As she sipped some thick jasmine tea, she draped her paw into her gooey twat.
She spread the crotchjuice with her fingertips over one side of a hefty butter-rich scone. Then buttered the rest with another helping from her quim.
She glopped a slug of greengage preserve on top of the biscuit. Appfled a smart dollop of clotted cream. Shoved the delicacy between her teeth. Felt the rich dainty melt in her maw, dazzle her tastebuds.
“Oh come,” Constance whined. “Taste this. You must have some.”
Veronica shoved her face into place first.
“Yum. I’m dying.”
“Now it’s Morrigana’s turn.”
“Mmmmm. Burns.”
“You do one,” Constance said. “You too, Veronica. Butter the buns.”
The intercom chimes floated from the foyer through the marble hail and into the cozy oval tearoom with open balcony where Constance and her friends could play while in town. The balcony was excellent for voyeurism as well as exhibitionistic displays. Those seen and those showing were the habitues of London’s West End. And with the aid of a telescope, one added a little blend of royalty- say peeping in through the windows of Suckingham Palace.
The chimes sang again.
“Shit,” Constance said. “It must by my husband. I asked him to come by for tea if he could-but I was certain he’d find something else to do. After all, he’s actually being forced to be seen with me socially this evening.”
“It is evening,” Morrigana chittered.
“Yeah. I remember,” Veronica drawled. Wasn’t tea, like, served several ages ago? But I think we were bodaciously involved otherwise. Constance, do I really have to go out with that private dick?”
“He’s our security consultant at least through the charity ball. Remember, this type of work has never been all champagne and socialite games.”
“All the same-”
“Stiff upper lip’ sis,” Morrigana said.
“Break for the showers,” Constance shot out. “The Lord Farnsworth is expected momentarily. We must seem to be on our best boudoir behavior.”
The diplomatic function honoring the world-class athletes who had participated in the international watersports tournament was held in the trend-setting club impressarioed by the Sheik al Jebal Asani Saba.
“Welcome, my friends,” Asani Saba glowed, “to our Intergalactic Saloon.”
Veronica took a glance around the room. “Charming. I like the stars on the ceiling.”
“Ah, yes,” the sheik said. “Our private planetarium and fantasy observatory.
Would you fancy your horoscope displayed?”
“Sure,” Veronica tittered as she glanced toward her escort Griffith Poindexter.
“Would you prefer Graeco-Roman astrology” Asani intoned. “Or Vietnamese.
Perhaps you could attune yourself to the subtleties of Babylonian and Chaldean interpretations of the heavens.”
Griffith shot out his chin. “How about just a drink instead?”
“We have the absinthe frappe,” Asani Saba suggested, indicating with open supine palm a tall cocksucking nude couple cut from crystal filled with a pearlescently purple foam.
“That’s the stuff,” Griffith remarked, “that all the. French impressionist painters went blind on.”
“Or perhaps,” Asani chatted, “you appreciate the more kinky yohimbine kicks.
This liqueur is fermented in our own London cellars in mahogany buckets-in the manner it is brewed in the rainforests of central Africa among the tribes. It is consumed by them in great quantities during fertility rites.”
“Sounds nifty,” Veronica said with a crinkle to her nose. “Got any other stuff?”
“For our special apertif tonight,” Asani continued, his tightly wrapped silk turban twinkling with deep red gemstones, “we have a brew fermented from Peruvian yage. This juice contains the alkaloid telepathine that the shamans believe enhances sensual communication-among many planes of physical and spiritual existence.”
Veronica cackled loudly and lewdly. “That must be the stuff that movie actress uses to getoff-what’s the flicking moniker of that old dudesse? I don’t wanna, like, fuck ghosts.”
“I don’t know about you,” Griffith said. “But I’m going to stick with honest ale from the British Isles.”
“My own personal favorite this evening, Asani grinned. “And yohimbine for the lady who is among those honored guests of the evening?”
“Yes, please,” Veronica said with barely held composure. “Thanks.”
She snarfed down the entire dollop served in a hardwood tumbler.
“Oooooh!” she screeched. “Now I need some champers to chase that down.”
“Come,” Asani Saba said. “I am pleased to provide you some champagne from my personal selection.”
“Veronica,” Griffith said. “I’m going to get lost for a few minutes. I’ll be in the library. If there is one in this joint.”
“Of course, monsieur,” Asani said slyly as he cupped his hand over Veronica’s fanny. “Slightly to the left off the stairway to the stars.”
Griffith made his way through the discoteque arena filled with half-flicking dancers.
He looked up the glittery stairway that terminated just beneath the chandelier-star dome above, flanked by balconies towering at different levels.
He made his way easily to the library and spied Constance immediately.
She had her back, bared past the waist, toward Griffith and was browsing about the library collection-not of books, but of videotapes. In the flickering light of the surrounding video monitors, Griffith approached Constance from the rear.
“How are matters turning, dear?” she said just before Griffith could smooch her ear.
“The Jewish guy who fakes he’s an A-rab and dresses in Indian yogi drag-that turban nailed with all the Burmese pigeon-blood rubies-”
“Asani?”
“Veronica’s with him.”
“So far, so what?”
“Remember you said that before you left your home turf with your hubby this evening, you thought you saw him pass off a note or something to his doxie Veronica.”
“Figured it was a note from my husband to Veronica about where and when they were going to meet to luck later.”
“Well, after I picked Veronica up, I saw she had a packet with a UK diplomatic seal on it in her purse-of course I went through it while we were on the way for her to do a quick pillowtalk trick on Arturo Mondragon Bourbon immediately thereafter.”
“He’s in town?”
“Thought you knew.”
“No. But it doesn’t surprise me.”
“He’s banking this gig, it seems.”
“No surprise there either. Veronica actually had the balls to go there with you on her tail?”
“Said she had to pick up a chunk of crankum for the other girls on the team to sniff tonight.”
“A likely tale.”
“And a true one. She showed me the crystal on the way here. I had a whiff myself. Okay stuff, not too much of a headfreeze. But in addition, Veronica’s now got herself a load of pounds sterling the papers from Farnsworth were probably fake notes for the paper trail to throw anyone off the source of the gelt involved-which if I am not mistaken is at this very instant being converted to Saudi riyals and Israeli shekels by Asani Saba.”
“What the luck’s next?” Constance said, playing her chest against Griffith’s side.
“I am to accompany Veronica to a discreet postmidnight snack in the brasserie at the Mayfair Club’s casino and brothel with one Nikita Stalin, also known as Nicolas Acero, alias Nick Steel?”
““Nicky? But he’s a spy.”
“Used to be. Gone independent since he moved his operations center from Moscow to the Hudson.”
“He’ll piss down her throat.”
“She’ll love it.”
“Then after that?”
“I suspect Nicky will convert the cash to rubles. Then, it pains me to say, your beloved Lance Fondulac, Lord Farnsworth will transmit the fupds to New York via his diplomatic pouch.”
“Ouch.”
“You knew he had it in him, Constance. it was that rakish attitude of his that convinced you to marry him.”
“Hit me again.”
“Farnsworth himself handles the sale of the rubles to personages unofficially connected with the state department or other more clandestine operations Uncle Sam may have going at any given time. Then it’s Veronica’s turn again. With the stack of dollars Farnsworth obtains from the previous transaction, Veronica tosses the mazuma to Morrigana, who membranes the dough through Charity House.”