Chain of Desire (A Rare Finds Tale), Page 3

  A sultry brunette with striking emerald eyes, full pouty lips, and tits big enough to smother a stegosaurus, Nikki Pow! was a Czech who’d worked in the Eastern European porn biz until an American adult film producer discovered her and brought her to America in hopes of turning her into one of the biggest names in the industry. Five years had passed since then, and although she hadn’t become one of the biggest names in porn, she had become one of the most notorious, given her willingness to do anything and anyone, her specialty being hours-long gang bangs involving dozens of men, many of them black guys with dicks the size of tallboys.

  It wasn’t hard to track her down. She had her own website which listed all of her upcoming projects, and there I learned that in just four days she’d be making an appearance at an L.A. strip club called Wink’s.

  I’d definitely be there.

  * * *

  Wink’s was one of those clubs that could best be described as semi-respectable, meaning the booze was second-rate, but at least someone remembered to clean the men’s room every once in a while. Then again, nobody was there for the booze anyway.

  I had to wait through a parade of non-famous strippers with names like Candi Boxx and Rosie Cheeks. They did their job and nothing more. The audience, mostly a mix of noisy frat boys and sad-eyed middle-aged men, greeted them with lukewarm enthusiasm. Everyone was there for the infamous Nikki Pow!

  When she twirled out onto the stage dressed like a policewoman—cop hat, blue uniform shirt with a silver badge, black leather miniskirt, and black leather boots—the place went nuts, especially the frat boys, who started hooting and hollering as if they were at a football game. She wasted no time doffing her clothes and before one full minute had passed was down to only the boots. One big reason it didn’t take long was because she hadn’t been wearing anything underneath the uniform—no bra, no panties. I wasn’t sure about California law, but most states I’m familiar with have laws against full frontal nudity. No one here, though, seemed ready to file a complaint. And judging by Ms. Pow!’s reputation, any cop who’d been on the premises would have been long and passionately compensated for turning a blind eye.

  Once her encumbering clothes were out of the way, she started humping the pole. She did it for quite a while, and I’m pretty sure she got herself off doing it, judging by the way she flushed and her nipples hardened. After that she slowly danced along the edge of the catwalk, waving her tits and ass to all and sundry. By the time she’d made one complete circuit of the catwalk, the tops of her boots were stuffed with more money than an Easter Sunday collection plate.

  When the show was over, she blew everyone a big kiss and shimmied backstage. I waited a few minutes, then got up, went outside, and walked around the building, hoping to catch her as she headed out.

  I could have waited a while longer. As I neared the rear of the building, I heard a man moan, “Oh, fuck, yeah! That’s it!”

  Peering around the corner, I saw one of the frat boys standing with his back to the wall next to the club’s rear exit, his pants down around his ankles, and his skinny dick in Nikki Pow!’s wet, pouty mouth.

  I waited out of sight around the corner until the moaning ceased—fortunately it took only about twenty seconds—and the kid fumbled out his awed thanks and hurried away.

  When I caught up to Ms. Pow! she was standing beside a cherry-red Ferrari and fishing around in a black leather purse for her car keys.

  “Ms. Pow!” I said.

  She looked up, saw me, and smiled. “Call me Nikki. Everyone does. I do not believe in formalities.” Though she’d been in the U.S. long enough for her to master the language, she still had a thick, guttural Eastern European accent that made it sound as if she’d been gargling with glue.

  She gave me a quick once-over. I guess she liked what she saw, because her smile widened and she took a step toward me.

  I stifled an urge to recoil. Sure, she was attractive, but her sexual habits being what they were, I envisioned germs swirling around her like a cloud of gnats.

  “And what exactly can I do for you, hmmm?” Nikki said with a flirtatious raise of her eyebrows that suggested she knew exactly what I wanted and was perfectly willing to give it to me.

  “Not what you think,” I said. “See, I’m a finder of rare and unusual objects and I’ve been hired by a man who wants a used pair of your underwear.” I had decided to mention only the part of the job that related to her. No sense confusing her with stuff about robots and chocolate-cherry cheesecake. Then again, she’d probably get into the chocolate-cherry cheesecake. And who knows, maybe the robots too.

  I expected her to ask questions. Most people do. Instead she burst out laughing.

  “That is a good story,” she said. “Most people would just say they want it for their brother or their friend or something.”

  “But I’m serious. It’s really not for me.”

  She chuckled. “Of course not.”

  I decided not to try to change her mind. I just wanted to finish this long, crazy case. And from the look of things, I was almost there. I figured I’d have no trouble getting a pair of her panties—hell, she gave away more than that for free. Still, I knew I couldn’t let myself get complacent. All too often a marathon runner who’s well in the lead will slack off a little when the finish line comes into sight, thinking he’s got an easy win. Inevitably he winds up eating someone else’s dust. No win is ever easy. Especially not in my line of work. There’s always one last snag you never expect.

  And here it came.

  “I would love to do this for you,” she said, “but there’s only one problem—I never wear underwear.”

  I suppose I should have seen that coming.

  “Do you mind if I make a phone call?” I said.

  She glanced at her car. “I don’t have much time.”

  “I’ll only be a minute.”

  She shrugged. “Okay, but only a minute.”

