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Subject: Sheer Stockings (Bren Fleming f/f 1/1)
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This is an extract from an Obelisk Library Etext title
available via Email or on disk. For more information
about this and other Etext titles, ask for the
Obelisk Library Catalog at: <specpress@earthlink.net>

This text is for adults only.


from: Bren Fleming: CHARLY'S GAME
Copyright (c) 1992 Spectrum Press Inc.
All Rights Reserved
Published by Spectrum Press Inc.
ISBN 1-57138-122-8



Sheer Stockings

     I had a client in a place called Rye.   
     There were three kinds of people in Rye, New York: the
people who owned the mansions, the people who serviced the
mansions, and the people who drove in from outside to gawk at the
mansions. The big money in Rye was old a hundred years ago, which
meant anyone who still had it now had much more of it, and anyone
who had lost it was living elsewhere.
     I drove out to Rye from Manhattan, the black Corvette
humming along and happy to be out of the garage.
     The Grayson place was a mansion like all the others, a
million dollar house on a million dollar piece of turf. I turned
the Corvette around the circular asphalt drive, stepped out of
the car and walked up to the front door to ring the bell. After
some time passed, the door was opened by a stocky Filipino maid.
     She looked at me, an up and down look of suspicion. I was
dressed in black, a black jacket and black trousers, a black
shirt and a black string tie. I suppose the maid thought a woman
visiting the Grayson palace ought to be dressed in frilly white,
dressed up in white and ready to curtsey. Or maybe she disliked
the dyke haircut, the punk brush cut on the sides. Whatever it
was, her look wasn't friendly.
     "Yes?"
     "The name's Quinn. Mrs. Grayson is expecting me."
     "Please wait."
     She closed the door in my face and left me standing there.
     In thirty seconds, the door opened again. Reluctantly, the
maid nodded and invited me inside.
     I followed her through the vestibule and into a long hall
decorated with paintings and statuary, a smell of money
everywhere, maybe subdued but definitely still there. The maid
led me to a large sun-filled living room that looked more like an
old-fashioned drawing room, and then she told me Mrs. Grayson
would be down in a few minutes. "Maybe five minutes."
     "Five minutes is fine."
     After the maid left, I walked over to one of the tall
windows to look at an expanse of green lawn, a cluster of white
tables and chairs, two large opened umbrellas, the various props
of a comfortable leisurely life. The dirt of the city was absent
here; even the sky looked clean. You could live in a place like
this and think Brooklyn was on Mars.
     Then a voice behind me said: "Ms. Quinn?"
     I turned. There were two women, one of them older than the
other, the younger one a thin redhead with short hair and no
makeup, the older one a well-groomed blonde of fifty.
     The blonde came forward with her hand extended, a soft hand
with long elegant fingers and no rings. "I'm Helena Grayson."
     I'd expected a grey dowager, but she wasn't that at all. She
wore a long black dress, three strings of white pearls and small
pearl earrings. Her blonde hair was up in a tight knot, her eyes
carefully shadowed, her makeup perfect. Her lips were painted
red, spread in a smile now to show her perfect white teeth. She
made a gesture at the upholstered chairs, an invitation to sit
down. "I'm so happy you were able to come out here, Ms. Quinn.
This is Rhea Logan, a close friend."
     The redhead said: "I'm on my way, Helena."
     Mrs. Grayson turned to her. "Yes, I'll call you."
     "Nice to meet you, Ms. Quinn."
     A hint of something in the eyes. I nodded at the redhead and
she turned and left us with no wiggle at all in her tight jeans.
     When Mrs. Grayson and I sat down opposite each other, I
noticed the charcoal nylons, the elegant ankles shimmering
through the sheer stockings, the black sandals with pointed
French heels. Unpainted toenails. Pantyhose or stockings? I
wondered if Helena Grayson wore a garter belt under that long
dress, something lacy with long black straps, the tops of her
stockings pulled high and tight on her long thighs. But the image
was an annoyance since I was there on business.
     The maid served coffee on a large silver tray.
     After that Mrs. Grayson chatted about the weather, the drive
from Manhattan, the way Rye had changed over the years. "We're
more crowded now," she said with a sigh.
     "But not too crowded."
     "No, not yet."
     With a rustle of silk and nylon, she crossed her shapely
legs and readjusted the hem of her dress.
     I said: "How can I help you, Mrs. Grayson?"
     She sat back, gazed at me a long moment, and then said: "My
daughter has run off with someone. I'd like you to find her and
bring her back."
     "How old is she?"
     "Twenty-four."
     "That's not exactly a minor, is it? Suppose she doesn't want
to come back?"
     "I'd like you to persuade her."
     I felt weary. This was the way it always was. They made
their problems and then they expected you to solve them.
"Persuading her might be impossible. How did you get to me, Mrs.
Grayson? What made you call me and not someone else?"
     She hesitated. She looked away a moment, and then she
studied me again. "You were recommended by a friend. The point
is, Ms. Quinn, my daughter is a lesbian, and I when I heard about
you, I thought you'd have more of a chance than someone else."
     Hire a dyke to chase a dyke. How nice.
     "I see."
     "Caroline has run off with another girl. Well, maybe her
friend isn't a girl, she's much older than Caroline."
     "And you don't approve."
     "I don't approve of the friend. I think she's a great danger
to Caroline."
     "In what way?"
     She fidgeted, uncrossed and recrossed her legs. "She's
frightening."
     "Frightening?"
     "I'm afraid it's not easy to explain."
     I teetered on the fence, one side of me suspecting the
tangle was ridiculous, the other side of me thinking give it a
chance, maybe it was something real.
     I said: "I assume you know the friend's name."
     "She calls herself Buffy."
     "Buffy?"
     "Buffy Warner."
     The tangle was no longer ridiculous.
     "I know her."
     Mrs. Grayson stared at me. "You do?
     "Buffy Warner is definitely bad news."
     Mrs. Grayson looked pale. "Will you help me?"
     I wouldn't tell her half what I knew about Buffy Warner
because she might get sick on the expensive Oriental rug. "I
don't know yet. What else can you tell me about your daughter and
Buffy?"
     "Nothing else. I don't know anything else. All I know is
that right now Caroline is with her in Denmark and I want
Caroline back."
     "Denmark?"
     "Yes, she's in Copenhagen. She told me on the telephone they
were staying in Copenhagen, but she wouldn't give me an address.
I thought of going over there myself, but what good would it do
if I don't have an address?"
     "You could hire a Danish private detective."
     "I don't want a Danish private detective, I want an American
handling this and I want you." She looked directly at me. "I've
been told you're extremely capable."
     The pearl necklace looked so perfect against the black
dress. I imagined her in the pearls and not much else, the long
legs in black stockings, a prominent little mound with a
carefully trimmed blonde triangle, a sleek body preserved by a
good diet and frequent exercise, a mature woman capable of a
complete passion. I cursed myself for an overactive imagination.
     I said: "The bill might be high, Mrs. Grayson."
     "I want Caroline back here."
     "I get a thousand a week plus expenses. And in Europe the
expenses could be heavy."
     "I don't care, I want her back. I've gathered some
photographs of Caroline for you, and of course I'll give you any
information you need. If you'll get started on this, I'll write
out a check for five thousand dollars at once and offer you that
as a minimum."
     Money always talks and gets its way. The five thousand would
certainly fit nicely in my bank account. "I can't force her to
come back, you know."
     "I don't want you to force her, I want you to persuade her."
     "I might not be able to do that either. I might be able to
find her, but I can't make her come back here if she doesn't want
to."
     "Then at least find her, won't you?"
     "Has she run away before? Anything like this?"
     "No, never. She's not like that."
     "Except this time."
     "Yes. And that's why I want her back here. It's not like her
to do this. And not with a woman like that one."
     "How long have you known your daughter is a lesbian?"
     The blue eyes were as cool as ever. "It's been a long time."
     "What about Mr. Grayson?"
     "There isn't any Mr. Grayson. He's been dead nearly twenty
years."
     "Sorry."
     "Caroline has no memory of him."
     "One other question. It might help me if and when I talk to
her."
     "Yes?"
     "Has it bothered you that your daughter is gay?"
     Mrs. Grayson stared at me, her face frozen and then relaxing
again as she laughed softly. "Bothered me? No, of course not.
I've been a lesbian all my life, or at least since I was
fourteen. I'm not bothered by it at all."
     Which solved a mystery for me, explaining why when I'd first
seen her with that redhead my guts had tried to tell me they had
just been fucking.

