Chapter 9

The next day the two men were back. They knocked on the door, as they had the first time. And when he opened the door and saw them there, he jumped back involuntarily, afraid they were going to hit him again. But they only smiled. The big one stood leaning against the door, a casual sentry. The smaller one walked to the couch and sat down, looking expectantly at Bart.

"We came for the day's take," he said. "Our half, that is." Bart looked back at him for a moment, reluctant to part with half of his take. But he knew there wasn't any use stalling, or trying anything. The men had taught him his lesson the day before. He got the money out and handed it to the man. All of it.

"That's the day's take," he said. "You can take the half out of it yourself."

The man counted the money and looked up at Bart. "Not bad," he said. He peeled some bills off of the stack and handed the rest back to Bart. "Count it," he said. Bart counted it. The man had taken two thirds instead of the half he had expected.

"Hey, what the fuck?" he demanded.

"Your supply of heroin will be arriving shortly," the man said softly. "We don't carry the stuff ourselves, of course. We have others who do that."

"Oh. You mean you're taking out for the heroin now?" Bart didn't like the idea, but it was better than having them take all that money for their share.

"That's right."

"Shit, that's enough for two or three days anyway," he said. The two men looked at each other and grinned.

"That's enough for one day," the one on the couch said. "Our stuff comes a little higher than the stuff you've been buying up till now. Of course, it's the best. And you're getting a nice, generous supply. It doesn't pay to be caught short."

"Jesus Christ, you mean you're going to take this much out of my take every fuckin' day?"

"You gotta buy the stuff. Your girls need it, to keep working."

"Yeah, but Christ-"

"One thing we can't stand, J agger, it's a chronic complainer. We don't like someone who's always bitching about things that can't be helped. This is something that can't be helped. Business expenses have to be met. If someone keeps complaining about things like that, we don't like to work with him. Keep it in mind."

Bart almost said something back, but he thought better of it. He looked at the floor, miserably aware of the thin sheaf bundle of bills in his hand. "That's better, friend," the man on the couch said. "Now, I've got something to tell you. Have you wondered how we found out about you? Who you are and where you live and all that?"

"No. Well, yeah, I guess."

"Sure you have. We expect that. And we don't want to keep you in suspense, Jagger. A man who's in suspense all the time can't do his job right, and we wouldn't want you to fuck up." He sat looking at Bart for a moment before going on. "Have you noticed anything strange about any of your people lately?"

"Strange? No."

"Maybe you don't pay close enough attention. Or maybe she's a very good actress. A cunt by the name of Cathy Winslow?"

"Cathy?" The name startled Bart. "She's my oldest girl," he said.

"Sure. Well, she's a big mouthed whore, is what she is. Our boy pumped her, and she dropped enough hints to enable him to figure out that she was working for someone who was supplying her with horse. Then he got enough more out of her so he knew the general direction to where you lived. Then he found out the school she goes to. Then he just followed her over here one afternoon. She's a gold mine, that girl. Just a gold mine of information."

"Yeah. Well, I'll straighten her out. Or are you going to do that?"

"We're going to straighten her out, all right. We're going to see to it that she doesn't do anything like this again. Ever."

"Shit, you going to kill her?" The two men smiled at each other. "Does that idea bother you?"

"Well, hell, it's bound to make waves."

"Don't worry. We're not going to kill her. It doesn't make any sense to destroy a perfectly good asset. We're going to dispose of her the same way you'd dispose of any other asset you didn't need any more."

"How's that?"

"We're going to sell her, friend. And you're going to help us out."

"Sell her? How-"

"We have connections with outfits all over the world. People who like to buy nice young girls, and particularly blondes. We got some in South America, some in Arabia, and, oh, hell, all over the place. Not any of them run places where a girl is likely to enjoy working. That's one nice thing about selling girls to places like that. The other girls pay attention to business then. But not in your case. I don't think we want to tell any of these young cunts that they could be sold down the river. They're too likely to panic and run to the fuzz. So we don't tell them where the blonde went. You understand?"

"Yeah, sure."

"We just let them guess. They'll fill in bad enough details for themselves."

"Okay."

"We'll send this one to Arabia. They got guys over there who just love to bust American blondes. Guys who don't have any love for this country, you know? They just love to bust into a sweet young American blonde."

"You said I was going to help," Bart said fearfully. "How?"

"Your part is simple. When she comes in today, you just send her to this address." He took a piece of paper out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Bart. "We'll take care of the rest. After you send her out of here today, you'll never see her again."

"Okay. It seems a shame to lose a great little moneymaker like her, though."

