The Lost Wages of Sin - Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Travel for Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter was a complex affair. They couldn't just call a travel agent.
First, there were papers and identification and passports to forge. Although Dr. Lecter had several excellent alternate identities squirreled away for a rainy day, he never used any of them just for crossing borders. They were each too entrenched, and had taken too long to craft, to be risked on merely temporary use.
So the proper traveling documents had to be either made or bought. This took time, and when it was done, he would be traveling to the New World as Lawrence Perkins, computer programmer, and she would be Norma Meyer, administrative assistant. Good, boring, prosaic identities.
Then, there was the matter of weapons. One couldn't just slip a Harpy or Syderco Civilian through customs, or pass any of the firearms Clarice preferred through airport metal detectors. But neither Starling or Lecter ever went anywhere unarmed if they could possibly help it.
Therefore, arrangements had to be made to purchase the desired items by proxy, and to have them delivered to various safety deposit boxes at their destination. This involved a careful concert of phone calls, cryptic letters, exorbitant payments, and shady dealings with a number of unsavory characters stateside.
Finally, disguises had to be devised. Although Dr. Lecter's Most Wanted photo was currently one face back, they would both have to run a gamut of airport security cameras, customs agents, and assorted security personnel in the course of their journey. Starling, of course, was not on any wanted list, but her face, thanks to the tabloids, was not entirely unknown to the public, and they wanted to preserve the illusion that she was deceased. The best thing was to make themselves as unrecognizable and as inconspicuous as possible for the trip, and to join some tour group to travel with.
Finding a tour group was easy. Theirs was a popular destination. For this, they actually could call a travel agent, and that is exactly what they did.
Fashioning alternative appearances was a bit more difficult, and they both behaved as though it was a great nuisance, but the truth was, the disguises were the fun part, and they both threw themselves into the game wholeheartedly.
Clarice went drab. She dulled the fiery embers of her red-gold hair with a temporary mouse brown rinse, and found a pair of horn rimmed specs at a second hand shop.
She also combed the tackiest clothing stores she could find, purchased a suitcase worth of graceless clothes, and found a hideous tan polyester pant suit, a Ship & Shore floral blouse in lavender and lime green, and a pair of "sensible" Dr. Scholls loafers to travel in.
A trip to a theatrical costume supply company provided realistic padding for her hips and derriere, and a binding bra for her bosom.
Make-up to cover the spot on her cheek and hairstyle adjustments completed the picture. The total effect was marvelous. She looked like a plain, beaten-down prisoner of pink collar wage slavery whose spirit had been narrowed by mind-numbing boredom, and whose ass had been widened by too many hours spent sitting at a desk.
When she donned her costume for Dr. Lecter's consideration, he'd seemed genuinely impressed by her resource. And he'd given her a small congratulation gift the following day to complete her ensemble: a vintage set of add-a-beads. Clarice immediately vowed revenge, even if they were the perfect touch.
He himself had been mysterious about what he was planning. Clarice noticed that he had started skipping his regular sessions with his barber as soon as they'd accepted Margot's invitation. He also began to study various internet clothing outlets, and once she'd found a Banana Republic catalogue folded on the bureau in his dressing room/walk-in closet. As the time passed and their departure date grew near, various packages began to arrive in the mail, and she knew he'd overturned his long-standing policy of blanket contempt for all medical practitioners and deigned to consult an optometrist.
By the time his hair had grown out enough to spill over his collar, he was ready to present the fake persona he'd been developing for Clarice's approval.
She sat on the bed in the airy top floor bedroom they shared and waited for the unveiling.
It was astonishing. One man went in to Dr. Lecter's dressing room, and then another man came out.
He wore rumpled khaki and socially conscious chambray in layers, and an absurd khaki vest with what appeared to be at least forty pockets of no discernible practical function. An AIDS awareness ribbon adorned this vest, pinned beside an old "Nader for President" campaign button.
