Never Too Rich (45 page)

“
Hi, I’m Nina,” the visitor said
with a timid smile, and held out a hand. “It’s really nice of you
to see me.”

“
And it’s nice of you to drop by.”
Obi stepped aside to let her in. She smiled, then closed the door,
locked it, and said, “You can’t be too careful. Come on. The living
room’s this way.” She strode like a lioness on long sleek black
legs.

Nina looked around. “It’s a lovely apartment.”

Obi said, “It’s not really home. I’m just staying
here for a few weeks.”

“
Oh, look! There’s Joy’s cat!” Nina
bent down and extended a hand. “Here, pussy, pussy ...”

The orange tabby took one look at her, and its fur
and tail stood on end. Then it let out a yowl and streaked into the
bedroom.

“
How do you like that?” Nina said,
looking at Obi.

“
Don’t mind Edgar, he’s a little
strange.” Obi laughed. “If you had a little shrimp on you, he’d be
in your lap. Edgar just adores shrimp. Would you like some white
wine?”

“
Uh. No. Thanks. Mind if I look
around, though? I love high-rise apartments.”

“
Be my guest.”

Nina walked about, peeking into doors and nodding to
herself. At one point she said, “This isn’t the apartment where . .
. ?” She left the sentence dangling and looked at Obi.

“
No.” Obi shook her head. “That’s
why I moved in here. Oh, by the way. There are still a lot of Joy’s
things in the other apartment. Clothes, furniture, things like
that. If you’d like . . .”

Nina shook her head. “I couldn’t. I mean, I’d have
nightmares forever.”

Obi nodded. “I know what you mean.”

“
What a lovely bedroom!” Nina was
poking her head into another door.

“
Yeah.” Obi laughed. “As you can
see, I’m a real slob.”

“
Oh! I see you’ve got a picture of
Joy!” Nina walked quickly over to the dressing table and stood
there, head tilted to one side, eyeing the splendid, smiling face
in the art-nouveau pewter frame. “Joy always was the one with the
looks,” she murmured, half to herself. She looked at Obi. “You
know, I used to be jealous of her. I wondered why she got all the
looks.” Her voice turned suddenly bitter and her eyes swam with
tears. “I’m glad I was born ugly!”

“
You’re not ugly,” Obi said gently.
“In fact, you’re very pretty.”

“
I’m not! But you’re pretty. You’re
very pretty.” Suddenly Nina reached out and touched the end of
Obi’s splendid mane of soft, brushed-out kinky hair.

Obi instinctively drew back, too surprised and
confused to sense any danger signals. She smiled awkwardly,
unsettled by the way Nina was staring so intently at her. Even
though that was nothing new—people always stared at her, men and
women alike. What was it Alfredo Toscani had once told her?
“No
one can keep his eyes off your
challenging
reality.”
Something like that. On impulse, she decided she
would give Nina the picture of Joy. Being her sister, she would
like the keepsake. “Would you like it?” Picking up the framed
photograph, Obi held it out.

Nina looked down at it in surprise. Then she shook
her head. “Oh, no, I couldn’t,” she said. “You’re very nice,
though.” Her lips suddenly drew tightly back over her teeth, and
her eyes shone with a maniacal inner light.
“Too
nice.”

Obi’s skin suddenly started to crawl. Slowly she set
the picture back down and let her eyes meet Nina’s.

Nightmarish images started swirling in Obi’s head. I
can’t have opened my door to a total stranger! she thought,
everything inside her balling up into a sick, shriveling knot. She
drew a sharp breath and started to back away.

“
You’re not Joy’s sister!” Obi
whispered with sudden comprehension. “You . . . you’re not even a .
. . woman!”

Something evil blazed deep in Nina’s eyes, and her
contralto voice abruptly dropped down to its normal male range.
“Too bad you’re so fuckin’ stupid, you bitch!” the man-woman
hissed.

Before Obi had a chance to turn and run, one of
Nina’s hands closed like a vise around the model’s wrist, and the
other came out of the red shoulder bag. Something clicked, and a
long, gleaming narrow blade leapt out and flashed.

Obi’s eyes followed the switchblade as Nina raised
it high.