"That's one of those things that can't be helped. One of the things it doesn't pay to complain about. Remember?"

"Okay, okay, shit, I was just mentioning it."

"Now, the way we look at it, you shouldn't have had a dangerous girl around like this in the first place. So even though you're an even partner in things, we're going to consider this girl all ours now. For purpose of the sale, that is. That's fair enough, the way we look at it. Especially when you consider we're the ones who are going to ship her out and all that. And we're the ones who have the contacts. And you're the one who stands to lose the most if a girl like this spills her guts. But we're nice to our partners. We've decided to give you ten percent of what we get for her."

"Yeah, okay," Bart said. He felt like making a snide remark, but it didn't seem a good idea.

"Now, for a nice, young chick like that, we'll probably get eight, ten grand. We'll figure your ten percent and give it to you. You trust us, right?" He was grinning again and the one at the door laughed aloud.

"Yeah, sure," Bart said. "Now, is that all? The girls will be coming in pretty soon."

"Yeah, I guess that's about all," the man said. He stood up and stretched, then looked down and noticed that he was still holding the money in his hand. He thrust it into a coat pocket and smiled again. At the door, he turned back. "Just one more thing, Jagger. I wouldn't try any fast stuff, if I were you. A fraction of something is a lot better than all of nothing. Especially, if you're running out of blood. Then nothing isn't any good at all."

"I know," Bart said. "I won't try to pull anything. I'm not brave, and I'm not stupid."

"That's a good boy," the man said. "You got a nice little deal going here for you. A good income, even after all the expenses. And all those sweet young things ready to do anything you want, just to keep you from getting unhappy with them. It'd be a shame to lose all that because you were greedy." The two of them left, closing the door softly behind them.

Bart looked down at the money in his hands. A few hundred dollars was all that was left. By the time he paid the recruiters their commissions, even if he screwed them out of part of it, he'd be working for peanuts. A bricklayer with a working wife would be grossing almost as much. He threw the money against the wall. The bills hit with a dull plopping sound and then fluttered to the floor. Bart stood looking at them for a moment, then walked over and began to pick them up. Some was better than none, he thought. But not much better. It meant they would have him right here, doing their bidding for as long as they wanted. It would mean he'd never add anything significant to his bankroll.

The thought of the bankroll set his mind to going. He had almost a quarter of a million there now. He'd been putting everything there that he was making, everything he'd been able to screw the kids out of. That was enough, he thought. It wasn't as much as he'd wanted, but it was enough to live well for the rest of his life. Why not get out now? Why not split while the splitting was good?

He poured himself a drink and sat down with it. The more he thought about it, the better the idea seemed. There was only one thing. He needed traveling money. He didn't intend to go through regular channels to get out of the States. If he put in for a passport and visa and all that shit, they'd be likely to find out about him. And then they'd make holes in him. No, he had to get out some other way. That meant money, and lots of it. He had always made it a point to keep a few thousand around just in case of an emergency. He had to buy junk for his troops, after all, and there were ordinary living expenses. And always the possibility that he'd get sick, or need payoff money or something like that. He got up and went to the hiding place and counted the money. Twenty-eight hundred bucks, in bills no larger than a fifty. Most of them smaller. That was good. But he'd need more. Lots more. To do what he had in mind, he'd need a good ten grand, and it wouldn't hurt to have some extra around for emergency use.

He could always send to the bank in Switzerland, of course, and have them send him eight or nine thousand. But that would cause raised eyebrows. The Feds would want to know where he got the money, and how come he hadn't reported it to the government before this. Besides, he didn't like the idea of cutting down his fund over there if it could be helped. So he'd have to do something else. He looked at the money they had left him for the day. He could just keep things up until he had enough through those channels, but that wasn't a satisfactory idea either. He had been around this kind of thing long enough, Bart thought, to know that when your luck starts to go sour it doesn't stop until you've been kicked in the balls and then had them cut off with a spoon. It was time to get out, right now, before something worse happened. The next time it wouldn't be someone trying to muscle in, he thought. The next time it would be the Feds, and he'd have more than dope charges and contributing to the delinquency of minors, and stat rape to worry about. He'd have the Little Lindbergh Law. Kidnaping. Shipping the victim across state lines. If they were going to ship Cathy Winslow out of the country, he'd be an accessory at the very least, and maybe more than that. They might decide he'd been right in the middle of it, since he was the one who would send Cathy over there today to be packed, crated and sold.

Out, he thought, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. Out of this whole mess. Out of the business. Out of the country.

So there was only one way to do it, only one way to get the money together all at once.

