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Chapter 13

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 9TH

Agonostis knew about malls. Malls were Sin Central. People met there for assignations, and lied and cheated and stole and lusted in malls. He didn't know who had come up with the idea for them, but he was sure it was one of Hell's own.

With the pockets of his hellish puce polyester leisure suit stuffed full of cash, he materialized out in the parking lot of one of Charlotte's larger, newer malls at ten A.M. on Saturday morning, just as the doors opened to the public. He'd spent the night working, but that was of no consequence to him. While he needed to eat to maintain his body's health, so far it seemed that he didn't actually need to sleep.

He was alert, he was in good spirits, and he was confident that before the day was out, he and the rest of his crew would hold the state of North Carolina firmly by the testicles.

He waddled into the mall, and immediately earned the stares and giggles of teenaged girls, and the shocked sidelong glances and poorly disguised smirks of their mothers.

No matter, he told himself. The short, fat, balding puce-clad persona was only the creation of a moment, and as a research vehicle, it would do. He bought a newspaper from one of the newsstands, settled himself on a bench, and pretended to read. Thus obscured, he was able to watch the people who passed by him. He observed, and he learned.

Tall, square-jawed men in their late thirties, dressed in expensive suits, drew the glances of well-dressed, upper-class women. Boys in baggy T-shirts and ripped jeans and backwards-turned baseball caps attracted the admiring stares of the silly little girls.

But only one man who passed him turned every female head. The man was young—perhaps twenty-five, certainly no more than twenty-eight. He was a superb physical specimen, tallish, well-muscled but certainly not overly so, with an attractive face. His dark hair was short and neatly styled; he wore his white oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tucked into neat, new-looking blue jeans. He wore a pair of leather deck shoes without socks.

Agonostis thought that sort of appearance would suit him well enough, at least until he'd had a chance to check out Dayne Kuttner. If she turned out to be eighty, he'd come up with another plan. If she didn't turn out to be eighty, he'd gauge her response to him and, if necessary, try again as somebody else.

He found a store that sold men's casual clothing and waddled inside. A cute, pert little sales clerk eyed him doubtfully and said, "May I . . . help you . . . sir?" She paused. "There's a men's large and tall just around the corner."

She smelled delicious. He thought it was a shame he couldn't hurt humans—he imagined she would taste much better than imp. He looked up at her and said, "I'm looking for something for my . . . son. He's a tall boy—about six feet, I suppose. Thin. Lots of muscles."

He watched one of her eyebrows raise, and from the tiniest of twitches at the corner of her mouth, he realized she was considering that his son most likely wasn't. "Do you have any idea what size he wears?"

"His mother buys things for him most of the time."

"Ah." She sighed. "I don't know how I can help you if you don't know what his sizes are."

"I see." Agonostis walked back to the wall of shelves with those soft blue jeans folded from floor to ceiling. He studied the rows of numbers, growing increasingly more frustrated as he studied them. Finally he snapped, "Just what are these numbers supposed to mean?"

She walked back, the expression on her face pure disbelief. "Sir, what size do you . . ." She stared at the hems of his pants, still a good two inches above his shoe tops, and at his jacket with the sleeves too long by the same proportions, and she shook her head, bemused. "Never mind. The number on the left is the waist size. The number on the right is the inseam size—the length from the top of the inside of your leg to the top of your shoe."

"So little numbers on the left and big numbers on the right are better than the other way around."

She was having a hard time keeping a straight face. "Most people choose them by whether they fit or not, not by whether the numbers are better or worse."

"That would explain a lot," he muttered. He found some pants with a smallish waist number and a long inseam, and a white shirt, size Large—that at least was simple enough—and went up to the counter to pay.

"If you keep the tags, you can bring those back," the clerk said. "In case they don't fit."

"They'll fit," he grumbled.

She was grinning as he walked away.

He stopped in a shoe store, and looked up at the clerk there—also a woman, also taller than him. "What is an average shoe size for a man six feet tall?" he asked her.

"Just in general?" she asked.

"Yes . . . just in general."

"Are you doing a survey?"

"No," he snapped. "I'm buying a pair of shoes."

"Why don't we measure your feet—"

"I don't want to measure my feet. I want some shoes that will look right on somebody six feet tall."

She sucked on her bottom lip and turned away—he heard her snicker as she led him to the displays.

"Twelve or thirteen is probably about right," she said. "I mean, you know what they say about the sizes of feet and the size of other things. . . ."

That he knew. He found a pair of leather shoes in a size thirteen, average width, had her box them, and strolled to the nearest restroom.

Agonostis knew about restrooms, too—as a matter of fact, he knew all sorts of truly wicked things about restrooms; but the thing he knew that would serve him at the moment was that restrooms were good places to change.

He doubted that many people changed as completely as he intended to, of course.

He found a stall and unwrapped the clothing. He undressed, and stretched himself tall and thin. He had no real idea how tall or how thin—he just guessed. He pulled the pants up and discovered that he'd been extreme in both directions. He filled out a bit, making sure to add sculpted muscle to his legs as he shortened them. He tugged on the shirt and broadened his shoulders and muscled his arms until the cloth was snug there. He made his stomach flat and perfectly muscled. He fumbled with the buttons—nothing in Hell had buttons.

