I generally repost deadskirts stories in the fiction section, but this is far more zako than Ryona, so might as well:
“They’re abducting me, taking me away from you,” whispered the princess. “If you love me, go to Venice and stay at the Hotel Bauer. I’ll get in touch with you there.”
I went to Venice, took a suite at the Bauer, and waited. Day after day I expected word from the princess, but none came. No note at the reception desk, no call or text on my iPhone, no news from mutual friends. “Haven’t seen her or heard from her lately,” they all said.
Had she given me up? Or had they imprisoned her? If she was imprisoned, and if she could manage to escape or get word out, she’d find me faithful. She said she’d get in touch with me, and I trusted her.
Another day: still nothing. I went to dinner, returned to the hotel, and asked for my messages at the reception desk. Two notes from friends, but no mention of the princess.
I went up to my suite and resigned myself to another night alone. I’d read, watch a video, listen to music. I draped my jacket on the writing-desk chair. Whose briefcase was this on the desk? Not mine. I opened it and found a silver Beretta, a silver silencer, and a few clips loaded with rounds. Also a yellow receipt from some tradesman.
On the back of the receipt was something scrawled in pencil. The princess’s handwriting! She wrote:
Lover!
Come to me here in the Secret Palace!
I can’t tell you where the Secret Palace is, but I can tell you how to find me. Go to the Campo Morosini at 10:00 tomorrow morning. Walk past San Stefano, then take the way that one of our ladies will try to stop you from taking.
How will she try to stop you? With a silver Beretta just like this one. She’ll shoot you, Lover, unless you shoot her first.
How can you recognize her? By her high stiletto heels. Apart from that, I don’t know what she’ll be wearing.
Shoot her and take the way she tried to stop you from taking. Soon you’ll come to another lady trying to stop you. And another and another! If you want to come to me, you must shoot them all.
Here’s my own Beretta for you to use.
Shoot fast and shoot straight. The ladies never miss.
I await you impatiently!
Your Venetta
Next morning I put on a linen business suit and my khaki cape. It wasn’t raining, but the cape concealed the Beretta, which I held in my hand. At 10:00 o’clock I went to the Campo Morosini and walked slowly past San Stefano. Just past the church, in the entrance to a calle, stood a woman in a black trenchcoat, dark glasses, white hose, and glossy black pumps with high stiletto heels. Her face was chalk white, her hair glossy black, and her lips dark red. She kept her hands in her coat pockets.
She saw me, seemed to recognize me, and drew a silver Beretta from her pocket. But I was already aiming at her.
Tzz-opp. She winced and grunted “Huh!” as if I’d punched her in the chest with my fist. Dropping her Beretta, she pressed both hands to her chest and staggered back a step or two. Then she steadied herself, planting her feet apart and locking her knees.
“Wretch!” she snarled between clenched teeth.
“I’m sorry. You drew on me.”
“For the honor of the Foscari. A princess does not stoop to the likes of you.”
Blood was trickling over her fingers. She looked down and saw it.
“I wish you’d let the Foscari defend their own honor, Lady,” I said.
“Curse you and the princess!” She started to turn away, but crumpled and fell prone on the pavement. The soles of her shoes were red, and her heels pointed a few degrees up. She didn’t move again.
I stepped past her and walked down the calle, which led to a fondamente and a bridge over a canal. In front of the bridge stood a woman wearing a black tuxedo, as if she’d just come from an all-night party. Her blonde hair was coiled and pinned on the back of her head, and her shoes were glossy black pumps with high stiletto heels.
She saw me, reached into her jacket pocket, and drew a silver Beretta.
Tzz-opp. She gasped, threw back her head, and thrust out her chest. Staggered back, dropping her Beretta. Her heel bumped the bottom stair of the bridge, and she sat down hard on the second stair. Her hair came loose and drifted over her shoulders. It was long and wavy, very beautiful.
She unbuttoned her jacket and looked at her shirt. There was a small hole in it on her left breast, and a spreading bloodstain.
She looked at me grievingly. “Brute. See what you did.”
“Yes. It’s sad.”
Wearily she closed her eyes and slumped back on the stairs. I climbed past her and walked over the bridge.