He had to try some fast shuffling with the bastards. He had to screw them out of a few thousand dollars in the next few days. It was a scary thought, a thought that made chills travel up his spine. But he'd have to do it. It was the only way to get out of here. Then he thought of the junk. He could peddle some of that. They were selling him more than he needed, more than he could possibly use up. But that was a bad idea, too. Pushing was dangerous. It was the most dangerous part of the whole mess. Pushers had to deal on the street, and that was where a man was picked up by the narcs.

No, he'd have to hold out on them. He'd have to be convincing about it. It wouldn't take long. Just a week or so if he held out a few hundred dollars every day. Then he could make his contacts. No, he could do that in the meantime. Make the contacts and give them some of the money down, on account, so they'd get things rolling. He'd have the rest for them when he got on the ship, or plane, or whatever it would turn out to be.

All right, he thought. It's settled. The thought made him calm, oddly enough. He'd made his decision. That had been the scary part. He knew the decision could end in his death. He knew when the time came he'd be scared again. But he also knew he could go through with it now. He'd go through with it whatever amount of coolness was necessary.

There was a timid knock at the door, and he knew, without knowing how he knew, that it was Cathy Winslow. Something about the knock, something in the sound of it, or the rhythm made it obvious to him, and he felt a quick excitement. This would be the last time he'd ever see her.

He went to the door and opened it. Cathy was standing there, dressed in a plaid miniskirt and a blue blouse, her school books braced against the front of her body. Her legs were bare and lovely, and she was trying a smile on him. She looked like a school girl facing the principal. And she was beautiful. Bart stepped back without a word, and she came in.

"Hi, honey," she said nervously, breathlessly. "I know I'm a little early. I thought maybe I could beat the rush, if you didn't mind. I feel I need my fix now." She smiled at him, and when he didn't smile back she blushed and looked at the floor.

"Come on," he said. "I'll give you your fix now."

"Thanks," she said. She hurried along beside him, a little behind. Bart took her into the living room.

"Take your clothes off," he said.

"Huh? My clothes? But why-"

"Because I told you to," Bart said without raising his voice. He had gotten out the needle, and she didn't argue with him. She began to strip. Bart sterilized and loaded the needle, watching her out of the corner of his eye all the while.

She was just as beautiful as ever, he thought. He was going to miss her. Well, it couldn't be helped. It was what she deserved anyway, for being such a big mouthed bitch. In a way he was glad to get rid of the little tart.

When she was naked she turned to face him fully. Bart looked her up and down until she blushed. "I'm surprised you can still get embarrassed about a man looking at you, Cathy," he said. She blushed even more deeply.

"I guess it's the way you're staring, honey," she said. "You've seen me so many times, I'm not used to having you stare like that. It was like you'd never seen me before."

"Or like I was never going to see you again, huh?" The moment the words were out of his mouth, he was sorry. It had been a stupid thing to say, of course. But she was looking at the needle flow. She didn't seem to have heard what he said. There was only one thing that was important to her right now. Bart held the needle in his hand, feeling the sense of power it always gave him. "Come here," he ordered, and she approached him, still looking down at the needle. Bart put his arms around her and held her close. When he kissed her she threw herself into the kiss wholeheartedly, giving him her tongue with all the gusto he could ask for. It was automatic, of course. She had learned that when she was with a man, she had better be completely with him. It had become a conditioned reflex by this time. Bart let his hand travel down over her body, down to her ass. The other hand held the needle, and it was pressed flat against her back. He knew she could feel it there, and her attention was on it.

He stepped back. "Remember the first time, honey? Remember how you were still a virgin, and I didn't want to bust you before the client got to?"

"Sure," she said. She sounded like she didn't want to remember it.

"And remember what I had you do for me to get around the problem?"

"Sure, honey. I remember."

"What was it?" He wanted to hear her say it. It would be exciting to hear it from her young, full lips.

"I sucked you off, honey," she said. She said it with a touch of wonder in her voice, as though she couldn't imagine how he could have failed to remember, or why he should want her to repeat it. But she had learned, long since, not to question his reasons about anything.

"I feel reminiscent," he said. "Why don't we do that again, for old time's sake? Then I'll give you your fix."

"Sure, honey," she said, injecting enthusiasm into her voice. She was a good actress, this one, he thought. A real shame she had to go. "Sure, that sounds great, Bart." She looked around. "Where you want me, honey? In the bedroom?"

"What's wrong with the living room? That's where we did it that time, if I remember right. And it was great."

"It sure was." She slipped back, as though about to go down on him.

