Read Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Online
Authors: Christopher Smith
“Egad?”
“No.
P
GAD.”
“What’s PGAD?”
“Too embarrassing.
Can’t talk about it.
Google it.”
“I don’t Google,
Piggy.
Ever.
People Google for me.
What is it?”
“Persistent Genital
Arousal Disorder.
That’s the long
version.
What it means for me is
that I can’t stop having these, uh, little rushes.”
“Little what?’
“Little rushes.”
“I don’t know what that
means, Piggy.”
“Orgasms,” she whispered,
as if the word was filthy to her.
“They just come and they come.
No pun intended, just the facts.
That’s why you haven’t seen me for a while.
Can you imagine?
Me at one of Bit Pobworth’s dinner
parties?
My eyes rolling back in my
head?
Food all over me as I grip
the table?
I’m a mess, James.
A mess.
I’ve lost weight.
My hair is nearly white because I can’t
get to Percy to have him do it. He misses me and sends me little notes and
flowers, and...”
She trailed off.
Again she moaned, and he knew she was in
the throes of another orgasm.
“Are there pills you can
take for this?”
After a moment, when she
had caught her breath, she said, “Yes.”
“Do you take them?”
“Of course, I take
them.
Do you think I
want
this?”
“Some would.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“I’m assuming the pills
don’t work?”
“The Chantrix works for a
few hours or so.
But
that’s it.
Then I’m back in hell and waiting for
the moment when I can take more pills to stop, uh, what did the doctor call
it?
‘An irritation of the clitoral
sensory nerves’.
Something like
that.
I’m on the verge of tears,
James.
Can you hear it in my
voice?
Tears!”
“I don’t hear the tears,
but I can smell the booze, even from here.
Piggy, you need to focus.”
“Focus?
Are you joking?
Have you heard nothing I’ve said?
The only thing I can focus on is
wondering when the next one is going to hit.”
“I’m glad the pills help
at least somewhat.”
“Yes, but not for nearly
long
enough.”
When Spocatti called
earlier, he came with a plan of his own.
But now, understanding that Piggy was cornered by orgasmic desperation,
Cullen came up with his own idea, knew it was right, and went with it.
“Piggy, have you
considered Eastern medicine?”
“If you think I should
smoke a joint, James, I’m way ahead of you.
I’ve smoked dozens of them throughout
this ordeal.
Pot doesn’t work.
Pot only enhances the little
rushes.
Same with coke.
Coke is the worst.
Coke sends me to the moon when they
hit.
I’ve tried it all.
This is worse than what Dick and Peter
did to me.”
“I’m not talking about
marijuana and cocaine.
Listen,” he
said.
“I called for another
reason—to invite you to dinner—but forget that.
I think I can help you.
A friend of mine is gifted in the use of
alternative Eastern medicines.
Crushed herbs, minerals, exotic plants, that sort of thing.
He’s done wonders for me since I lost my
leg, the stump of which no longer aches because of him.
He’s also helped me to lose the
sensation that my leg is still there, which is a side effect of
amputation.
He’s made my life
tolerable.
I think if you were open
to meeting him, that he’d be able to give you something that would help you
manage this disease.
Or obliterate
it all together.
Would you like to
meet him?
See if he can help you
through natural means?”
“I’ll do anything,
James.”
“Good.
When can he see you?”
Before
she could reply, Piggy started to moan.
“She has what?” Spocatti
said.
“Persistent Genital
Arousal Disorder.
Or PGAD,” Cullen
said.
“She can’t stop having
orgasms, which she calls ‘little rushes’ because in Piggy’s set, you don’t say
the word ‘orgasm’ unless you’re forced to do so.
I told her that you’re a doctor in
Eastern medicine and can help.
She’s willing to see you.
In
fact, after listening to her on the phone, I’ve decided this is the only way
she’ll agree to see you.
Is there
an herb or a plant or something that looks medicinal, but that is toxic and can
kill her?”
“I generally use a gun.”
“Not this time.
Find an herb.
Or a plant.
Or a damned flower, for that
matter.
I don’t care what it is so
long as it’s deadly.
Crush it.
Make a big show of it.
Turn it into a tea of some sort, put it
in some water and let the Pig drink.”
“I can do that,” Spocatti
said.
“But obviously this isn’t
happening tonight.
When are we
going forward?”
“No,” Cullen said.
“Piggy
will
see you tonight.
I’ll call you back with details.
Meanwhile, find an herb or a plant.
Something toxic.
Take photos for me.
I want to see her dead.
If you can manage it, video would be
especially titillating.”
“None of this is going to
be easy, Edward.