At the other end of the bridge another fondamente extended left and right. To the right, at the entrance to a galleria, stood a woman in a pink and white striped gown with a narrow waist and flaring skirt. Ruffled petticoats skimmed her ankles, coquetishly allowing a glimpse of red pumps with high stiletto heels. Her breasts bulged like scoops of ice cream above the square neck of her bodice.
She gave me a flirtatious smile as she reached into the folds of her skirt and drew out a silver Beretta.
Tzz-opp. She lurched back, dropping the Beretta. She regained her balance but seemed dazed, bewildered--until she saw the blood surging from a wound in the swell of her left breast and draining into her cleavage. “Oh, no!” she moaned, and swooned into a billow of ruffles.
I walked past her into the galleria, which led to a campo on which three calles converged. Standing at the entrance to one of the calles was a woman in “boy’s clothes” like Rosalind in As You Like It: a tan suede doublet and matching tights. In keeping with her costume, her hair was bobbed, but the doublet was unbuttoned to her midriff, and she wore tan suede pumps with high stiletto heels.
Seeing me, she reached under her doublet and drew a silver Beretta.
Tzz-opp. She gasped and staggered back but held on to the Beretta. With her other hand she reached for a window bar and grasped it to steady herself. Eyes blazing, she raised her Beretta.
Tzz-opp. She dropped the Beretta. Her head slumped forward and her knees buckled, but still she swung from the window bar, whimpering softly, while blood from both breasts soaked her doublet.
Finally she let go and fell in a heap as I walked past her down the calle. It led to another bridge, and there, atop the stairs, stood a woman in a little black dress with a scoop neck. The dress was held up by two thin shoulder straps, and she wore black sandals with thin ankle straps and high stiletto heels. She kept her hands behind her back, holding what looked like a black silk scarf. It hung below her skirt.
Suddenly she brought her hands into view, the scarf in one hand and a silver Beretta in the other. The scarf entangled the silencer, impeding her effort to aim the gun.
Tzz-opp. She stiffened, dropping the Beretta, and took a step back to keep her balance. She glared at me indignantly, as if I’d insulted her. Then she lifted her chin, turned, and walked away over the bridge, dragging the scarf behind her. I ran up the stairs and followed her.
Tap, tap, tap went her heels on the pavement. I admired the slenderness of her Achilles tendons and the definition of her calf muscles. But before she reached the stairs at the end of the bridge she moaned “Oooh-h-h,” starting on a high note and sliding down, and sank gracefully to her knees, her hip, and finally her back.
I walked to her side. She’d fallen with her head and arms over the stairs. Her eyes were closed, lips parted, bosom arched up. From her cleavage a thin stream of blood ran down to her clavicle beside the shoulder strap of her dress.
The bridge led to a campo in front of a church. On either side of the church portal stood two marble statues, Perdition and Remorse. Perdition gazed up, imploring heaven, her arms hanging limp at her sides. Remorse looked down, head bowed, hands pressed to her chest.
In front of the statues stood two dark-haired women wearing white camisoles and black skirts. They also wore black hip holsters and glossy black slingback pumps with high stiletto heels.
“That must be him,” said the lady in front of Perdition.
“Right,” said the one in front of Remorse.
They both drew silver Berettas.
Tzz-opp. “Ow!” Tzz-opp. “Oh!” Both ladies winced, dropped their Berettas, and staggered back to the statues, one to Perdition and the other to Remorse. They sat down on the statues’ pedestals and braced themselves on their arms.
“Franca, I’m hit!” cried the lady sitting under Perdition.
“Me too--bad,” whimpered the one under Remorse.
There was a small hole in each lady’s camisole. It was on the left breast. A bloodstain began to spread around it.
The lady under Perdition leaned back against the statue and, like the statue itself, gazed up at the sky. Blood from her wound streamed over her breast and down her midriff. The lady under Remorse slumped forward, head bowed, and clutched her breast with both hands. Blood trickled over her fingers.
I passed between them, went through the church portal, and walked up the nave, looking for side doors. Seeing none, I went around the choir and into the apse. There was an open doorway, and in it stood someone wearing a maroon robe with a deep cowl. A silver silencer poked out of a slit in the robe.
