“The parents don’t often know. Their child simply slips away when their backs are turned. Perhaps the doctor could stop it, if he even knew. Or maybe the nurses; they usually know. That’s how these little ones find their way here. If the debt collector refused to transfer out a child, that might stop one incident. Perhaps two.” Her gaze pierces me. “It is no one person’s job to stop it; everyone has someone else to blame. And besides, the Agency’s calculations are usually right. By the time we get them, these children rarely live more than a few weeks. But those weeks belong to them.”
I shudder as the meaning of it washes over me. It’s an entire room filled with Tillys. All dying. All kids I can’t save. And the golden feeling of trying, of giving them at least a chance at life, is calling to me. It’s an incredibly beautiful siren out on a rock beckoning me into a thrashing sea that will shove water down my throat before I can ever reach her.
“I… I can’t do this.” My eyes are wide, my gaze glued to the two dozen beds below me.
The sound of heels clacking on the wooden floor of the balcony pulls me out of my daze. It’s one of Anastazja’s girls: I recognize her face, remember her long brown hair tangled in my fist during the more pleasant part of my recovery ritual. Her short skirt, six-inch heels, and low-cut blouse show she’s been working.
“This is Grace. I believe you two have met.”
Grace’s face lights in a smile so bright it practically banishes the shadows around us. “Lirium! I’m so glad you’ve joined us!”
“I… I haven’t…” What have I gotten myself into? I glare at Madam A. “I only came here to find my friend. Whatever…” I wave my hand at the floor below, but stop when I see it’s shaking. “Whatever charity you’re running here is just a waste of time. These kids are dying anyway; you can’t stop it any more than I can. And I’m not interested in throwing good life after bad.”
Grace’s face falls, and she opens her mouth to snap something back at me, but Madam A stills her with a small hand on her arm.
“If you can’t help me,” I say to Madam A, “I’ll be leaving now.”
I’m half turned away, searching for the door, when Madam A says, “I lied.”
That stops me. I stare at her. “I’m shocked. About which part, exactly? The dying children part or the selling me out part?” Every muscle in my body is telling me to get out before I get trapped into something that’s going to kill me. But if she knows something that can help me find Ophelia… I need to hear it.
“The part where I said none of my sex workers worked for the mob.”
I narrow my eyes. “You sold us out.” I contemplate whether I can move my hand fast enough to get it to Madam A’s forehead before she can pull the gun.
“No,” she says. “However, I do have contacts there, and I might be able to find out where your debt collector has been stashed away.”
“Stashed?” A small fire of hope lights inside me. “You don’t think they’ve killed her already?”
“Oh, I doubt that,” Madam A says coolly. “At least, not right away. The mob finds debt collectors as useful as I do. They’re not going to waste one, if they don’t have to.”
I grit my teeth. I’ve seen the tortured bodies of debt collectors who used to work for the mob. Everyone has. And the knife-wielding thug who cornered me in an alley and tried to make me express when I was just a kid did a fine job of convincing me mob debt collectors don’t live long. But now I’m wondering if anything I know is actually true anymore. And what Madam A is saying makes sense. Everyone wants to use debt collectors, including her. I have a vague idea now what kind of work Madam A wants from me. It involves mercy hits. The kind I would have a hard time surviving. The mob may want to use Ophelia to do their dirty work, but Madam A’s “clean” work is just as deadly, at least to the debt collector performing it.
“I have something that can help you,” Madam A says. “And you have something that can help me. It seems a trade would be mutually beneficial. What’s your friend’s name?”
“Ophelia.”
“I’ll see what I can find out about her. Meanwhile, think about it. Grace will show you around and answer your questions.”
She gives Grace a significant look. Grace pulls back from her anger and puts on a forced smile. Madam A strides away before I can protest.
“This way, please,” Grace says, turning in the opposite direction. I watch her swaying walk for several strides without moving an inch to follow. I should just walk out of here now. But the tiny Asian madam with the gun may be the only chance I have of finding Ophelia, short of cruising the east side mobs, trying to find her by chance. But there are three mob families controlled by three brothers, each with their own turf. And the families don’t play nice together. I’m likely to end up dead long before I find Ophelia.
