Tense. He locked himself in his office, undressed, and gave himself an erection. From a locked drawer he took a VR girdle and goggles and gloves, and a highly illegal, because it was homosexual, compact ring. It was called "Scherherazade"; he'd bought it because the boys reminded him of Qabil Rabin.
He set the CR on the stereo spindle and hurriedly fitted the girdle over his genitals, around his waist, and between his legs. He rolled on the gloves and slipped the goggles over his head. Put the earplugs in and said, "Go!"
It was a harem scene, seven young men lounging naked on silken pillows, chatting, sipping coffee from small cups.
There was a random function that determined which boy would show interest; if the customer wanted a different one, he could say "reset." Norman liked them all.
One of them looked at him and smiled, and said something in Arabic. He set down his coffee and gracefully uncoiled from his supine position, becoming erect as he walked toward Norman.
A part of his mind always marveled at the technology. The boy gently took hold of his penis and cradled his testicles, and drifted to his knees.
Norman stared at the top of the boy's close-cropped head as he gently fellated him. With a couple of words he could switch to anal sex, active or passive, but this was enough for him. He watched the other boys, having fun with each other while they watched him and his virtual partner. (That part felt fake, or at least too staged, since it was always the same, a kind of moving erotic wallpaper.) After a few minutes, he knew he couldn't delay any longer, or his body would lose the illusion and melt, so he pushed a couple of times and ejaculated. The boy stood up while the whole scene faded into gray mist.
He walked into the bathroom with his silly-looking garb and carefully unwrapped the girdle, everted, and scrubbed it. Then he patted it dry with a towel, folded everything together, and returned it to his hiding place. He lay down on the couch and asked the room for Rimsky-Korsakov, and closed his eyes for a few minutes.
He only half slept, thinking about the composition. If a bass clarinet was going to take the melody, he wanted another line, a bass viol in a slow pedal. Doubled with one of the violins here and there. A quiet percussion rattle, like a distant woodpecker, signaling the measures where the two came together, two octaves apart. And a metallic tapping, like a muted triangle, doing 5:4 against their 4:4.
He got up and dressed, running through the changes in his mind. He went back to the great room and snapped on the Roland, but then saw that the phone was blinking. The call hadn't come in while he was napping, thank goodness; he would have lost his train of thought. It had come while he had the earplugs in, getting blown by a ghost. Probably a middle-aged man by now, like Rabin.
He keyed in the bass viol and adjusted the second violin. He couldn't get quite the percussion he wanted, so he left it off and wrote a note over the staff. He'd call Billy Kaye this evening and have him send something over; he stocked a cube of foreign percussion effects. After he was satisfied that he'd written everything down, he went to the phone.
Two calls. The first was a man he didn't recognize. Row upon row of paper books behind him, matched leather bindings identifying them as Florida statutes. A rich lawyer, couldn't be good news.
It was worse than he could have imagined. He smiled politely and nodded. "Professor Bell, I have a client who has something of value to you: silence. About you and a certain policeman. We will be having lunch at the rear table at Alice's Tea Room at noon today. Noon. If you're not there, we'll go to the police.
"You've met my client, Guilliame Capra." That slimeball Willy Joe. "Surprisingly, he has many friends on the police force."
The man disappeared. Norman played it back and it didn't improve. He erased it and sat back to think, but nothing came. Nothing but rising panic.
He went to the kitchen and got a wineglass, then opened the wine cabinet and closed it again. Instead, he poured an inch of brandy. He sat at the breakfast table and took one sip. Then he poured it out and rinsed the glass. No answer there.
What a lovely world this was.
Maybe they were only going to threaten to expose him to Rory. Big surprise. It would take some playacting, but they could simulate an outraged wife and penitant husband.
But no. Not in this day and age. They would threaten his career and Rory's, too.
Could Qabil be behind it? No; he'd lose even more than them. His fellow officers would not be amused.
He'd talk to Rory after work. First find out what the blackmailer wanted. He realized he couldn't say within a million dollars either way, how much money they had. Better find out before lunch. He checked his watch; two hours.
He went to call the bank and remembered the second message. It was Rory, asking him to call. He punched index-1.
Aurora
Her personal line rang and she punched it. Norman returning her call.
"Company tonight, sweetheart. You remember the Slidells, from Yale?"
He nodded and rubbed his chin. "Vegetarians?"
"You're amazing. He's vegan, I think, Lamar. At least he wears an equals sign on a necklace, Church of Reason."
"Okay." He seemed distracted. "I was going downtown for lunch. Market's not open; I'll see what Publix has."
"No eggs or cheese?"
"Heavens, no. I wouldn't enslave our fellow creatures." He didn't smile.
"There's something wrong?"
"Bad morning. Talk about it later."
"We can talk now. There's no one here."
"No ... no, I have to check some stuff out ... "
"I mean, I'll have the Slidells with me when I come home."
"It's okay. Later." The screen went blank.
She almost called him right back. Something was really bothering him. But the other phone rang, her public line.
"¿ Buenos?" She'd seen the woman before, but couldn't place her.
"Good morning, Dr. Bell. June Clearwater, mayor's office." Of course, the mayor had heard about the anniversary broadcast and wanted some "input." He wanted to be sure that Rory would mention Gainesville, she assumed. He came on-line.
"Mr. Southeby. "Input'?"
He showed a professional number of teeth. "Rory. I just heard about your shooting schedule and wanted—"
"Hold it. You know my schedule and I don't?"
"The camera crew was just here," he said, a little defensive. "They were headed for you next."
"That's wonderful. They were supposed to call." On cue, the call-waiting icon strobed in the corner of the screen. "That's probably them. Talk to you later, Cameron." She punched control-#, to record.
It was Chancellor Barrett, his face all grim furrows. "Rory. Do you remember a young man named Ybor Lopez?"
"As in Ybor City? Sounds vaguely familiar."
"He used to work in Deedee's office."
"Used to ... is he the one who got arrested last month?"