Tzz-opp. The person fled through the doorway, heels tapping. I pursued her into a long corridor and gained on her as she began to stagger. Nearing a door in the corridor wall, she whirled around and threw off the robe, revealing herself as a strikingly beautiful blonde woman in a pink satin bra, pink satin panties, and silver sandals with high stiletto heels. Blood poured in branching streams from her right breast. She lifted her face for a kiss and raised her Beretta at the same time.
Tzz-opp. She gasped, dropped the Beretta, and swayed back. Held out her arms to me like a ballerina, expecting me to catch her.
I let her fall.
She lay still, eyes closed, then opened them and found me with her gaze. A tear started from her left eye and trickled down her cheek. A new stream of blood emerging from her left breast trickled down her ribs.
I opened the door in the corridor wall and stepped out onto a calle. Across it to the left was a gate with thick pilasters for posts. The gate was open, and standing in front of the far pilaster was a woman with chestnut hair in a pony tail. She wore a red scarf around her neck, a Levi’s vest over a white athletic bra, tight Levi’s pants, and red pumps with high stiletto heels. She had a cocky smirk on her face and puffed a thin, crooked cigar. A holster hung from her belt.
She saw me and drew a silver Beretta from the holster.
Tzz-opp. The cigar dropped from her lips and the Beretta dropped from her hand. “Well, sh*t,” she said, and leaned back against the pilaster, pressing her hands against the stone and locking her knees. Her insteps arched on her stilettos.
She glared at me spitefully. “Well? Are you going to shoot me again?”
“No.”
She looked relieved, then worried as her gaze dropped to her bosom. A bloodstain was spreading on her left breast. “Your bullet went deep in me, but my heart is still beating.”
“You can make it.”
“I’m getting weak in the knees.”
“Let go.”
With a sigh she did so, and I walked through the gate.
I entered a cortile shaded by a spreading oak tree. A swing hung from a branch of the tree, and a woman sitting in it swung down and away from me, her creamy-white Empire dress fluttering, legs straight, toes pointed. Her pumps were black, with high stiletto heels and red soles. She held the ropes with both hands as she swung down, but when she started swinging up, she reached into a fold of her dress and drew a silver Beretta.
She aimed as she neared the apex of her swing. Tzz-opp. She tumbled out of the swing like a grouse shot in flight, the Beretta spinning away, and crashed in a clump of lilac bushes. The bushes engulfed her.
I went to the bushes and peered in. The lady lay on a web of bent branches, her arms and legs spread out, head low, chest high. Her dress was stained with blood on her left breast.
I looked around the cortile. All the doors on it were closed, but there was an open archway in back. I went there and looked into a dark passage leading to the outside behind the palazzo. Silhouetted in profile against the daylight at the other end of the passage stood a woman wearing nothing, apparently, but high stiletto heels. Slowly she raised one arm from the elbow, a Beretta in her hand. Then, slowly, she pivoted on her toes to face me.
Tzz-opp. She threw her arms out, flinging the Beretta away. As her legs buckled, she twisted, presenting her profile again, and fell on her rump. Propped on her elbows, she rested for a moment, then drew up her knees. She tried to sit up straight, but her strength failed, and she sank back and lay still.
I walked through the passage and stood over her. In silhouette, of course, her form had looked totally black, and now I could see that her torso and arms were actually clad in a black body stocking, her hips and legs in black ankle-length leggings. She wore black gloves, but her leggings left her insteps uncovered. Her black stiletto-heeled pumps revealed the cleavages between her toes.
Her hair was black too, but her face was white. Her body stocking had a large cutout shaped like an inverted heart in front. It bared the white cups of her lace bra and the upper swell of her breasts. Low on her left breast was a small bloodstain ringing an even smaller hole.
I went to the end of the passage, which opened on a narrow fondamente along the back of the palazzo. To the right it led to a bay, and on the corner with her back to the bay stood a woman in a straw picture hat and blue chiffon dress. The dress had a long skirt and a cape like blue mist over her shoulders. She wore sandals with black straps and high stiletto heels.
Keeping her hands behind her back, she smiled at me coyly, then whipped out a silver Beretta.