I shuffle to catch up with Grace.
She doesn’t say anything until we’re down on the first floor again. She pauses at the doorway to the ward where the patients are sleeping and presses a finger to her lips. I nod and she opens the door.
A couple of nurses check on the patients in their beds. We catch the eye of one as Grace leads me into the middle of the room. The nurse nods to Grace and lingers a look on me. I can’t be sure in the dim light, but I don’t recognize her. She’s dressed in scrubs and has the practiced stoic look common to the nurses I see every time I collect.
“We have about twenty children at any given time,” Grace whispers, leaning her head close to mine. “We bring in more beds when we have to, but we usually don’t need them for long.”
I don’t want to hear this. I don’t want to know any of this.
“The parents come visit during the day.” She points to a stack of small stuffed animals on the table next to one bed. “They bring things from home to make it seem more… comfortable. I wish…”
I can’t help looking at her as she turns her head away. She blinks back tears and tries to hide it. My fists curl. Madam A is giving her time to work on me, wear me down, but it doesn’t help for me to know their stories. It just makes it harder to resist the siren.
Grace quietly clears her throat and ducks her head. “I wish we could offer them a place to stay near their children, but there’s only so much room here.”
“You need a place to sleep too, right?” I hate the sarcasm in my voice.
Her jaw works, and she gives me a fake smile. “Most nights I’m sleeping somewhere else.”
Touché.
But it makes me wonder. “So how does this actually work?” I hold my hands up. “Not that I’m volunteering for anything. Just out of curiosity. Do you do the sex work just to lure debt collectors into helping out with your cause?”
“And for the hit.”
“The hit? I thought that was just for you. A bonus on top of your fee.”
She looks unimpressed. “Do you really think I would take a hit from you, keep it for myself, and then return here.” She holds her hands out, as if embracing all the children in their beds.
“So…”
“I transfer it out again, once I’m done working.”
I feel a weird mix of shame and wonder at this. Madam A’s girls aren’t just sex workers. They’re some kind of modern day Florence Nightingales. Servicing debt collectors, then illegally donating their hits to charity. I wonder if they all secretly loathe debt collectors, like the not-so-secret look of disdain that Grace is giving me now.
“Did you always do this?” I ask.
“No.” She stops by one of the beds. The boy is curled asleep on his side. His body is so small, it only fills the top half of the bed. “I used to work for another union, near Sacramento. We specialized in discreet work for the political class in the capitol.”
I nod. Grace is typical of Madam A’s girls: high-end, beautiful. It makes more sense that she would do high-price work than service debt collectors, now that I think about it. Collectors make government wage, after all.
“A lot of Madam A’s girls come fro
m the higher-end unions. Usually we find our way here after we’ve lost someone to a debt collector.” She stares intently at the sleeping boy.
My eyes widen, and I look between her and the boy. “Is he…”
She blinks and refocuses on me. “For me, it was my brother. He was only a few years older than me, but he got sick. We didn’t have any money, so the debts stacked up quickly. It was only three weeks from when he got diagnosed that he got transferred out.”
A debt collector transferred out her brother. A collector like me. I swallow. “How can you… I mean…”
She smiles. “How can I service debt collectors? When I know what they do?” She turns to face me full on. “Because I know what they can do, Lirium. I know they can give as well as take. And I know…” She glances at the boy once more, then slowly walks between the cots again. “I know that every hit I earn is going to help someone who desperately needs it. I can service a politician whose biggest accomplishment is keeping his sex worker hidden from his wife.” She gives me a small smile. “Or I can service someone who will give me something that makes a life and death difference to these kids.” She stops and rests her hand on a cot rail. The bedside lamp is still on, but the girl’s face is half buried under blankets. “It’s an amazing feeling, isn’t it? But I guess you already know that. The collectors say it feels good to them, too.”
