problem, to begin with, but it helped that he had samples, pilfered over time on visits to the Laundro mat. The blouse and skirt were strictly K Mart, chosen for economy instead of style.
The only reason that he dressed her up at all, in fact, was so that he could practice for the main event, when clothes got in the way.
He used a rubber knife for their rehearsals, to avoid the risk of damaging his silent partner. Hold the floppy blade against her throat with one hand, while he cranked the left arm up between her shoulder blades. She had no joints per se, and you could twist the limbs at crazy angles, but he tried to keep it reasonable. Nothing that would knock her out or cripple her right off, if she were flesh and blood.
It got a little awkward sometimes, since he only had two hands and liked to grab her from behind. The knife helped, though, and Larry practiced speaking with authority.
'Don't fight me, bitch! You scream or try to get away, I'll cut you!'
Make believe she whispers
Larry didn't fuck around with buttons. Rip the blouse and feel around a little bit, enjoying silk against her skin before he yanked the fancy bra up to expose her tits and pinch the nipples. Foreplay. Use the knees to force her legs apart and ruck the skirt up on her ass. No panties on a trial run, since he doesn't like to shred the good stuff, but he still goes through the motions. Snatch and grab. An awkward moment with his zipper, but he always manages to get it with a little fumbling, bring the one-eyed monster out to play.
The rest of the scenario is flexible. Sometimes he nails her in the ass, bent double, with her head down on the floor. He rolls her over sometimes, so that he can watch her face while he is fucking her. Sometimes he forces Suzee to her knees and lets her live up to her name. The blade beneath her chin reminds her not to bite.
The only drawback with a mute is that she can't provide the sound effects that Larry craves: the sob bing, pleading, whimpering, that go with fear and pain. No matter. He makes up for the deficiency by talking to her while he works.
'You love it, don't you, bitch? I know you love it. Let me hear you say it.
Stiffening, Larry shoots his load in Suzee's ass, cunt, throat, whatever. Sweating with his eyes closed. Winding down. Sometimes he takes her through the paces more than once, imagining that he has time to change positions. You can never really tell, before the Main Event.
When he is done, each time, he has to practice killing her, a slash across the throat.
No witness means no case.
Their sessions always leave him slumped across his conquest, whipped and sucking wind. It takes a while for the sensations raging through his mind and body to recede, like murky water swirling down a drain. It still needs work, the bounce-back, just in case he has to flee in haste.
No problem. He has time.
The Main Event would only fly when Larry felt that he was ready. In the meantime, there was Sucky Suzee. They would whip each other into shape.
Relaxing as he helps his playmate back onto the bed.
'You know you love it.'
Watching Karen is his second favorite pastime. Five weeks into the surveillance, he can spot her from a distance, on a crowded sidewalk, by the way she squares her shoulders, flicks her hair back, swings her hips with each long-legged stride. If struck blind on the spot, he reckons he could track her by her scent.
Obsession. The perfume, that is.
Her hair is different from the style she wore in court, more casual, a bit provocative. She doesn't have the haunted look that he remembers from the trial. More self-assurance these days, thinking she's invincible.
But Larry means to wipe that smug look off her face, and soon.
She had been lucky number seven, and the first to offer serious resistance. Screaming. Kicking. Scratching. Putting him to flight. The pigs came out of nowhere, cruising on routine patrol. He was about to ditch the ski mask when they pinned him with a spotlight, ordered him to freeze.
And Larry froze, all right. It didn't stop the older of the two pigs wading into him with fists and boots, a macho cowboy, landing half a dozen solid blows before his partner pulled him off.
It was enough.
The DA talked about an airtight case, but that was for the cameras. Karen never saw his face, and in the darkness, the excitement, she could not describe his clothes. It was a winter night, and cold: the ski mask easily explained. The beating muddled any references to scratches on his face. On top of everything, the pigs forgot to read him his Miranda rights.
Case closed, but not forgotten. Larry learned from his mistakes. Stay clear of parking lots. Immobilize the bitch, first thing. No witness means no case.
Sweet Karen is the one who got away. but not this time.
No fucking way.
She works on Wilshire, at a travel agency, concocting getaways and dream vacations for a clientele that is predominantly forty-plus and upper middle class. Nine-hour days, with lunch from noon to one o'clock. Two days a week, on average, Karen skips the meal to use her free time window-shopping, anywhere within a half-mile radius of work.
Today, a Friday afternoon, is one of those. He spots her coming out. The clinging slacks and frilly blouse are businesslike, yet somehow still provocative. The scary part, for Gaskins, comes when Karen looks straight at him, blue eyes burning into his from less than thirty feet away.
No. She breaks the contact, heading south, without a backward glance. It was a fluke. No recognition in her eyes… or was there?
Larry gives her half a block before he falls in step behind her. Karen never seems to hit the same shop twice, and that suits Larry fine. He treats it as an education, concentrating on his quarry, working hard to shake the sense that she has spotted him.
The witchy shop is a surprise, no place that he has seen her go before. Two blocks off Wilshire, tucked between a tattoo parlor and a pawnshop, with as sorted books and jewelry in the window. Larry watches from across the street, as best he can, with sun glare on the window. Glimpses Karen talking to an aging hippie type behind the counter, plain-Jane in a tie-dyed peasant blouse. He can't hear what they're saying, natch, but Karen makes a purchase, giving up a few dead presidents. Receives some object in return and tucks it in her purse.
Emerging from the shop, she hesitates once more and turns to look across the chrome-bright traffic flow, direct at Larry. Blue eyes fixed upon him like the laser sighting mechanism of a Hellfire missile.
He turns away, the sudden panic burning in his chest like Texas chili with an extra shot of jalapeno. Twice, that is, in half an hour, and he has to watch his ass from this point on. If Karen doesn't know he's dogging her by now, a third time will erase all doubt.
Goldfinger speaks: 'We have a saying in Chicago, Mr. Bond. The first time is coincidence; the second time is happenstance; the third time, it's enemy action.'
Fucking-A.
Cheeks flaming, Larry walks due east, away from Wilshire and the travel agency. Too risky, trailing Karen back to work. She doesn't have a thing to tell the pigs, so far, but he cannot afford to have her on alert.
Surprise is half the battle. Half the fun.
Anxiety propels him toward his car, the long way round. Frustration broods beside him, in the shotgun seat.
No sweat.
He has the Little Lady waiting for him, back at home.
'You love it, don't you, bitch? I know you love it. Let me hear you say it.
Pumping into Suzee's rubber rectum like some kind of robot, piston-powered. Feeling Karen. Listening to Karen cry for mercy. Shooting deep inside her, just because she begged him not to.
Later, he can always make her lick him clean.