Tzz-opp. She gasped in dismay. Thrust out her chest, staggered back, and stepped off the edge of the fondamente. Her hat lifted off as she toppled into the bay.
I walked to the corner and looked into the bay. The lady floated just below the surface, undulating with the waves, her dress nearly transparent. From her left breast a plume of blood billowed into the water.
Around the corner, tied up at the fondamente beside the palazzo, was a motor launch with the princess’s coat of arms on the stern. And in the wall beside the launch was a magnificent bronze door, presumably an entrance to the palazzo.
I pushed open the door and stepped into a reception room. Two women turned to face me. One was tall, with dark hair coiled and pinned atop her head. She was standing beside a coffee table in front of a couch. The other was petite, with long, straight, tawny hair. She was leaning against a desk, her legs crossed at the ankle.
They both wore khaki coat dresses and beige slingback pumps with black toe caps and high stiletto heels. And they both snatched up berettas, the tall one from the coffee table and the petite one from the desk.
Tzz-opp. Tzz-opp. “Ow!” cried the tall lady, wincing. She clutched her right breast with her left hand and staggered back to the couch. The petite lady gasped. She was jarred but remained standing, staring at me in disbelief. Neither one dropped her Beretta.
Tzz-opp. Tzz-opp. “Ah-h-h!” cried the tall lady. She threw back her head, dropped her Beretta, and collapsed on the couch. The petite lady also dropped her Beretta. She closed her eyes and toppled onto the desk.
I saw a wide marble stairway behind the desk. As I went around the desk to reach the stairway, I looked at the petite lady. She lay sprawled on the desk, legs dangling, eyes closed, face serene. There were two small, round dents in her dress, each with an even smaller hole in the center. One was on her right breast, the other on her left. Not a drop of blood stained the dress, at least in front.
I looked at the tall lady on the other side. She reclined on the couch, holding her blood-soaked bosom with both hands. Staring at me in grief and fear, she said: “Leave me alone. I’m wounded.”
“Yes,” I said, and went on to the foot of the stairway. At the top of it was a woman looking down at me. I could see her beautiful face, her black-clad chest--and the silver Beretta she was pointing at me. Tzz-opp.
She dropped the Beretta and receded from view, her heels tapping on the floor. I ran up the stairs and found myself in an art gallery. The lady I’d just shot at was sitting on a bench gazing at a painting. She wore a black leather vest above her bare midriff, a black leather skirt, and black pumps with high stiletto heels.
I followed her gaze. The painting portrayed a woman in a floor-length gown of pink-pearl satin with a deep V neck. I was struck by her dark, compassionate eyes, but nothing in the painting showed me where to go next. I looked around the gallery, and while my head was turned the lady I’d shot slumped back. She lay on the bench, her midriff tracked by streams of blood from her left breast.
I looked at the painting again. Now the lady in the satin gown glared at me malevolently, her eyes darker than ever. And she pointed a silver Beretta at me.
Tzz-opp. The lady pitched back and vanished. What I’d taken for a painting was actually a white screen that now had a bullet hole in it. I found that it swung on hinges and opened to a ramped vestibule. I climbed into the vestibule and walked up the ramp to stand over a real lady in a satin gown.
She lay on her back in a composed position, arms at her sides and legs together under the smooth skirt of her gown, her toes and the high stiletto heels of her black sandals showing below the hem. A bloodstain was spreading on her left breast. Her face was as immobile as her body, yet her eyes were wide open. She still glared at me malevolently.
The vestibule ended at a blue curtain. I swept it aside and entered a bare white room with two women in it, one lying on a cot and the other standing behind it. The woman lying on the cot was dressed in a plain white shift; her feet were bare. The lady standing behind her was dressed in a lab coat, white stockings, and white pumps with high stiletto heels. She was pointing a silver Beretta at me. Tzz-opp.
She dropped the Beretta and sank to her knees beside the cot. Leaned over the woman lying there, bosom to bosom, and kissed her lips. Then slid off and slumped to the floor.
I came and stood over the woman on the cot. It was the princess. Her bosom, stained with the blood of the lady I’d just shot, rose as she took a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered open. She focused on my face and smiled sweetly.