I frown. “Wait. You mean when you transfer out, it feels… good?” It shouldn’t. A debt collector has to pull that hit from her before giving it to the kids. That should feel like the small death that it is; the sick feeling I know too well from every time I pay out.
She gives me a perplexed look. “Of course. It feels great to give.”
I cock my head to one side, trying to figure out if she means that literally or figuratively, when a shadow moves next to the cot. Someone is sitting in a chair in the darkness outside the spot of the bedside lamp.
When she moves into the light, I jerk in recognition.
“Joe?” It’s Apple Girl. “Joe, you’re… here.” She smiles, and that look both terrifies me and turns something inside me soft. Vulnerable. I turn to glare at Grace. She had to know Elena would be here, but she has a look of surprise on her face which quickly turns scolding.
“Elena,” Grace says, “you’re not supposed to be here. Visiting hours are over.”
“I know.” Elena’s gaze never leaves my face. “I’m just not sure how much time she has left, so… I stay.”
Grace passes a look between us, then edges away, giving us a measure of privacy in this quiet, shrouded room filled with death. Privacy I don’t want. What I want is to run far away from Apple Girl. I want to turn away from her dark brown eyes, which in the dim light seem endlessly deep. I want to say something that will make her turn away from me.
I can’t seem to do any of those things.
Her hair is messed up on one side. She’s been sleeping on it. I curl up the hand that wants to reach out and fix it.
She steps closer, a tentative smile on her face. I can just barely smell the apple scent in her hair. “You’ve decided to join us…”
I blink. “No,” I say. “No! I’m not here for…” A small movement over her shoulder grabs my attention. Tilly’s restless in her sleep. I swallow and look back to Elena. “I’m not here for Tilly.”
She frowns. “Are you transferring for one of the other kids?”
“No. Look…” I run my hand over my face. “I just… I should go.”
Her eyes turn cold. “You’re not here to help the kids.”
“Elena, look, you don’t understand. I can’t. It’s… it’s not safe for me to do mercy hits. I can’t stop once I start.” I want to grab hold of her shoulders, press my fingers into them, make her stop looking at me like I’m despicable. I keep my hands at my side. “It’s hard to explain.”
The cold look stays, and a frown joins it. She doesn’t believe me. Or maybe she does, and she’s unimpressed. Apparently there are debt collectors who can do this. I have no idea how, but I’m clearly not one of them.
“Sure. I understand,” she says, like she does, but not in a good way. “What are you really here for, Joe? Picking out your favorite companion for the night?” She dismisses me with a wave. “Keep looking. That offer expired when you ran out of my apartment and didn’t even say goodbye to Tilly.”
“Elena, I’m not… I swear I didn’t know you would be here.” My explanations are lost on her. “If I did—”
“If you did, then what?”
I don’t know what I would have done if I’d known. Avoided her? Come anyway and tried to explain? No, I would have kept far away from the live-wire temptation that she and her sister are to me.
My silence speaks for me. She shakes her head in disgust and turns away, quietly settling back into her chair next to Tilly’s bed. I want to say something. I want to tell her I’m not a bad person, that I really do care about her and her sister and all the dying children in this room. That if it wouldn’t burn me up in a fire of ecstasy I would give Tilly everything I could. That I’m tempted to do it anyway, but I can’t. I can’t save her. I would only die trying.
But the look of contempt in Elena’s eyes tells me it’s useless. Nothing I say will make any difference. And the part about me being a good person is a lie anyway.
I clench my fists and turn away from her.
Between my eyes blurring and the dim light, I can barely see. I don’t care. I march blindly down the center of the rows of beds. All I know is I need to get away. Far away.
I sense Grace at my side, catching up. “Lirium,” she says in a hushed voice.
We’re almost at the end of the row of beds, and I’m suddenly lost. I have no idea which way to turn.
“Lirium, wait.”
Her hand is on my arm, and I let her pull me to a stop. I keep my back to Elena and my head ducked away from Grace.