"Over here," Bart said, heading for the big chair. "I was sitting down, remember? No reason why I shouldn't be comfortable while I'm enjoying myself, is there?"

"None that I can think of," she said. He sat down with a sigh and placed the needle on the table next to the chair. He saw her eyes flick to it and then back to him. She smiled and came to him. She knelt down in front of him, nestling between his spread knees. He felt her hands on his legs, through his pants. They felt tiny and soft. Then she was working his zipper down. She had trouble with it because he was sitting and wasn't doing anything to help her. Bart motioned her back a bit, then stood and opened his pants and dropped them down around his ankles. He shoved his shorts down too, and then sat again. Cathy knelt on the clothes, pulling herself right up close to the chair. Bart scooted his ass forward, leaning back against the back of the chair. The position gave her good access at his cock. She took it in those tiny, soft hands, and it stood up like an antenna. Then she had hold of his balls, and she started by kissing them. She had learned a lot, he thought, since that first day. She knew all about how to make a man happy now. There wasn't a shred of lady left in her, not a shred of decency or reticence or shyness. She was a wanton. It gave him a little thrill to think of it. This teenage girl, who had come to him pure, and he had broken her down into this. A fucking and sucking machine. Interested in nothing except pleasing whatever man she happened to be with at the moment, because that was the way to get her fix.

She left off kissing his balls and began to lick his cock, her tongue, soft and warm, traveling over the head of it. It was a nice feeling, and when he looked down at her, it was nice to watch, too. She brushed her hair back and glanced up at him with a mechanical smile. He felt the hair, thick and golden, wisp across his thighs. Then she was back at work, intent on what she was doing, giving her all to him, her all to please him.

It was a workmanlike job, and she managed to please him all right. Bart felt the pleasure grow in his cock, and spread through his belly and thighs, growing in intensity all the time. She worked away, and he knew she was playing him like a fish, working him just right to keep things going. That was something some of the newer girls, like Patty, hadn't learned yet. They still tried to get things over with as quickly as possible. But Cathy had become a real pro. She knew what it was all about. She knew the name of the game, he thought as he began to grunt with irrepressible joy. The pleasure was becoming almost painful now, it was so intense. He knew he could come now, if he let himself, but he fought it, and Cathy, apparently sensing his nearness to completion, slacked off a bit, letting him rest. When she went back to work, he had gained control of himself again. Then it was up there again, the pleasure and the need to let it go, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hold it much longer. Anyway, time was running short. The other girls would be showing up pretty soon. Cathy must have thought of the same thing, because she didn't slack off this time. She bore right in, pulling him higher and higher, driving him nearer to the edge, and then all at once he was over the edge. His come spewed into her mouth in big bursts, big blobs of cream that she swallowed hastily and expertly.

"Mmmmm," she said, as though enjoying the taste of his prick and his come immensely. It was a technique she had learned a long time ago now, way back in the beginning. She knew it pleased a man, brought him on stronger, excited him even as he was being totally sated. Another shot of come entered her mouth, and she swallowed it neatly. Then the climax was on him, covering him with its power and intensity, and Bart grunted loudly and relaxed, falling back against the back of the chair. His cock went limp in Cathy's mouth. She kept it there, running her tongue over it for a while, before she finally drew back.

"How was that, lover?" she asked.

"That was pretty nice," he said. "You're gonna be great for-" He stopped, cutting himself off in mid-sentence. She looked up at him with interest, but not suspicion in her eyes.

"Great for what?" she asked.

"Great for any customer we ever have for you," Bart said, weakly. "Now get your clothes on and go gargle or something. I'm gonna send you out before the others get here."

"How about my fix?" she asked with a hint of panic in her voice.

"Oh, yeah," Bart said. "Sure." He had honestly forgotten about it. "Hold out your arm," he commanded. He got the stuff into her vein, mainline, as she had been going for the past month. He dropped the needle back on the table and said, "Now get going."

The other girls began to arrive in a few minutes. Bart was rough on them, rougher than usual. He was in a bad mood about things in general, and nervous because he was beginning to think of all the things that could happen to him because of the decision he had made about cheating the Company of their money. Not that he even thought for a moment about changing his plans. The decision would hold, he knew, no matter what. He would try to get away with things. And he would, he told himself. He would get away with it. In a few weeks he'd be in Switzerland, enjoying the Alps, with some Swiss miss on his arm, and another to shine his shoes, if he felt like it. The money would talk.

The money would make him attractive to women. It would be like now, with girls all over him, only this time he wouldn't have to worry about the cops showing up, or someone like those two goons popping in the door to fuck things up.