“They’re abducting me, taking me away from you,” whispered the princess. “If you love me, go to Venice and stay at the Hotel Bauer. I’ll get in touch with you there.”
I went to Venice, took a suite at the Bauer, and waited. Day after day I expected word from the princess, but none came. No note at the reception desk, no call or text on my iPhone, no news from mutual friends. “Haven’t seen her or heard from her lately,” they all said.
Had she given me up? Or had they imprisoned her? If she was imprisoned, and if she could manage to escape or get word out, she’d find me faithful. She said she’d get in touch with me, and I trusted her.
Another day: still nothing. I went to dinner, returned to the hotel, and asked for my messages at the reception desk. Two notes from friends, but no mention of the princess.
I went up to my suite and resigned myself to another night alone. I’d read, watch a video, listen to music. I draped my jacket on the writing-desk chair. Whose briefcase was this on the desk? Not mine. I opened it and found a silver Beretta, a silver silencer, and a few clips loaded with rounds. Also a yellow receipt from some tradesman.
On the back of the receipt was something scrawled in pencil. The princess’s handwriting! She wrote:
Lover!
Come to me here in the Secret Palace!
I can’t tell you where the Secret Palace is, but I can tell you how to find me. Go to the Campo Morosini at 10:00 tomorrow morning. Walk past San Stefano, then take the way that one of our ladies will try to stop you from taking.
How will she try to stop you? With a silver Beretta just like this one. She’ll shoot you, Lover, unless you shoot her first.
How can you recognize her? By her high stiletto heels. Apart from that, I don’t know what she’ll be wearing.
Shoot her and take the way she tried to stop you from taking. Soon you’ll come to another lady trying to stop you. And another and another! If you want to come to me, you must shoot them all.
Here’s my own Beretta for you to use.
Shoot fast and shoot straight. The ladies never miss.
I await you impatiently!
Your Venetta
Next morning I put on a linen business suit and my khaki cape. It wasn’t raining, but the cape concealed the Beretta, which I held in my hand. At 10:00 o’clock I went to the Campo Morosini and walked slowly past San Stefano. Just past the church, in the entrance to a calle, stood a woman in a black trenchcoat, dark glasses, white hose, and glossy black pumps with high stiletto heels. Her face was chalk white, her hair glossy black, and her lips dark red. She kept her hands in her coat pockets.
She saw me, seemed to recognize me, and drew a silver Beretta from her pocket. But I was already aiming at her.
Tzz-opp. She winced and grunted “Huh!” as if I’d punched her in the chest with my fist. Dropping her Beretta, she pressed both hands to her chest and staggered back a step or two. Then she steadied herself, planting her feet apart and locking her knees.
“Wretch!” she snarled between clenched teeth.
“I’m sorry. You drew on me.”
“For the honor of the Foscari. A princess does not stoop to the likes of you.”
Blood was trickling over her fingers. She looked down and saw it.
“I wish you’d let the Foscari defend their own honor, Lady,” I said.
“Curse you and the princess!” She started to turn away, but crumpled and fell prone on the pavement. The soles of her shoes were red, and her heels pointed a few degrees up. She didn’t move again.
I stepped past her and walked down the calle, which led to a fondamente and a bridge over a canal. In front of the bridge stood a woman wearing a black tuxedo, as if she’d just come from an all-night party. Her blonde hair was coiled and pinned on the back of her head, and her shoes were glossy black pumps with high stiletto heels.
She saw me, reached into her jacket pocket, and drew a silver Beretta.
Tzz-opp. She gasped, threw back her head, and thrust out her chest. Staggered back, dropping her Beretta. Her heel bumped the bottom stair of the bridge, and she sat down hard on the second stair. Her hair came loose and drifted over her shoulders. It was long and wavy, very beautiful.
She unbuttoned her jacket and looked at her shirt. There was a small hole in it on her left breast, and a spreading bloodstain.
She looked at me grievingly. “Brute. See what you did.”
“Yes. It’s sad.”
Wearily she closed her eyes and slumped back on the stairs. I climbed past her and walked over the bridge.