“
Oh, my God!” Obi
gasped.

“
Welcome to your worst nightmare,
bitch!” Nina screeched.

Obi tried to jerk sideways, but the switchblade was
already arcing down.

“
Aieee!” she screamed as her
shoulder exploded with the red-hot fire of lethal pain. She looked
at the transvestite in astonishment; tried to find pity in the
grim, purposeful face and rage-filled eyes. Came up empty. Then she
screamed again as the pain repeated itself, the knife tearing back
out through her flesh.

Blood spurted from the wound.

Obi saw the knife descending again and tried to
twist away to avoid it, but was too slow. Cold steel sliced into
her other shoulder, grated on bone, and twisted excruciatingly.

She screamed again.

“
Whore!” Nina snarled, his wig
slipping but clinging askew on his head.

It was then that Obi began to struggle like a
wildcat. She twisted and bucked, trying in vain to gain enough
leverage to tear loose.

The blade plunged into her abdomen.

She doubled over.

Pierced her groin.

Her body jerked.

“
Slut!” Nina spat, and twisted the
knife back out.

A stream of blood erupted from between Obi’s
legs.

“
No!” she blabbered. “Please stop .
. . oh, God, please please stop!” She opened her mouth to scream
again, but before the sound could come out, the switchblade flashed
down, straight into her open mouth, chipping teeth and neatly
severing her tongue.

Blood and tongue spewed out like vomit.

Obi’s voice was reduced to thick frenzied
gurgles.

“
Tramp!”
Nina
hissed.

The knife descended again.

And again.

And again.

Obi attempted to fight him off, but her body felt
sluggish, drained of energy. Stab by stab, she could feel her life
ebbing away.

Slowly her struggles ceased. She wrapped her arms
around her attacker in a grotesque kind of embrace, and when the
knife drove into her back and out again, her grip loosened.

She fell away from Nina, her body flopping limply
backward to the floor.

The knife descended one last time, right between the
ribs. Straight into the heart.

The colors of Byzantium swirled and blurred and Obi
could feel herself falling, spiraling downward into
nothingness.

Then her eyes glazed over.

She never felt the switchblade scalping her. Never
saw the bloody scalp with its glorious brushed-out mane of black
hair going into the plastic trophy bag.

Same World/Same
Time

In the Realm of Miss
Bitch

The pain in his groin was unbearable.

Bllll. . . ack! Yesssss!

Black! Such a divine color! Such a deliciously sexy,
organic treat! Ebony. Raven. Jet!

The wig stands, with the glossy cover-girl faces
pinned to them, were lined up mutely, sightless eyes staring.

Yes, my lovelies! A new girl has joined you! A
bllll. . . ack girl!

He rubbed his face, arms, and torso furiously with
the dark brown make-up base. Black stretch panty hose encased his
muscular legs and shone sleekly. Held his hard-on captive.

Raking the sharp ends of his press-on nails across
his chest, he studied his reflection in the mirror. His body
gleamed like rich dark mahogany; his lips glistened with crimson
lipstick and gloss.

Time for the crowning touch. Oh, yessss!

Time for the crown!

He took Obi’s mane of soft kinky hair off the wig
stand, lifted it high above him, and set the splendid scalp down on
his head as solemnly as if this were a coronation.

Sexual tension electrified his pelvis, sizzled and
rippled and sparked from cock to ass to prostate and back.

He stared at himself. Snapped his teeth together.
Pulled up his lips in a catlike snarl.

Purred and growled.

Yes, my lovely! Time for the naughty bitch to get
fucked.

The plastic dildo was pink and thick and long. He
slathered it with Crisco, pulled down the panty hose in the back,
and bent over. In the mirror, he watched his face contort as he
shoved it brutally in.

His insides exploded with pain and felt as if they
were being turned inside out.

He pulled the panty hose back up, letting the
elastic waistband snap into his flesh. Wiggled his pelvis
obscenely. Hissed with every exquisite stab of pain.

This time, instead of using crimson lipstick, he
picked up his sacrificial switchblade. Kissed the length of steel
as reverently as if it were a religious relic. Took a wide-legged
stance. Then ran the sharp end of the blade slowly along the inside
of his panty-hose-clad thighs.

