Masters & Lovers Box Set Three

Chapter 15

Richard

I click off the video connection and almost immediately, there’s a tap at my door.

James?

Waiting for me to finish?

“May I come in?”

Yes… James…

He looks terrible…

“I wanted to apologise.”

I gather the sheaf of papers I was working with, injecting a business-like tone into my voice. “There’s nothing to apologise for my friend.”

Sounding unconvinced, “No?”

“No. We all have low points in our lives and I’d say you had one of those yesterday.” I regard the man standing in my doorway…

Face sallow…

Pupils like pin-holes…

Eyes like piss-holes in snow…

“How’s the hangover?”

“About what I deserve… Thank you for looking after Charlotte last night.”

“I wouldn’t have had it any other way, James.”

He stands, head lowered, seeming lost for words. This isn’t the James I know.

You’re not right yet, are you… Not by a long way…

I stand, walk across to him and am about to slap him on the shoulder….

Hangover…

Splitting headache…

Nausea…

… and settle for laying my hand on his shoulder. “James, I mean it. We all have times in our lives when our friends and family are what keep us going. If the positions were reversed, I’d like to think you and Michael would have done the same for Elizabeth. And she’s a lot more vulnerable than Charlotte ever will be.”

“Of course we would.”

“You see then... Shall we join the others for breakfast?”

*****

Klempner - Twenty-Six Years Ago

Finchby is waiting when I arrive, with his slicked-back hair and that garish medallion he seems convinced looks good. “Larry, great to see you.” He flashes his usual fake smile, the single gold tooth winking. “So, what do you have for me?”

“Bech, can you bring them through please?”

Bech shouts through the door. “First one.”

She’s led through; a pretty little thing. Some variety of half-cast by the look of her; honey-skinned with hair that drapes her shoulders in glossy black ringlets, and amber-gold eyes that dart one way, then another between Finchby, myself and Bech. The cuffs around her ankles drag at her feet, but otherwise, she looks healthy enough.

“Unusual looks,” comments Finchby. “Quite exotic. Where’s she from?”

“She was on the last shipment from Ghana,” says Bech.

“Does she speak English?”

Bech pokes at her shin with the toe of a boot. “Do you?”

At his gestures, she clasps her hands together, holding them out to him, then to me, babbling something or other. The words are nonsense, but the pleading in the tone unmistakable.

“Okay, so the answer’s no,” says Bech. He turns to a boy, maybe ten years old, standing to one side. “You. Translate. Tell her to get her clothes off. Mr Finchby wants to see what he’s buying…”

The boy ducks his head. “Yes, Boss.” Then he jabbers something to the girl, his breath coming in quick, short gulps as he gabbles the words. She whimpers, clutching at the front of her shirt. It’s sweat- stained, stinking and in shreds, but she grips the cloth in her hands as though it’s her anchor on life.

“Did you tell her?” asks Bech.

“Yes, Boss.”

“So, why’s she still dressed? Tell her again, and if you don’t want to go the same way she’s going, do your fucking job.”

“Yes, Boss. Sorry, Boss.” His skin is glossy, fair hair plastered to his head…

European?

Dutch maybe…?

“Luuk here has been granted special privileges…” comments Bech… “… because he has a knack for languages. However, he’s not going to keep those privileges long if he doesn’t make himself useful.”

Arm folded, he head-points. “Mr Finchby here has already told me he has a couple of customers who would enjoy some time with you. So, if you don’t earn your keep here, you can easily be moved along. Now, tell this little slut to get her clothes off or we’ll do it for her.” He turns, his voice conversational. “You wouldn’t mind helping on that would you, Finchby?”

Finchby strikes a match on the wall, then lights up. “My pleasure. Always glad to be of assistance.”

The boy is sweating, his voice a whimper as he speaks to the girl. She protests something-or-other, but he gestures to Bech and Finchby. Her eyes well, then fall as she unbuttons her shirt. Bech stands back, arms folded. Finchby puffs on his cigarette.

Her breathing turns to gasps, then to sobs as she strips. She hesitates over what passes for her underwear, but Bech says, “Tell her that means all of it.”