                          *     *     *

     Buffy Warner was a leather dyke, extremely butch, extremely
tough, imprisoned once for attempted murder, indicted once for
felonious assault after she'd fistfucked a woman into the
hospital before robbing her. Buffy liked whips, handcuffs, boots,
and body worship by masochistic femmes. She had muscles, weight-
lifting muscles, and she carried a switch-blade knife with the
outline of a cunt carved into the handle. She was mean and
treacherous, and we'd nearly killed each other once in a Brooklyn
schoolyard.
     If Buffy had Caroline Grayson on a chain, Caroline needed
all the help she could get.
     Between Rye and Mamaroneck, I stopped in a hamburger place
to get something to eat. I sat alone in a booth, thinking of
Helena Grayson, still not recovered from the woman's aura. I now
had a check for five thousand dollars in my pocket, along with
photographs of Caroline and some notes about her. Would I find
the girl in Copenhagen? Could I get her away from Buffy? I never
liked it when I was unsuccessful, breaking my ass without getting
the client what they'd paid for. It was also a drag on future
business. With two thousand licensed and unlicensed private
investigators in New York, too many failed jobs could quickly put
you behind the pack. And then there was Buffy, an old score that
might get settled finally, or I might get my face ripped open by
a switch-blade knife with a cunt on the handle.
     Happy happy.

                          *     *     *

     But for the time being finding Caroline Grayson could wait.
That evening I went to the Village to find a piece of ass. I
don't know what it was, Helena Grayson turning me on or the
tension produced by thinking about Buffy or whatever. All I knew
was that I needed something, a warm body, an exciting attitude,
all of it preferably wrapped as a femme. I tried one bar after
another, until finally in a hole on 10th Street I made a
connection. The place was a filthy little girl-bar with a broken 
toilet and a reek of beer and feminine sweat. The girl was a
lanky blonde, not long out of college, sloe-eyed and pretty
enough to make every dyke who looked at her drool with hunger. A
girl with the neck of ballerina, a girl with bouncing little
breasts, a girl with legs made for fishnet and high heels...

------------------------------
End Extract

This is an extract from an Obelisk Library Etext title
available via Email or on disk. For more information
about this and other Etext titles, ask for the
Obelisk Library Catalog at: <specpress@earthlink.net>

This text is for adults only.



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