He drew a deep breath as the nylon sliced open and a
thin red line of blood welled up from the soft flesh.

Red blood. Black skin. Yessss! Red on black. Black
and red. BLACK AND RED! BLACKANDRED—

“
O-
bi.
O-
bi
.
O-
bi—”

The roaring filled his ears like a thundering
stadium chant. His blood was racing through his veins.

Blood-blood-blood!

The razor-sharp blade seemed to have a life of its
own.

It whispered smoothly as it sliced the black nylon
bulge of penis and testicles.

The panty hose split neatly, and his penis leapt
free. He barely had to touch it with the blade before the most
exquisite orgasm he had ever known burst forth. It came with such
ferocious force that he screamed from relief.

Thick globules of semen landed two yards away.

One splattered the cut-out of Obi’s face and dripped
wetly down her cheek.

Like a thick, milky tear.

Part Three

The Real Wizards of
Oz

November-December
1989

Chapter 47

The workday begins early in the garment district. By
eight o’clock the arteries between Thirty-fourth and Forty-second
streets, from Sixth Avenue all the way over to Ninth, had already
swollen into a gridlocked traffic jam, a condition not helped by
the double-parked trucks and vans being loaded and unloaded on both
sides of the streets. No amount of blaring horns or shouted curses
and gesticulations from short-tempered motorists and cabbies
alleviated the congestion. It was another normal day in the
district.

The same was true of the sidewalks. Thousands of
ill-tempered pedestrians, each with a destination in mind, fought
for space along with garment racks hung with clothing and trolleys
piled high with bolts of fabric, or boxes of zippers, or spools of
thread by the ton. Street-corner drug dealers did a brisk business
in the shadows of doorways, while in the grimy brick factory
buildings, workers toiled in the stifling lofts of the legitimate
union manufacturers and in the illegal sweatshops.

550 Seventh Avenue, the vertical Palace of Fashion
rising with cool disdain from the edge of the garment district, was
a veritable oasis of calm. The train of limousines that had fought
their way downtown from the Upper East Side were beginning to drop
off their passengers—Geoffrey Beene, Antonio de Riscal, Oscar de la
Renta, Ralph Lauren, Pauline Trigère, Bill Blass, Donna Karan,
Carolyne Roehm, and all the rest of the household names who were
arriving for work at 550 in cocooned luxury and tranquil high
style.

Edwina G. Robinson, who didn’t own her own
limousine, had, since she’d joined the august ranks of the 550
Seventh Avenue designers, arranged for a car service, which sent a
sedan and driver around for her every morning and evening (and at
noon, if she had business lunches to attend). It was a luxury she’d
grown quickly accustomed to.

Now, at a few minutes after eight, she was swinging
the rear door open with typical impatience even before the Lincoln
Town Car whispered to a complete halt. Springing out, she grabbed
her bulging portfolio and shoulder bag off the backseat and,
clutching one in each hand, darted like a single-minded dragonfly
through bare openings in the sea of pedestrians and rushed into the
building with the speed and purpose of a medic on a mission of
mercy. Arriving at the elevators just in time to see one of the
doors closing, she swiftly thrust her portfolio in it, forced the
door back open, and shamelessly squeezed aboard the already packed
car.

She was happy as a lark. Nothing short of a nuclear
blast could have dampened her spirits. During the long months of
unemployment she had missed the energy and tension and frenzy of
Seventh Avenue; now, each and every workday morning, it all came
back to her like an old, familiar friend. She could feel her body
literally thrumming and vibrating and buzzing with anticipation of
what the new day might bring. Because, for her, this dog-eat-dog
industry, this real-life poker game that spat out loser after
loser, and the occasional winner, was the granddaddy of all
tournaments—and she was a bona fide contestant, her talent and
acumen her sword and lance. There were hordes to clothe, store
buyers to tempt, consumers to dazzle, an empire to build. Despite
the shark-infested waters of this industry, she truly came alive
here, blooming gloriously day in and day out.

She gazed up over the elevator doors at the lit-up
floor directory. And there it was—sharing floor seventeen with four
other small to mid-size firms.