At the other end of the bridge another fondamente extended left and right. To the right, at the entrance to a galleria, stood a woman in a pink and white striped gown with a narrow waist and flaring skirt. Ruffled petticoats skimmed her ankles, coquetishly allowing a glimpse of red pumps with high stiletto heels. Her breasts bulged like scoops of ice cream above the square neck of her bodice.
She gave me a flirtatious smile as she reached into the folds of her skirt and drew out a silver Beretta.
Tzz-opp. She lurched back, dropping the Beretta. She regained her balance but seemed dazed, bewildered--until she saw the blood surging from a wound in the swell of her left breast and draining into her cleavage. “Oh, no!” she moaned, and swooned into a billow of ruffles.
I walked past her into the galleria, which led to a campo on which three calles converged. Standing at the entrance to one of the calles was a woman in “boy’s clothes” like Rosalind in As You Like It: a tan suede doublet and matching tights. In keeping with her costume, her hair was bobbed, but the doublet was unbuttoned to her midriff, and she wore tan suede pumps with high stiletto heels.
Seeing me, she reached under her doublet and drew a silver Beretta.
Tzz-opp. She gasped and staggered back but held on to the Beretta. With her other hand she reached for a window bar and grasped it to steady herself. Eyes blazing, she raised her Beretta.
Tzz-opp. She dropped the Beretta. Her head slumped forward and her knees buckled, but still she swung from the window bar, whimpering softly, while blood from both breasts soaked her doublet.
Finally she let go and fell in a heap as I walked past her down the calle. It led to another bridge, and there, atop the stairs, stood a woman in a little black dress with a scoop neck. The dress was held up by two thin shoulder straps, and she wore black sandals with thin ankle straps and high stiletto heels. She kept her hands behind her back, holding what looked like a black silk scarf. It hung below her skirt.
Suddenly she brought her hands into view, the scarf in one hand and a silver Beretta in the other. The scarf entangled the silencer, impeding her effort to aim the gun.
Tzz-opp. She stiffened, dropping the Beretta, and took a step back to keep her balance. She glared at me indignantly, as if I’d insulted her. Then she lifted her chin, turned, and walked away over the bridge, dragging the scarf behind her. I ran up the stairs and followed her.
Tap, tap, tap went her heels on the pavement. I admired the slenderness of her Achilles tendons and the definition of her calf muscles. But before she reached the stairs at the end of the bridge she moaned “Oooh-h-h,” starting on a high note and sliding down, and sank gracefully to her knees, her hip, and finally her back.
I walked to her side. She’d fallen with her head and arms over the stairs. Her eyes were closed, lips parted, bosom arched up. From her cleavage a thin stream of blood ran down to her clavicle beside the shoulder strap of her dress.
The bridge led to a campo in front of a church. On either side of the church portal stood two marble statues, Perdition and Remorse. Perdition gazed up, imploring heaven, her arms hanging limp at her sides. Remorse looked down, head bowed, hands pressed to her chest.
In front of the statues stood two dark-haired women wearing white camisoles and black skirts. They also wore black hip holsters and glossy black slingback pumps with high stiletto heels.
“That must be him,” said the lady in front of Perdition.
“Right,” said the one in front of Remorse.
They both drew silver Berettas.
Tzz-opp. “Ow!” Tzz-opp. “Oh!” Both ladies winced, dropped their Berettas, and staggered back to the statues, one to Perdition and the other to Remorse. They sat down on the statues’ pedestals and braced themselves on their arms.
“Franca, I’m hit!” cried the lady sitting under Perdition.
“Me too--bad,” whimpered the one under Remorse.
There was a small hole in each lady’s camisole. It was on the left breast. A bloodstain began to spread around it.
The lady under Perdition leaned back against the statue and, like the statue itself, gazed up at the sky. Blood from her wound streamed over her breast and down her midriff. The lady under Remorse slumped forward, head bowed, and clutched her breast with both hands. Blood trickled over her fingers.
I passed between them, went through the church portal, and walked up the nave, looking for side doors. Seeing none, I went around the choir and into the apse. There was an open doorway, and in it stood someone wearing a maroon robe with a deep cowl. A silver silencer poked out of a slit in the robe.