It’s late in the
day.”
“That’s not my problem,
Spocatti,” Cullen said.
“It’s
yours.
You’re the one charging me
fifty million dollars for Christ’s sake.
I could give a damn how difficult this is for you.
Make it happen.”
*
*
*
“What you need is
oleander,” Carmen said when Spocatti told her what Cullen expected from
them.
“I used it once before, on
another job.
Crush the leaves,
stems and twigs, stew them in a nice medicinal tea, and serve it to Piggy when
she’s between orgasms.
Use a lot of
it.
It’s swift and it affects the
heart, which is good because hers will be hammering after she’s coming down
from one of her ‘little rushes.’
Her blood will be pulsing straight through to her heart.
She’ll be dead before you know it.
Just make sure you wear gloves when
you’re preparing it for her.”
“Where am I supposed to
find oleander this late in the afternoon?”
“Florists are still open,
Vincent.
Somebody will have
it.
It’s not that difficult.
Let’s start calling around.”
When they found the
plant, it was at a florist down the street from them.
Carmen went to retrieve it.
“You’re certain this will
work?” Spocatti asked, looking at the pretty, harmless-looking plant sitting on
the kitchen counter.
“Don’t judge a flower by
its petals, Vincent.”
*
*
*
His appointment to send
Piggy to the trough was set for seven p.m.
“She’s had her pills,”
Cullen said when he called.
“They
help to snuff the orgasms.
Though
there is some question about how long the pills last, so she’d like you there
as soon as possible.
She should be
relatively stable, assuming, of course, that she isn’t too drunk, which she
very well may be.
That woman always
is drunk.
And rude.
Be prepared for each.”
“I’m hoping she doesn’t
live in an apartment,” Vincent said.
“Nothing with a doorman.
I’d
rather not be remembered when Piggy is found dead.”
“She lives in a townhouse
just off Park, so you’re mostly fine.”
“What do you mean by
mostly?”
“Piggy has an assistant,”
Cullen said.
“If he’s there, you’ll
need to kill him, too.”
*
*
*
When Spocatti was about
to leave, Carmen handed him a baggie filled with the crushed leaves, stems and
twigs of the now-destroyed oleander plant.
“I don’t need you
dropping dead on me now,” she said, removing a pair of black rubber gloves and
throwing them away.
“I prepared it
for you.
Just steep it in hot water
for about five minutes, strain it, and serve it to her hot.
If she has honey, add it to the cup to
make sure she drinks all of it.
It
will help cut the bitterness.
Don’t
let any of it come into contact with you.”
“What should I expect?”
“If it spills on you?”
“No, when she drinks it?”
“Complete ruin,” Carmen
said.
“And probably some theatrical
death throes.”
“Such as?”
“You’ll
see.
In fact, you’ll probably never
forget it.”
When Spocatti arrived by
cab at Piggy French’s townhouse on Sixty-Eighth Street and Park, he felt like
he always did before a kill—charged, excited and acutely aware of his
surroundings.
It was as if last
night hadn’t happened—murdering Charles Stout, diving into the Hudson and
concealing himself beside a church, of all places.
Although he lacked sleep, he felt
alive.
It never got old for him,
especially something as odd and peculiar as this particular assignment had
turned out to be.
He went up a flight of
granite stairs that led to a shiny black door, pressed the glowing buzzer to
the right of it and waited, wondering if she’d be alone or if he’d also have to
deal with her assistant.
Either way, he could
handle it.
A slight man somewhere in
his fifties with a balding head and round glasses opened the door.
He wore a dark blue suit and a matching
tie.
He lowered his head to look at
Spocatti over the rim of his glasses and Spocatti saw the extent of his
baldness.
“Doctor Benedetti?” the
man asked.
“Yes,” Spocatti said.
The man looked
relieved.
“Please, come
inside.
Piggy’s in the parlor.
She’s in a state, but she’s expecting
you.”
Spocatti stepped into an
entryway paneled in dark wood.
It
was warmly lit by candles on a hallway table, which he found unusual, and the
Art Deco sconces on the walls.
To
his left was an intricately carved, grand-looking staircase that curved up and
around to the second floor.
The
parquet floors gleamed as if they’d just been waxed.
“How is she?”
“Calm for now.”
“She’s taken her pills?”
“She’s taken them.”
“Have they had time to
work?”
“I’m not sure....”
“That’s your way of
saying she just had one, isn’t it?”
The man flushed.
“Is she sober?”
He shook his head.
“So, it’s been
difficult?
For you and for her?”
He moved to speak, but he
didn’t answer.