“This way,” she says, tugging me into the murky back of the room. She finds a door. Amber light fills the stairwell. I stumble in, squinting. I pull from her and turn away, wiping my face with the back of my hand.
Her hand is on my shoulder. “I know it’s difficult,” she says softly. “Some collectors have a hard time with the mercy hits at first. Some days I can barely walk through that room without crying.” She scoots around to face me, putting a hand on my cheek. She looks up into my eyes. “Oh, Lirium. It’s okay.”
She wraps her arms around my neck, sinking my face into the long brown hair draped on her shoulder. She’s holding me, comforting me. I rub my face in her hair and breathe her in. I pull back and crash my lips to hers, finding the only kind of comfort I know how to take. The kind that won’t kill me or leave me worse off than before. She responds, her tongue slipping out to taste me. Suddenly I’m crushing her against the wall, my body finding contact with hers everywhere. My hand is on her forehead, pulsing life force into her before I’m even thinking about it. She doesn’t flinch. Her wide brown eyes trust me implicitly. They remind me too much of Apple Girl, so I focus on her lips instead, speaking to them in a hushed tone, like I’m telling her a secret.
“Off-book,” I say, licking my lips. “Just you and me, okay?” I’m not sure why I need this to be a secret. I’m not sure why I need this, but I do.
She presses my hand harder against her forehead. I keep pumping more hit into her. Her lips curve into the relaxed smile that comes from an addict getting her dose. I recognize it, know it, can almost feel it myself. I watch her cheeks grow rosy in front of me. I kiss her again, with trembling lips, unable to wait until her hit finishes.
When it’s done, I yank my hand away and cover her mouth with mine. I press her hard into the wall, urgent in my need. She draws lines on my back with her nails, familiar with what I like from the times before. I fumble with her blouse first, undoing the few buttons, then hastily undo my own clothes, just enough to give me access to her. I nibble my way down her neck to her chest, tasting the vanilla-and-sex scent that pervades her skin. My
hands and mouth drink it in, my eyes half-lidded, not wanting to see, just to feel. I’m not completely sure she’s ready, but I can’t wait any longer. I work my way up to her mouth again, sliding my hands up her hips to lift her short skirt.
I bury myself in her, one fast thrust that lifts her from the ground.
The hot relief blanks my mind. My frantic movements still. Her eyes are closed, her head tipped back against the wall, lips parted. It’s all the confirmation I need. My thrusts bring quiet moans from both of us, but mostly me, a sound that feels like frustration and anger and need leaving my body. Her heels clatter the wall, banging in time with me. The release coils inside me, and small bits of my mind white-out, one by one, as it builds. When it comes, I gasp.
I forget how to breathe. It’s a moment of pure sensation and relief, empty of sound and thought. I don’t think about what she’s thinking. I don’t think about anything at all. I want it to stretch and carry me, but it’s already starting to fade: the coldness of my hand on the wall, the cool draft of air wrapping our bodies. Awareness of the world seeps back into me. My lungs cry for air, and I suck in erratic drafts of her skin and mouth as my lips hover over them.
She caresses my cheek, soft hands trying to give sweetness to the moment. I turn my face away. Only one collector can understand another. Ophelia’s voice is reminding me of my real purpose here. I pull back from Grace completely, disentangling our bodies, suddenly needing distance. I fumble with my clothes, half-turned away while she fixes hers.
I need Ophelia to help me figure out how to survive. How to not be the next wash out or mortality statistic on Candy’s collector sheet. I need to find out where Ophelia is and get her away from the mob. After that... who knows. I can’t think that far ahead.
Grace is finished with her clothes, standing tall on her heels again, only a slight flush in her cheeks and muss in her hair giving us away.
“Take me to Madam A,” I say. “I’m ready to make a deal.”
She nods and brushes past me, putting on the same fake, all-business calm that I have. I catch her arm, gently. She turns and looks straight into my eyes, searching for something. I smooth down the strand of her hair that’s still sticking up.
Ecstasy (Debt Collector 3) Page 3
