Free The Trust by Norb Vonnegut Page B

store.
    Biscuit had inspected HIP every day since it opened. A couple of nights, too. Much to his disappointment, the bouncers checked the IDs of all entering the bar at the rear of the store. There would be no easy victories. The twenty-thousand-square-foot complex was already operating with the precision of a well-oiled machine.
    These guys don’t make mistakes.
    No matter how many times he visited HIP, Biscuit found the experience entertaining. He’d never confide his fascination to clients, though. If Mrs. Jason Locklear ever heard, she’d crucify him on behalf of the neighborhood association. He had expected a seedy interior—no matter how new the store. He once assumed that soundtracks from sex videos, an orgy of hot pillows and clutching thighs, would pulsate over storewide speakers rigged for wall-to-wall moaning.
    Not even close. HIP played provocative songs with upbeat lyrics, like the Lady Gaga number about riding a disco stick. There were no fake orgasms pounding through the store. And the interior almost looked Tuscan. The floors were fashioned from faux marble tiles with a soft, rubbery texture. Easy on the feet. There were two rows of Corinthian columns, fourteen fiberglass pillars in all. They split the store in half and created a corridor leading to the bar. Overhead, its neon sign read THE CATHOUSE CLUB. Biscuit felt like he was walking through a Roman bath.
    Except for the merchandise.
    To the left, he saw lingerie of every shape and color. Babydolls, garters, and bras—there was a little something for everyone. There was even a section called the “Naughty Brides Collection.” The selection was massive, lace and fantasy everywhere.
    To the right were a series of smaller departments. A big sign read GOOD VIBES and promoted the latest and greatest toys underneath. Then there were the videos. The selection seemed small for a twenty-thousand-square-foot superstore. But there was one section dedicated exclusively to Ron Jeremy, the aging porn star of epic disproportions. Beyond the videos, shelves of nutraceuticals promised men they could “grow bigger” or “last longer.” And finally there were novelties and gag products. Cooking paraphernalia promoted breast-shaped cakes or penis meat loaves for those occasions that required something extra.
    To Biscuit’s way of thinking, the people in the store were the biggest surprise of all. The customers were women. They outnumbered men at least nine to one. Biscuit had expected skeevy middle-aged guys with bad skin and bourbon fumes wafting out their nose pores. Members of staff were also women, every single one. They wore black pants and black shirts, with HIP on the front and STAFF on the back. In age, they ranged from their early twenties to their mid-thirties.
    One of them, a tall woman with silky shoulder-length hair, stared at Biscuit. She eyed him head to toe, her expression half perplexed and half smile. She was standing behind a table display of vibrators, designed for all occasions and the places where only doctors belong.
    “Come over here,” she commanded in a throaty, sexy-woman voice. “I’ve seen you before.”
    Biscuit looked over his shoulder, wondering if she was speaking to someone else.
    “I mean you,” she said to him, her shoulders thrown back, her carriage erect and proud. “We need to talk.”
    *   *   *
    Biscuit could hear his bravado disappear. It sounded like air hissing from a flat tire. He had been to Kuwait and back, witnessed horrors no man should see. But for all the hard-bitten experience, or the way he lorded his 260 pounds over legal adversaries, women got the best of him. It had been that way ever since he was a kid.
    Usually, trouble erupted over the bathroom. Position of the toilet seat. Length of stay. That’s how it was with five sisters. No matter who started the ruckus, sibling squabbles always ended with his mother hollering, “Leave your sisters alone.”
    Day in, day out, “Leave your sisters