The boy says something to her and weeping silently, she removes the last, then stands head lowered, trembling, her arms crossed over her breasts.

“Not bad,” comments Bech. “Might have a try on that one myself before she moves on.”

“If I take her,” says Finchby, “you’ll keep your fucking paws off her, Bech. I’ve them that’ll pay extra to have her as she is.”

It’s not as though I’ve not seen it before. Bech enjoys his little games and, for the most part, I’m happy enough to let him get on with it.

What difference does it make?

But something about this one…

Is it her?

Or is it…?

She’s no different. Plenty that come this way are lookers.

Bech voice chills. “In fact, there’s someone else interested in this one.” He glances at his watch. “I thought he’d be here by now.” He’s interrupted by the door swinging open. “Ah, here he is.”

The man entering is a stranger to me. Bech turns, addressing me, “Sir, Mr Yakovlevski here has spotted a niche and is moving into the film industry. He’s looking for performers.”

The boy is speaking to the girl, talking quickly and quietly. She looks up, her eyes wild…

“… In short…” Bech looks to Finchby… “… she goes to the highest bidder.”

Finchby pinches out his cigarette. “What’s this, Bech? Nothing was said to me about an auction. What’s in it for you?”

“Just doing my job. Which is to get the best price possible. Mr Klempner has expenses to cover. Overheads….”

“Oh, gimme a break, Bech. D’you think I don’t know he gives you a cut for selling them on?”

Bech looks sour and Finchby cracks a laugh, slapping him on the shoulder. “C’mon, give us a smile. I know how it works. A man’s gotta earn a living. Those swimming pools in the Bahamas don’t pay for themselves, do they?. And we’ve all got to settle the bills for the villa by the beach.”

“Tell her to kneel,” says Yakovlevski. “And to open her mouth.”

“Oh, c’mon.” Finchby spits against a wall. “Not fucking here. Can’t you wait?”

“I want to see how she’ll look on camera. Tell her.”

Bech raises brows to Luuk. “You heard the man. Keep talking. Tell her what she’s being told to do.” Luuk gabbles to her again. Her eyes fill again. Tears trickling down her cheeks, she falls to her knees.

Yakovlevski nudges her knees open and pulls out a Polaroid. “Tell her I want her mouth open, and to look up at me.”

“You haven’t bought her yet,” hisses Bech.

“Well, you don’t have a fucking brochure, do you. I want my associates to see what they’ll be paying for if they decide to cough up the cash.” Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

“If?” Bech turns on him. “You said you were good for…”

“I am. But they have to see what they’re buying, don’t they. Now… mouth open.”

Her lips part.

“Wider.”

Luuk murmurs to her and trembling, she obeys, looking up at the camera as one shot, then another, then another, emerge from the camera. Golden eyes flick to mine, brimming…

Golden eyes…

Green eyes…

“She’ll do nicely. What else do you have?” says Yakovlevski. “I want some variety, a good mix; oriental and Asian types, some afros, a couple of blondes. Red-heads and Celtic types too. And I want boys and some younger girls.”

“Sure,” says Bech. “If your wallet stretches, we’ll get it. How much younger?”

“Whatever you can get. There's always plenty will pay for young pussy.”

“I thought this was for filming?” I say.

“Well, there’s always the party afterwards, isn’t there.”

Luuk talks all the time to the girl. She starts sobbing, then speaking, quickly, almost hysterically.

“Tell her to shut the fuck up,” says Bech. Luuk says something, but she keeps talking, babbling away.

“What’s she saying?” I ask.

“She says her family will pay you for her. Much monies. More than these mans. She say please ask her family. They will pay.”

“Hear that, Bech?” I say. “Contact her family. If they'll make the right offer, they can have her back.”

Bech stiffens. “And what about Mr Finchby here and Mr Yakovlevski here?”

“They’re in an auction, Bech. You set it up, so her family get to bid too.”

“She's from Ghana, sir,” he hisses. “What about the transport costs?”

“If they'll pay for her at all, they'll pay for the fare to get her home. Contact them.”

“Yes, sir.” But his mouth curls as he speaks.

*****