She must be all right, Nurse, she's making jokes.' I'm okay, though. You know me, I was brought up right, I'm a good date, I never faint and I never puke and I never order the lobster. Matt, did you know that was going to happen?"

"No idea."

"Clip, and his nipple's gone, and the blood just oozing out, trailing down across his chest. Flowing in a sort of zigzaggy line, like an old river. What's the word when a river does that?"

"I don't know."

"Meandering, that's it. Blood meandering down his chest. Are you going to watch the rest of it?"

"I think I'd better."

"It's going to get worse, isn't it?"

"I think so, yes."

"Will he bleed to death?"

"Not from a cut like that."

"What happens? The blood just clots?"

"Sooner or later."

"Unless you've got hemophilia. I don't think I can watch any more of this."

"I don't think you should try. Why don't you wait for me in the bedroom."

"And you'll tell me when it's safe to come out?"

I nodded. She stood up, looking unsteady on her feet at first, then getting hold of herself and walking from the room. I heard the bedroom door click shut and still waited, in no great hurry myself to see what happened next. After a minute or two, though, I worked the remote and turned the whole thing back on again.

I watched it all the way through to the end. About ten minutes in I heard Elaine's bedroom door open but I kept my eyes on the set. I was aware of it when she passed behind me to reclaim her seat on the couch. I didn't look over at her, though, or say anything. I just sat there, bearing witness.

When it ended the screen went blank again, and then we were abruptly plunged back into the action of The Dirty Dozen, with the major's gang of cutthroats and sociopaths unleashed on a castle full of Nazi officers enjoying R-and-R in occupied France. We sat and watched the damn thing all the way through to the end, watched Telly Savalas have his wild-eyed psychotic break, watched our heroes fire guns and hurl grenades and raise all-around hell.

After the final frame, after the credit roll, Elaine walked over to the set and pressed Rewind. With her back to me she said, "How many times did I say I must have seen this movie? Five or six? Every single time I find myself hoping this time it'll be different and John Cassavetes won't get killed at the end. He's a rotten person but it breaks your heart when he gets killed, doesn't it?"