But for now he still had the jitters about things. There was a lot to do, and a lot that could go wrong yet, before he'd be in Switzerland. One of the girls, the big blonde who was still pretty new, jerked involuntarily when he jabbed the needle into her butt, and Bart spun her around and slapped her face hard. The girl fell back a step, placing a hand against the offended cheek and staring at him wide-eyed.

"Goddamn it, you stay put," he said angrily, and she stared at him for a moment longer before she nodded.

"Sure, Bart. Sure, I'm sorry, honey." She resumed her position, and he injected the heroin into her, jamming the needle harder than before. It made her wince, but she didn't pull away this time.

The other girls were all staring at him in silence. Bart gave them their fixes and sent them on their way.

When they were all gone, the boys came in and got their fixes. He charged them for the heroin, and gave them credit in the book for the money they were supposed to get in commission. They would have preferred to have cash, he was sure, but he told them he had decided against giving out any more cash, and they would be needing the money for heroin anyway. They couldn't really argue about that. And anyway, they didn't dare argue with Bart. He was their source. Bart knew he'd be able to keep the money this way. When he left, they'd have nothing but the memory of some numbers listed in a little black book. And the book would have been burned by then. What did junkies need with money, anyway? They wouldn't spend it on anything worthwhile. Just to feed their filthy habit. Bart was sure he could find a better use for the cash.

When the boys were gone too, he put on his coat and went out. He went down to the waterfront and moved around, looking for a ship that was unloading. When he found one he stood looking at it for a long time. Finally he saw a grizzled man with a white beard come out and stand on the deck, leaning over. The man spat into the water, watched the splash. From his air of casual command, Bart deduced the man was the captain. He stepped away from the building against which he had been leaning, and let the man see him. He continued to stare up at the man.

After a while the old man walked to the gang plank and walked down to the dock, and to Bart. "You thinkin' of buyin' somethin', boy?" he asked.

"Maybe," Bart said. He had brought his money along, just in case he should get lucky on the first try. The old man looked him up and down.

"Well, whatever it is, it can't be much, from the look of you."

"Maybe if we had some privacy, I could show you something that would change your mind, Captain."

"Maybe," the man said, and because he hadn't contradicted the title, Bart guessed he had been right about the man's position. "Why don't we go up to my cabin, then?" He looked curious and interested, Bart thought, though it was hard to tell. The man's face was framed in beard and hair, all white except for brown tobacco stains on parts of the beard. He had startling blue eyes which twinkled from time to time, but showed nothing else remotely approaching expression.

Bart followed the captain up to his cabin. The gang plank wavered and swayed under their feet, and even the ship seemed to have a little roll to it.

It was an old ship, but it seemed to have been well cared for. When they were in the captain's cabin the old man sat behind a desk and motioned to Bart to sit down across from him. "Now, then, my boy, just what is it you have it in your mind to buy?"

"Passage. If you're going in the right direction."

"We're a cargo ship."

"So I'm cargo. Ail I need is a room of some sort to eat and sleep until I get where I'm going. And then you take me ashore, the same as you would any of your other cargo."

"You have a passport, I take it?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye to show that he didn't take it that way at all.

"No, I don't like all that red tape."

"I see. Well, sometimes it's expensive cutting through red tape."

Bart pulled the cash out of his pocket. He had brought twenty-five hundred dollars with him. He placed it on the desk and shoved it toward the captain. The captain scratched his chin through a half-yard of beard and looked down at the money. After a while he picked it up. "Now, let me see." And he counted it, twice. "Well, now, you couldn't cut through much red tape with this amount, son," '"' he said.

"That's only a down payment, Captain. I expect to have another few thousand when it's over."

"That's not really what you'd call an exact figure, is it son?"

"All right. Say another five thousand dollars."

"Say another seventy-five hundred."

Bart pretended to think it over. "All right, we'll say that. But we won't say any more, will we?"

The captain smiled. It looked strange on his face. "No, we'll just say that." He started to pick up the money again.

"Before you pick that up," Bart said quickly, and he put it down again, "I'd like to ask you where this vessel is going, and when?"

"We leave in three weeks, son, after some fitting up. I hope that's soon enough, and not too soon?"

"That'll be all right," Bart said after some quick figuring. He'd be able to put together the money in that amount of time. "Where are you going?"

"Europe."

"That's a big continent."

"Two ports, son. First, Calais. Then Copenhagen."

"Copenhagen sounds good." Bart said it in a flat voice, not wanting the old man to know how great it really did sound. From Denmark Bart would be able to get to Switzerland by road, only a few days at the most. And then, easy street.