The shaggy hairstyle of a man who would desperately like to be younger than he is obscured Dr. Lecter's ears, both adding to the overall characterization, and neatly preventing any potential identification via these distinctive features. Shoes that looked like ordinary Nikes, but could not have been, added at least two inches to Dr. Lecter's natural height. Gold rimmed glasses that tended to slip partially hid the shape of his nose, and a set of contact lenses changed his dark, strange eyes to a pale, innocuous blue.
"Well?" he asked, as he adopted an uncharacteristic round-shouldered slouch to set off the sloppy attire. "How do I look?"
"Who are you?" Clarice demanded in reply. "And what have you done with Dr. Lecter?"
"Hmm. I left him in the closet," he answered, pleased. He admired himself in the pier glass she'd given him as a birthday present, some months before.
"Serves him right, too. A remarkably disagreeable person. I'm Lawrence Perkins, by the way. It says so on my passport. But you can call me Larry."
Clarice laughed. "Well, Larry, I gotta tell you, you look like a vegetarian."
"Yes? Do I?" asked "Larry", with a very un-PC malevolent chuckle. "Like a bleeding heart, lactose intolerant, cause-obsessed, granola-eating, Volvo- driving, mid-life crisis twit? Personally, I think I look good and . . . stupid. What's your opinion?"
She grinned. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. But you do look . . . harmless. Really, it's an amazing transformation."
"Thank you, Clarice," he said, and sat down on the bed next to her. He sighed. "We leave in a week. Everything is more or less in order. Ugh."
"It won't be so bad," she answered. "There are some good things. Everything is open twenty-four hours, from the grocery stores to the dry cleaners. You'll like that."
"The very apogee of quintessential tackiness, twenty-four/seven. All ghastly, all the time. Wonderful."
He sighed again and curled up and rested his head in her lap, a habit he'd taken to about six months back. Clarice was never sure if he did it because he liked to, or if he was riffing on unicorn/maiden mythology. Or both.
She petted his fearful, newly shaggy head, offering some comfort. What vast, strange worlds this single fragile vessel of bone contained.
Mine to run with, she thought, with a surge of fierce, possessive pleasure, more than she had any ethical right to feel. Mine to play with, mine to know. Mine to love. Won fairly, through many diverse labors. I, the mighty huntress, have captured the fell beast, sire. I lay my sword and shield at your feet. I will quest no more.
"'And hast thou slain the jabberwock?'" the rara avis in her lap quoted, softly.
He always knew what she was thinking. Somehow. Perhaps he picked it up through osmosis, through the pores in his skin.
We don't deserve such happiness, she thought. We haven't earned it, either of us. Rightly, we both need a swift kick in the ass.
And at least one of us is about to get one, in a week's time, she added mentally. He'd be virtually impossible to live with, throughout the trip, she was certain. A boot in the booty for her too. Perhaps there was some justice in the world.
She laughed. "Hey, Larry," she asked. "Wanna cheat on that guy in the closet?"
"Uh . . . are you serious? He'd kill us both!"
"Larry" sat up, a playful approximation of utter thickness on his face, mild blue eyes blinking stupidly.
"He doesn't have to know," Clarice stage-whispered in his ear with comical prurience.
"Larry" hesitantly took her in his arms and kissed her. Badly.
"Are you sure it's okay? What if he finds out?" he asked, a timid whine in his voice. "I'm not good with . . . you know . . . being self-assertive and confrontations and things like that."
He managed to look lustful and fearful and clueless, all at the same time.
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," Clarice said to the faux wimp before her. "Give us another smooch, Larry. Don't be a chicken."
One more inept kiss, and then a voice in her ear. Dr. Lecter's normal, deeply perverse voice.
"Go get into your own traveling persona, please, Clarice," he suggested, whispering, tempting her with feathery touches of his tongue as he spoke. "Show me 'Norma'. And I'll fuck that homely little secretary's brains out. I'd like that. What do you think?"
Ah, a new wicked game. His invention knew no bounds.
And that is how Larry and Norma, as normal and conventional a couple as could be imagined, came to be having uninspired (but divinely amusing) sex in the very same bed that was normally occupied by a renegade FBI agent who was presumed to be dead, and a mad former psychiatrist who had once single- handedly kept tabloid rags like the "Tattler" in business.
The evening was a great success.
