platinum bombshell shimmied through the room in a torrid rendition of "Heat Wave," fastening herself to Senator Freeman, perhaps the closest thing to a Kennedy she could find. She notched up the temperature with "Fever," wafting feathers and dripping diamonds. Not once in his routine did Cinder betray a hint that he'd noticed Brad among the guests.
Despite the bravura performance, the act ended to tepid applause. Her momentary reprise from purgatory over, Marilyn withdrew like the ghost of Hamlet's father at the cock's crowing.
The curtains reopened on another resurrected legend, this one a rugged '80s porn star dressed in a Roman toga. Bradford could recall any number of trenchant performances the man and his famed appendage had given in their prime. His favorite was Flesh Gordon. While time had done little to diminish the star's awesome physique, the drugs he'd imbibed over a lifetime of devotion to his art seemed to have done noticeable cranial damage.
The oversized cretin appeared to have no idea where he was or what he was supposed to be doing until a wisp of a youngster appeared beside him. The boy lifted the giant's robe, exposing his legendary member to a round of applause. This part of him, too, Brad noted, had sadly been affected by the drugs and seemed equally ignorant of its purpose before them that evening.
The young man became absorbed in his quest to waken the sleeping giant. Eventually, he was able to inspire a respectable erection on the aging star, eliciting gasps from several of the men at the table. Aroused, it seemed, the beast was still truly formidable.
A small cheer rose from the crowd. The boy smiled as though he'd managed a great feat, but the greater was yet to come. The star, finally seeming to grasp why he was there, grabbed the boy, who squirmed and let out a scream. The giant slapped a hand over his mouth and began his assault on the young man's sphincter.
"Some people roast a pig when they have guests to supper," Brad heard Hayden say. "I deflower a virgin."
Just then, the thin man from the front door appeared and leaned down to their host, whispering in his ear. Hayden looked up sharply and nodded. He rose.
"Gentlemen, I'm afraid I must leave you for the briefest of moments."
Rosengarten disappeared with his bodyguards, while Ichabod slipped back out the way he'd come.
Brad was curious to know what had made his host leave so abruptly. He looked around the room to see who might be watching. The singer had gone into a drug-induced haze. Ted, meanwhile, had fallen asleep with his chin on his chest, dreaming of blue chips. The others were absorbed by the on-stage spectacle.
Waiting till it seemed discreet, Brad slipped through the door after Rosengarten.
13
Bradford started up the grand staircase after his host's receding footsteps. He passed the portrait of the unhappy Maud Lacey, still awaiting the return of her peripatetic son. Next to her was an original Botero, the painter's famous fat men looking lustfully mischievous in garters and negligees. They'd always made Brad laugh. Now they reminded him of nothing so much as the roomful of ninnies he'd just left.
Upstairs, three separate passageways led off from a circular landing. Brad peered around a corner and saw Johnny K., the almond-eyed guard, posted outside a paneled door. A loud voice came from inside the room. Clearly, that's where Hayden had gone.
Brad peered down the second hallway. At the far end, a ladder led upward. In all likelihood, he realized, it ascended to the cupola. It would be useless to go up there now. He chose the third hallway and found himself treading a darkened passage to a set of double doors where a sign read, 'Arctic Collection of Admiral Donald MacMillan.'
He turned the doorknob. All was dark. He slipped in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He fumbled in his pocket for Sebastian O'Shaughnessy's matches and struck one against the box. As it flared, a ghostly white shape
Despite the bravura performance, the act ended to tepid applause. Her momentary reprise from purgatory over, Marilyn withdrew like the ghost of Hamlet's father at the cock's crowing.
The curtains reopened on another resurrected legend, this one a rugged '80s porn star dressed in a Roman toga. Bradford could recall any number of trenchant performances the man and his famed appendage had given in their prime. His favorite was Flesh Gordon. While time had done little to diminish the star's awesome physique, the drugs he'd imbibed over a lifetime of devotion to his art seemed to have done noticeable cranial damage.
The oversized cretin appeared to have no idea where he was or what he was supposed to be doing until a wisp of a youngster appeared beside him. The boy lifted the giant's robe, exposing his legendary member to a round of applause. This part of him, too, Brad noted, had sadly been affected by the drugs and seemed equally ignorant of its purpose before them that evening.
The young man became absorbed in his quest to waken the sleeping giant. Eventually, he was able to inspire a respectable erection on the aging star, eliciting gasps from several of the men at the table. Aroused, it seemed, the beast was still truly formidable.
A small cheer rose from the crowd. The boy smiled as though he'd managed a great feat, but the greater was yet to come. The star, finally seeming to grasp why he was there, grabbed the boy, who squirmed and let out a scream. The giant slapped a hand over his mouth and began his assault on the young man's sphincter.
"Some people roast a pig when they have guests to supper," Brad heard Hayden say. "I deflower a virgin."
Just then, the thin man from the front door appeared and leaned down to their host, whispering in his ear. Hayden looked up sharply and nodded. He rose.
"Gentlemen, I'm afraid I must leave you for the briefest of moments."
Rosengarten disappeared with his bodyguards, while Ichabod slipped back out the way he'd come.
Brad was curious to know what had made his host leave so abruptly. He looked around the room to see who might be watching. The singer had gone into a drug-induced haze. Ted, meanwhile, had fallen asleep with his chin on his chest, dreaming of blue chips. The others were absorbed by the on-stage spectacle.
Waiting till it seemed discreet, Brad slipped through the door after Rosengarten.
13
Bradford started up the grand staircase after his host's receding footsteps. He passed the portrait of the unhappy Maud Lacey, still awaiting the return of her peripatetic son. Next to her was an original Botero, the painter's famous fat men looking lustfully mischievous in garters and negligees. They'd always made Brad laugh. Now they reminded him of nothing so much as the roomful of ninnies he'd just left.
Upstairs, three separate passageways led off from a circular landing. Brad peered around a corner and saw Johnny K., the almond-eyed guard, posted outside a paneled door. A loud voice came from inside the room. Clearly, that's where Hayden had gone.
Brad peered down the second hallway. At the far end, a ladder led upward. In all likelihood, he realized, it ascended to the cupola. It would be useless to go up there now. He chose the third hallway and found himself treading a darkened passage to a set of double doors where a sign read, 'Arctic Collection of Admiral Donald MacMillan.'
He turned the doorknob. All was dark. He slipped in, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He fumbled in his pocket for Sebastian O'Shaughnessy's matches and struck one against the box. As it flared, a ghostly white shape
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