Tzz-opp. The person fled through the doorway, heels tapping. I pursued her into a long corridor and gained on her as she began to stagger. Nearing a door in the corridor wall, she whirled around and threw off the robe, revealing herself as a strikingly beautiful blonde woman in a pink satin bra, pink satin panties, and silver sandals with high stiletto heels. Blood poured in branching streams from her right breast. She lifted her face for a kiss and raised her Beretta at the same time.
Tzz-opp. She gasped, dropped the Beretta, and swayed back. Held out her arms to me like a ballerina, expecting me to catch her.
I let her fall.
She lay still, eyes closed, then opened them and found me with her gaze. A tear started from her left eye and trickled down her cheek. A new stream of blood emerging from her left breast trickled down her ribs.
I opened the door in the corridor wall and stepped out onto a calle. Across it to the left was a gate with thick pilasters for posts. The gate was open, and standing in front of the far pilaster was a woman with chestnut hair in a pony tail. She wore a red scarf around her neck, a Levi’s vest over a white athletic bra, tight Levi’s pants, and red pumps with high stiletto heels. She had a cocky smirk on her face and puffed a thin, crooked cigar. A holster hung from her belt.
She saw me and drew a silver Beretta from the holster.
Tzz-opp. The cigar dropped from her lips and the Beretta dropped from her hand. “Well, sh*t,” she said, and leaned back against the pilaster, pressing her hands against the stone and locking her knees. Her insteps arched on her stilettos.
She glared at me spitefully. “Well? Are you going to shoot me again?”
“No.”
She looked relieved, then worried as her gaze dropped to her bosom. A bloodstain was spreading on her left breast. “Your bullet went deep in me, but my heart is still beating.”
“You can make it.”
“I’m getting weak in the knees.”
“Let go.”
With a sigh she did so, and I walked through the gate.
I entered a cortile shaded by a spreading oak tree. A swing hung from a branch of the tree, and a woman sitting in it swung down and away from me, her creamy-white Empire dress fluttering, legs straight, toes pointed. Her pumps were black, with high stiletto heels and red soles. She held the ropes with both hands as she swung down, but when she started swinging up, she reached into a fold of her dress and drew a silver Beretta.
She aimed as she neared the apex of her swing. Tzz-opp. She tumbled out of the swing like a grouse shot in flight, the Beretta spinning away, and crashed in a clump of lilac bushes. The bushes engulfed her.
I went to the bushes and peered in. The lady lay on a web of bent branches, her arms and legs spread out, head low, chest high. Her dress was stained with blood on her left breast.
I looked around the cortile. All the doors on it were closed, but there was an open archway in back. I went there and looked into a dark passage leading to the outside behind the palazzo. Silhouetted in profile against the daylight at the other end of the passage stood a woman wearing nothing, apparently, but high stiletto heels. Slowly she raised one arm from the elbow, a Beretta in her hand. Then, slowly, she pivoted on her toes to face me.
Tzz-opp. She threw her arms out, flinging the Beretta away. As her legs buckled, she twisted, presenting her profile again, and fell on her rump. Propped on her elbows, she rested for a moment, then drew up her knees. She tried to sit up straight, but her strength failed, and she sank back and lay still.
I walked through the passage and stood over her. In silhouette, of course, her form had looked totally black, and now I could see that her torso and arms were actually clad in a black body stocking, her hips and legs in black ankle-length leggings. She wore black gloves, but her leggings left her insteps uncovered. Her black stiletto-heeled pumps revealed the cleavages between her toes.
Her hair was black too, but her face was white. Her body stocking had a large cutout shaped like an inverted heart in front. It bared the white cups of her lace bra and the upper swell of her breasts. Low on her left breast was a small bloodstain ringing an even smaller hole.
I went to the end of the passage, which opened on a narrow fondamente along the back of the palazzo. To the right it led to a bay, and on the corner with her back to the bay stood a woman in a straw picture hat and blue chiffon dress. The dress had a long skirt and a cape like blue mist over her shoulders. She wore sandals with black straps and high stiletto heels.
Keeping her hands behind her back, she smiled at me coyly, then whipped out a silver Beretta.