Chapter Three
Travel for Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter was a complex affair. They couldn't just call a travel agent.
First, there were papers and identification and passports to forge. Although Dr. Lecter had several excellent alternate identities squirreled away for a rainy day, he never used any of them just for crossing borders. They were each too entrenched, and had taken too long to craft, to be risked on merely temporary use.
So the proper traveling documents had to be either made or bought. This took time, and when it was done, he would be traveling to the New World as Lawrence Perkins, computer programmer, and she would be Norma Meyer, administrative assistant. Good, boring, prosaic identities.
Then, there was the matter of weapons. One couldn't just slip a Harpy or Syderco Civilian through customs, or pass any of the firearms Clarice preferred through airport metal detectors. But neither Starling or Lecter ever went anywhere unarmed if they could possibly help it.
Therefore, arrangements had to be made to purchase the desired items by proxy, and to have them delivered to various safety deposit boxes at their destination. This involved a careful concert of phone calls, cryptic letters, exorbitant payments, and shady dealings with a number of unsavory characters stateside.
Finally, disguises had to be devised. Although Dr. Lecter's Most Wanted photo was currently one face back, they would both have to run a gamut of airport security cameras, customs agents, and assorted security personnel in the course of their journey. Starling, of course, was not on any wanted list, but her face, thanks to the tabloids, was not entirely unknown to the public, and they wanted to preserve the illusion that she was deceased. The best thing was to make themselves as unrecognizable and as inconspicuous as possible for the trip, and to join some tour group to travel with.
Finding a tour group was easy. Theirs was a popular destination. For this, they actually could call a travel agent, and that is exactly what they did.
Fashioning alternative appearances was a bit more difficult, and they both behaved as though it was a great nuisance, but the truth was, the disguises were the fun part, and they both threw themselves into the game wholeheartedly.
Clarice went drab. She dulled the fiery embers of her red-gold hair with a temporary mouse brown rinse, and found a pair of horn rimmed specs at a second hand shop.
She also combed the tackiest clothing stores she could find, purchased a suitcase worth of graceless clothes, and found a hideous tan polyester pant suit, a Ship & Shore floral blouse in lavender and lime green, and a pair of "sensible" Dr. Scholls loafers to travel in.
A trip to a theatrical costume supply company provided realistic padding for her hips and derriere, and a binding bra for her bosom.
Make-up to cover the spot on her cheek and hairstyle adjustments completed the picture. The total effect was marvelous. She looked like a plain, beaten-down prisoner of pink collar wage slavery whose spirit had been narrowed by mind-numbing boredom, and whose ass had been widened by too many hours spent sitting at a desk.
When she donned her costume for Dr. Lecter's consideration, he'd seemed genuinely impressed by her resource. And he'd given her a small congratulation gift the following day to complete her ensemble: a vintage set of add-a-beads. Clarice immediately vowed revenge, even if they were the perfect touch.
He himself had been mysterious about what he was planning. Clarice noticed that he had started skipping his regular sessions with his barber as soon as they'd accepted Margot's invitation. He also began to study various internet clothing outlets, and once she'd found a Banana Republic catalogue folded on the bureau in his dressing room/walk-in closet. As the time passed and their departure date grew near, various packages began to arrive in the mail, and she knew he'd overturned his long-standing policy of blanket contempt for all medical practitioners and deigned to consult an optometrist.
By the time his hair had grown out enough to spill over his collar, he was ready to present the fake persona he'd been developing for Clarice's approval.
She sat on the bed in the airy top floor bedroom they shared and waited for the unveiling.
It was astonishing. One man went in to Dr. Lecter's dressing room, and then another man came out.
He wore rumpled khaki and socially conscious chambray in layers, and an absurd khaki vest with what appeared to be at least forty pockets of no discernible practical function. An AIDS awareness ribbon adorned this vest, pinned beside an old "Nader for President" campaign button.
The shaggy hairstyle of a man who would desperately like to be younger than he is obscured Dr. Lecter's ears, both adding to the overall characterization, and neatly preventing any potential identification via these distinctive features. Shoes that looked like ordinary Nikes, but could not have been, added at least two inches to Dr. Lecter's natural height. Gold rimmed glasses that tended to slip partially hid the shape of his nose, and a set of contact lenses changed his dark, strange eyes to a pale, innocuous blue.