  I called Howall. He answered halfway through the first ring, his voice high and excited, no doubt thinking I was calling to tell him the job was done.

  I explained the situation to him while Nikki watched, her incredulity that I’d been telling the truth quickly giving way to amusement.

  “What do you want me to do?” I asked Howall.

  “I don’t know. Do you think she’d be willing to wear a pair for a day?”

  “Hold on.” I asked Nikki.

  She crinkled up her face as if I’d asked her to eat a bug. “I hate underwear. It’s so constricting. And it chafes. I suppose I could do it, but I will have to charge a fee. Five hundred dollars for wearing them for a day. And you have to supply the underwear.”

  “Did you hear that?” I asked Howall.

  “Yes, yes. It’s fine.”

  “I’ll have to go buy some underwear, then. Do you have a preference? A thong? A frilly lacey thing?”

  “A thong! Definitely a thong. A black one. And she should sign it in pink ink!”

  “Pink ink?”

  “Yes!”

  “Okay, fine.” I hung up.

  “Pink ink?” said Nikki.

  “I’m afraid so. I guess it’s time for a quick shopping trip. Is there some way I can get in touch with you later?”

  “Sure.” She shook her head as she scribbled down her phone number. “This is a very strange day.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  * * *

  I bought a black thong (size M) and a pink pen (not as easy to find as you might think) and delivered them to Nikki’s house in Malibu later that night. The house, a cozy two-bedroom ranch, was much more tastefully decorated than anywhere else I’d visited in the course of the job. I guess being a porn whore is lucrative enough to buy primo furnishings. I especially liked the genuine polar bear–skin rug. She invited me to do things with her on it, but concerns about Mr. Scabies and his venereal pals made me beg off.

  I returned the next night for the thong. She had already signed it with the pen, right in front over th
e spot where her bush would have been if it hadn’t been shaved off.

  “I used them well,” she said, handing me the panties. “I even masturbated with them on a few times. He should like that.”

  “I’m sure he will,” I said, suppressing a grimace and wishing I’d thought to bring a pair of gloves.

  * * *

  And so, I rendezvoused with J. Eric Howall in an empty parking lot two nights later and handed him Nikki Pow!’s signed and soiled undies, in return for which he gave me an autographed copy of Maggotbrain (he even put “Best Wishes” above his name), which I then delivered to “Uncle” Sam Stearns, who let out a long, enraptured moan when he saw it and then relinquished—though not without a slight frown of regret—his last remaining copy of the December 1988 issue of Pink, which I presented to a delighted Hubert Ramsey, who let me take away Roboto, nicely crated up now, in a flatbed truck.

  And that brings us back to old Papacek, who I thought was going to have a massive joy-induced coronary when he cracked open the crate and saw Roboto.

  “Hello, old friend,” he said as tears welled up in his eyes. He turned to me. “He’s a little worse for wear, but he’s in better shape than I expected.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s nice.” I handed him my bill, eager to finish this up and get to work on my next job. Some guy wanted a card belonging to something called the Ur-Tarot, supposedly the original deck of Tarot cards. It sounded like a nice challenge that would result in a nice paycheck.

  The bill was itemized, which perhaps wasn’t the best idea, since Papacek was one of those guys who always read the fine print. He nodded as he made his way down the list of plane fares and hotel room fees, then stopped dead when he got to the last couple of items. His thin-lipped mouth popped open and he looked up at me, eyes bewildered beneath his bushy white brows.

  “‘Ladies’ undergarment: $14.99’?” he said. “‘Use of same: $500.00’?”

  “The job took many strange twists and turns. It’s probably best if you don’t know the details.”

  He stared at me for a moment, then looked at Roboto and sighed. “I suppose so. Sausage tastes mighty good, but you don’t want to see how it’s made.”

  “True enough.”

  I reflected later that he might have thought I was the one who had made use of the ladies’ undergarment. But let him think what he wanted. He had his robot and I had his money and all was right with the world.

  Other works by J. S. Volpe, available from fine e-book retailers everywhere

  RARE FINDS

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  The Anomaly Hunters saga begins here!

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  Book 2: From Finland with Love

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  Among the many crooks, scum, losers, and fools vying for this priceless prize are Bastard Jack, the biggest, baddest, and probably hairiest bandit in the land; Kirby and Blunt, small-time thieves whose schemes always backfire; John Grommet, a timid scribe in need of money to save his dying mother; Gaspard and Merizen, lusty con-artists who find the thought of all that gold stimulating enough to necessitate the occasional time-out for a quickie; the Yellow Pawns, a trio of nihilistic cultists who plan to use the treasure to further their apocalyptic agenda; Illyana and Luornu, young barmaids who dream of a life free from the pawing hands of drunken idiots; and then there’s…Ludwig van Beethoven?

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  Reynard is a trickster who lives only to sow chaos and sate his basest desires. Solace is a Good Samaritan who strives for society’s betterment. The two of them seem to have nothing in common, yet they do: They’re both immortal, and roughly once every thousand years their paths cross in unexpected ways and in various fantastical locales throughout Eridia. As the world evolves from a brutal, anarchic war-zone to the hub of a peaceful intergalactic civilization, Reynard and Solace’s peculiar relationship likewise evolves in ways the self-serving Reynard never could have imagined.