Tzz-opp. She gasped in dismay. Thrust out her chest, staggered back, and stepped off the edge of the fondamente. Her hat lifted off as she toppled into the bay.
I walked to the corner and looked into the bay. The lady floated just below the surface, undulating with the waves, her dress nearly transparent. From her left breast a plume of blood billowed into the water.
Around the corner, tied up at the fondamente beside the palazzo, was a motor launch with the princess’s coat of arms on the stern. And in the wall beside the launch was a magnificent bronze door, presumably an entrance to the palazzo.
I pushed open the door and stepped into a reception room. Two women turned to face me. One was tall, with dark hair coiled and pinned atop her head. She was standing beside a coffee table in front of a couch. The other was petite, with long, straight, tawny hair. She was leaning against a desk, her legs crossed at the ankle.
They both wore khaki coat dresses and beige slingback pumps with black toe caps and high stiletto heels. And they both snatched up berettas, the tall one from the coffee table and the petite one from the desk.
Tzz-opp. Tzz-opp. “Ow!” cried the tall lady, wincing. She clutched her right breast with her left hand and staggered back to the couch. The petite lady gasped. She was jarred but remained standing, staring at me in disbelief. Neither one dropped her Beretta.
Tzz-opp. Tzz-opp. “Ah-h-h!” cried the tall lady. She threw back her head, dropped her Beretta, and collapsed on the couch. The petite lady also dropped her Beretta. She closed her eyes and toppled onto the desk.
I saw a wide marble stairway behind the desk. As I went around the desk to reach the stairway, I looked at the petite lady. She lay sprawled on the desk, legs dangling, eyes closed, face serene. There were two small, round dents in her dress, each with an even smaller hole in the center. One was on her right breast, the other on her left. Not a drop of blood stained the dress, at least in front.
I looked at the tall lady on the other side. She reclined on the couch, holding her blood-soaked bosom with both hands. Staring at me in grief and fear, she said: “Leave me alone. I’m wounded.”
“Yes,” I said, and went on to the foot of the stairway. At the top of it was a woman looking down at me. I could see her beautiful face, her black-clad chest--and the silver Beretta she was pointing at me. Tzz-opp.
She dropped the Beretta and receded from view, her heels tapping on the floor. I ran up the stairs and found myself in an art gallery. The lady I’d just shot at was sitting on a bench gazing at a painting. She wore a black leather vest above her bare midriff, a black leather skirt, and black pumps with high stiletto heels.
I followed her gaze. The painting portrayed a woman in a floor-length gown of pink-pearl satin with a deep V neck. I was struck by her dark, compassionate eyes, but nothing in the painting showed me where to go next. I looked around the gallery, and while my head was turned the lady I’d shot slumped back. She lay on the bench, her midriff tracked by streams of blood from her left breast.
I looked at the painting again. Now the lady in the satin gown glared at me malevolently, her eyes darker than ever. And she pointed a silver Beretta at me.
Tzz-opp. The lady pitched back and vanished. What I’d taken for a painting was actually a white screen that now had a bullet hole in it. I found that it swung on hinges and opened to a ramped vestibule. I climbed into the vestibule and walked up the ramp to stand over a real lady in a satin gown.
She lay on her back in a composed position, arms at her sides and legs together under the smooth skirt of her gown, her toes and the high stiletto heels of her black sandals showing below the hem. A bloodstain was spreading on her left breast. Her face was as immobile as her body, yet her eyes were wide open. She still glared at me malevolently.
The vestibule ended at a blue curtain. I swept it aside and entered a bare white room with two women in it, one lying on a cot and the other standing behind it. The woman lying on the cot was dressed in a plain white shift; her feet were bare. The lady standing behind her was dressed in a lab coat, white stockings, and white pumps with high stiletto heels. She was pointing a silver Beretta at me. Tzz-opp.
She dropped the Beretta and sank to her knees beside the cot. Leaned over the woman lying there, bosom to bosom, and kissed her lips. Then slid off and slumped to the floor.
I came and stood over the woman on the cot. It was the princess. Her bosom, stained with the blood of the lady I’d just shot, rose as she took a deep breath. Her eyes fluttered open. She focused on my face and smiled sweetly.