He rolled the sleeves up, and resized the muscles of his forearms until he liked the way they looked. He unbuttoned the top two buttons.

Chest hair? He looked down at his slick chest. Yes—he thought so. And hair on the forearms, too. He studied his hands. They were still the fat-fingered hands of Leisure Suit Louie; he lengthened them, and made them strong, and gave them calluses. He studied the fingernails—he was going to miss his own needle-tipped talons, but those simply wouldn't go with the look. He thought blunt, broad, and very clean—kept trimmed short. The hands of a male model.

Face. He needed a good face. He didn't want to look like anybody else; no movie star faces, no jet setters. He needed his own face.

He tried to recall the planes of his face when he'd still been one of Heaven's angels. It was dangerous to think back to that time. More than one of Hell's angels, in a fit of reminiscing, had ended up backsliding enough to win Lucifer's fury and a one-way trip to the Pit. But it had been, he recalled, an exceptionally fine face.

Long, sharp, narrow nose; full lips; even, perfect teeth; strong jaw. He gave himself thick, slightly wavy black hair cut short but full on top, arching black brows, and, for just that extra touch of the unusual, he made his eyes the rich golden-brown color of Russian amber.

He dumped the Hellwear into his shopping bag, and tossed the shopping bag into the trashcan. He studied himself at the mirror in front of the sink, and smiled. He was gorgeous . . . if he did say so himself. He looked like he was in his early twenties, with a vaguely southern European cast to his features.

D'Agonostis, he decided. Adam D'Agonostis. Who could possibly distrust a hot-looking guy named Adam? And the corollaries to temptation, damnation and original sin were so amusing.

He strolled back into the main mall, and smiled as women nearly walked into walls staring at him. This was definitely the look. He wondered what time it was—he needed a watch.

He found a jewelry store that sold Rolexes and bought a solid gold one. That set him back a hefty chunk, but the Rolex was understated, and spoke of both wealth and power. He liked it. The woman who sold it to him was amusing, too. She flirted with him, he flirted back—then he tempted her into the men's room and screwed her in one of the stalls. Afterward, because it amused him, he looked up the girls who sold him the clothes and the shoes, and followed suit with them. They were all willing—more than willing.

He smiled, walking out of the mall.

Dayne Kuttner wouldn't know what hit her.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed

Back | Next
Contents

Chapter 13

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 9TH

Agonostis knew about malls. Malls were Sin Central. People met there for assignations, and lied and cheated and stole and lusted in malls. He didn't know who had come up with the idea for them, but he was sure it was one of Hell's own.

With the pockets of his hellish puce polyester leisure suit stuffed full of cash, he materialized out in the parking lot of one of Charlotte's larger, newer malls at ten A.M. on Saturday morning, just as the doors opened to the public. He'd spent the night working, but that was of no consequence to him. While he needed to eat to maintain his body's health, so far it seemed that he didn't actually need to sleep.

He was alert, he was in good spirits, and he was confident that before the day was out, he and the rest of his crew would hold the state of North Carolina firmly by the testicles.

He waddled into the mall, and immediately earned the stares and giggles of teenaged girls, and the shocked sidelong glances and poorly disguised smirks of their mothers.

No matter, he told himself. The short, fat, balding puce-clad persona was only the creation of a moment, and as a research vehicle, it would do. He bought a newspaper from one of the newsstands, settled himself on a bench, and pretended to read. Thus obscured, he was able to watch the people who passed by him. He observed, and he learned.

Tall, square-jawed men in their late thirties, dressed in expensive suits, drew the glances of well-dressed, upper-class women. Boys in baggy T-shirts and ripped jeans and backwards-turned baseball caps attracted the admiring stares of the silly little girls.

But only one man who passed him turned every female head. The man was young—perhaps twenty-five, certainly no more than twenty-eight. He was a superb physical specimen, tallish, well-muscled but certainly not overly so, with an attractive face. His dark hair was short and neatly styled; he wore his white oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tucked into neat, new-looking blue jeans. He wore a pair of leather deck shoes without socks.

Agonostis thought that sort of appearance would suit him well enough, at least until he'd had a chance to check out Dayne Kuttner. If she turned out to be eighty, he'd come up with another plan. If she didn't turn out to be eighty, he'd gauge her response to him and, if necessary, try again as somebody else.

He found a store that sold men's casual clothing and waddled inside. A cute, pert little sales clerk eyed him doubtfully and said, "May I . . . help you . . . sir?" She paused. "There's a men's large and tall just around the corner."

She smelled delicious. He thought it was a shame he couldn't hurt humans—he imagined she would taste much better than imp. He looked up at her and said, "I'm looking for something for my . . . son. He's a tall boy—about six feet, I suppose. Thin. Lots of muscles."

He watched one of her eyebrows raise, and from the tiniest of twitches at the corner of her mouth, he realized she was considering that his son most likely wasn't. "Do you have any idea what size he wears?"