"Well?" he asked, as he adopted an uncharacteristic round-shouldered slouch to set off the sloppy attire. "How do I look?"
"Who are you?" Clarice demanded in reply. "And what have you done with Dr. Lecter?"
"Hmm. I left him in the closet," he answered, pleased. He admired himself in the pier glass she'd given him as a birthday present, some months before.
"Serves him right, too. A remarkably disagreeable person. I'm Lawrence Perkins, by the way. It says so on my passport. But you can call me Larry."
Clarice laughed. "Well, Larry, I gotta tell you, you look like a vegetarian."
"Yes? Do I?" asked "Larry", with a very un-PC malevolent chuckle. "Like a bleeding heart, lactose intolerant, cause-obsessed, granola-eating, Volvo- driving, mid-life crisis twit? Personally, I think I look good and . . . stupid. What's your opinion?"
She grinned. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. But you do look . . . harmless. Really, it's an amazing transformation."
"Thank you, Clarice," he said, and sat down on the bed next to her. He sighed. "We leave in a week. Everything is more or less in order. Ugh."
"It won't be so bad," she answered. "There are some good things. Everything is open twenty-four hours, from the grocery stores to the dry cleaners. You'll like that."
"The very apogee of quintessential tackiness, twenty-four/seven. All ghastly, all the time. Wonderful."
He sighed again and curled up and rested his head in her lap, a habit he'd taken to about six months back. Clarice was never sure if he did it because he liked to, or if he was riffing on unicorn/maiden mythology. Or both.
She petted his fearful, newly shaggy head, offering some comfort. What vast, strange worlds this single fragile vessel of bone contained.
Mine to run with, she thought, with a surge of fierce, possessive pleasure, more than she had any ethical right to feel. Mine to play with, mine to know. Mine to love. Won fairly, through many diverse labors. I, the mighty huntress, have captured the fell beast, sire. I lay my sword and shield at your feet. I will quest no more.
"'And hast thou slain the jabberwock?'" the rara avis in her lap quoted, softly.
He always knew what she was thinking. Somehow. Perhaps he picked it up through osmosis, through the pores in his skin.
We don't deserve such happiness, she thought. We haven't earned it, either of us. Rightly, we both need a swift kick in the ass.
And at least one of us is about to get one, in a week's time, she added mentally. He'd be virtually impossible to live with, throughout the trip, she was certain. A boot in the booty for her too. Perhaps there was some justice in the world.
She laughed. "Hey, Larry," she asked. "Wanna cheat on that guy in the closet?"
"Uh . . . are you serious? He'd kill us both!"
"Larry" sat up, a playful approximation of utter thickness on his face, mild blue eyes blinking stupidly.
"He doesn't have to know," Clarice stage-whispered in his ear with comical prurience.
"Larry" hesitantly took her in his arms and kissed her. Badly.
"Are you sure it's okay? What if he finds out?" he asked, a timid whine in his voice. "I'm not good with . . . you know . . . being self-assertive and confrontations and things like that."
He managed to look lustful and fearful and clueless, all at the same time.
"Nothing ventured, nothing gained," Clarice said to the faux wimp before her. "Give us another smooch, Larry. Don't be a chicken."
One more inept kiss, and then a voice in her ear. Dr. Lecter's normal, deeply perverse voice.
"Go get into your own traveling persona, please, Clarice," he suggested, whispering, tempting her with feathery touches of his tongue as he spoke. "Show me 'Norma'. And I'll fuck that homely little secretary's brains out. I'd like that. What do you think?"
Ah, a new wicked game. His invention knew no bounds.
And that is how Larry and Norma, as normal and conventional a couple as could be imagined, came to be having uninspired (but divinely amusing) sex in the very same bed that was normally occupied by a renegade FBI agent who was presumed to be dead, and a mad former psychiatrist who had once single- handedly kept tabloid rags like the "Tattler" in business.
The evening was a great success.