"His mother buys things for him most of the time."

"Ah." She sighed. "I don't know how I can help you if you don't know what his sizes are."

"I see." Agonostis walked back to the wall of shelves with those soft blue jeans folded from floor to ceiling. He studied the rows of numbers, growing increasingly more frustrated as he studied them. Finally he snapped, "Just what are these numbers supposed to mean?"

She walked back, the expression on her face pure disbelief. "Sir, what size do you . . ." She stared at the hems of his pants, still a good two inches above his shoe tops, and at his jacket with the sleeves too long by the same proportions, and she shook her head, bemused. "Never mind. The number on the left is the waist size. The number on the right is the inseam size—the length from the top of the inside of your leg to the top of your shoe."

"So little numbers on the left and big numbers on the right are better than the other way around."

She was having a hard time keeping a straight face. "Most people choose them by whether they fit or not, not by whether the numbers are better or worse."

"That would explain a lot," he muttered. He found some pants with a smallish waist number and a long inseam, and a white shirt, size Large—that at least was simple enough—and went up to the counter to pay.

"If you keep the tags, you can bring those back," the clerk said. "In case they don't fit."

"They'll fit," he grumbled.

She was grinning as he walked away.

He stopped in a shoe store, and looked up at the clerk there—also a woman, also taller than him. "What is an average shoe size for a man six feet tall?" he asked her.

"Just in general?" she asked.

"Yes . . . just in general."

"Are you doing a survey?"

"No," he snapped. "I'm buying a pair of shoes."

"Why don't we measure your feet—"

"I don't want to measure my feet. I want some shoes that will look right on somebody six feet tall."

She sucked on her bottom lip and turned away—he heard her snicker as she led him to the displays.

"Twelve or thirteen is probably about right," she said. "I mean, you know what they say about the sizes of feet and the size of other things. . . ."

That he knew. He found a pair of leather shoes in a size thirteen, average width, had her box them, and strolled to the nearest restroom.

Agonostis knew about restrooms, too—as a matter of fact, he knew all sorts of truly wicked things about restrooms; but the thing he knew that would serve him at the moment was that restrooms were good places to change.

He doubted that many people changed as completely as he intended to, of course.

He found a stall and unwrapped the clothing. He undressed, and stretched himself tall and thin. He had no real idea how tall or how thin—he just guessed. He pulled the pants up and discovered that he'd been extreme in both directions. He filled out a bit, making sure to add sculpted muscle to his legs as he shortened them. He tugged on the shirt and broadened his shoulders and muscled his arms until the cloth was snug there. He made his stomach flat and perfectly muscled. He fumbled with the buttons—nothing in Hell had buttons.

He rolled the sleeves up, and resized the muscles of his forearms until he liked the way they looked. He unbuttoned the top two buttons.

Chest hair? He looked down at his slick chest. Yes—he thought so. And hair on the forearms, too. He studied his hands. They were still the fat-fingered hands of Leisure Suit Louie; he lengthened them, and made them strong, and gave them calluses. He studied the fingernails—he was going to miss his own needle-tipped talons, but those simply wouldn't go with the look. He thought blunt, broad, and very clean—kept trimmed short. The hands of a male model.

Face. He needed a good face. He didn't want to look like anybody else; no movie star faces, no jet setters. He needed his own face.

He tried to recall the planes of his face when he'd still been one of Heaven's angels. It was dangerous to think back to that time. More than one of Hell's angels, in a fit of reminiscing, had ended up backsliding enough to win Lucifer's fury and a one-way trip to the Pit. But it had been, he recalled, an exceptionally fine face.

Long, sharp, narrow nose; full lips; even, perfect teeth; strong jaw. He gave himself thick, slightly wavy black hair cut short but full on top, arching black brows, and, for just that extra touch of the unusual, he made his eyes the rich golden-brown color of Russian amber.

He dumped the Hellwear into his shopping bag, and tossed the shopping bag into the trashcan. He studied himself at the mirror in front of the sink, and smiled. He was gorgeous . . . if he did say so himself. He looked like he was in his early twenties, with a vaguely southern European cast to his features.

D'Agonostis, he decided. Adam D'Agonostis. Who could possibly distrust a hot-looking guy named Adam? And the corollaries to temptation, damnation and original sin were so amusing.

He strolled back into the main mall, and smiled as women nearly walked into walls staring at him. This was definitely the look. He wondered what time it was—he needed a watch.

He found a jewelry store that sold Rolexes and bought a solid gold one. That set him back a hefty chunk, but the Rolex was understated, and spoke of both wealth and power. He liked it. The woman who sold it to him was amusing, too. She flirted with him, he flirted back—then he tempted her into the men's room and screwed her in one of the stalls. Afterward, because it amused him, he looked up the girls who sold him the clothes and the shoes, and followed suit with them. They were all willing—more than willing.

He smiled, walking out of the mall.

Dayne Kuttner wouldn't know what hit her.

Back | Next
Contents
Framed