by Stacy Green
We sat down in a booth, the leather pliable and warm. A candle burned in the center of the table, the candlelight making Preacher resemble a hungry jackal as he watched me take off my coat. To play the part of poor working girl, I’d worn a nice, fitted blue dress that wasn’t especially expensive but still looked good.
“Order whatever you like,” Preacher said as I sat down. “It’s all on me.”
My wig tickled. I ignored it and smiled. “I suppose it’s all a tax write-off for you.”
He burst into a deep chortling, covering his mouth and glancing through the restaurant as if he and the walls shared a private joke. “Sure is.”
I imagined what it would be like to stab him in the eye with my fork and then focused on the menu. “Do you recommend anything?”
“The filet mignon is excellent,” he said.
“And really expensive.” I played with the thin gold chain around my neck, the only jewelry I’d worn tonight.
“Don’t worry about it.” He folded his menu and leaned across the table. “You look like you could use a good meal, anyway.”
This time, my flush was natural. After hearing my mother hint I’d been gaining weight, Preacher’s compliment, whether sincere or not, felt good. We ordered steaks and salads, and I made a show of being afraid to drink wine but finally agreeing to a nice red. After our Jay Gatsby-styled waiter left our wine, I took a careful sip.
The red slid down like velvet, warming my stomach. Instead of praising the taste, I wrinkled my nose and shuddered. “Strong. I’m not used to that.”
“It’s an acquired taste.” Preacher’s grin widened. He clearly enjoyed showing this older, culturally challenged woman a fancy time. Like most, his transparency made him easier to manipulate.
I adjusted my awkward glasses, put my elbow on the table, and then giggled before removing it. “Oops. I’m not used to eating in places like this, either.”
“No worries.” Preacher laid a long arm across the back of the leather. The speakeasy’s dim lighting hit his face at just the right angle, exposing the youth in his caramel skin. His hazel eyes were very enticing. It was easy to imagine him as the gallant knight saving the mistreated and vulnerable girl from the street and then methodically warping her brain until she belonged to him.
“So, tell me more about this new position that might be opening up.”
“Hold on,” he raised his hand, needing to direct the conversation just as I’d expected. “I want to hear about you first. It’s Lily Smith, right?”
Kelly chose one of the most generic surnames in the country for a reason. It made creating a scant identity much easier. According to public record, Lily Smith resided with Mr. and Mrs. Warren Smith of Kensington. I’d chosen another lower income area of the city, but far enough away Preacher shouldn’t know any middle-aged, blue-collar workers. The cheap track phone I’d purchased yesterday was easily explained: I was too damned poor to afford a smart phone, and I didn’t want to borrow from Mom and Dad. Living with them was enough.
“Well,” I fidgeted with the napkin before laying it across my lap as Preacher had done. “I live in Kensington with my parents. But you knew that.”
“Right. How old are you?”
He was the only man who’d had the guts to ask me that in recent years, and I nearly laughed. “Twenty-five,” I said, thankful for being blessed with good skin.
“Where’d you go to high school?” The shift in his tone was slight, but I caught it easily.
“Home schooled.” I looked down at my lap and then peeked back up at him. “Paranoid parents.”
Resting his chin on his hands, he nodded. A cagey smile played on his lips. “Guess that means you didn’t get out much?”
“Nope. After high school, I went to Ohio to stay with my aunt and uncle. I thought the change of pace would be good, but they lived on a farm, and I hated it. Nothing but animals and Amish.”
Preacher laughed. “So you came back to Mom and Dad?”
“After a couple of years, yeah. Started dating a guy, but it didn’t work out.”
He ran a manicured fingernail across his bottom lip, looking even more like the starving jackal. “How serious were you?”
“Well,” I chewed the inside of my cheek and thought of one of my more embarrassing moments, hoping for a natural blush. “I thought we would get married. I mean, he was…my parents are religious…so…”
To his credit, Preacher played it mostly cool. Just the quick lick of his lips gave him away. “So you and him–he the only one?”
I knitted my eyebrows together. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking?”
“Well now,” he made a dissatisfied face, “if you can’t talk about this, I’m not sure you’re right for the job.”
Sliding forward in the booth, I put both elbows on the table. “I really need to get out of my parents’ house. They’re suffocating me.”
“Maybe they just care about you,” he said. “You shouldn’t take that for granted.”
I continued to pout. “They care too much. I’m 25 years old, and I’ve only dated one guy. We broke up because I was too timid.” I brushed some wig wisps off my cheeks. Hoping the emotion carried through, I started waving my hands as I spoke. “I just feel…caged, you know? Like I’ve got this pressure building, and if I don’t change something, I’m going to snap. I need to do something different. Something no one will expect.”
He didn’t respond right away. Hands hiding his face, he stared over his knuckles with curious eyes. I broke eye contact first and looked away. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get all crazy. I’ve just been feeling especially trapped lately.”
“I get that.” He continued to size me up. My need to control a situation surged through me. I forced it back with a painful swallow of velvety wine and made a show of studying the busboy cleaning up a nearby table. His slicked back hair and thin suspenders over a crisp white shirt perfectly fit with Ward 8’s theme. He caught me staring and winked and then gave a nod of recognition to Preacher.
“You must come here often,” I said. “If the busboy knows you. He looks like a baby.”
“He’s old enough,” Preacher said. “He does good work.”
The dual meaning in his tone slithered through me. I committed the busboy’s face to memory before turning my attention back to Preacher. “Good. Seems like kids his age don’t want to work very hard.”
“Oh, he works,” Preacher said. “Always willing to do what it takes.”
His knowing grin, meant as his own private joke, made my stomach sick. Just in time for our steaks to arrive. I took another large gulp of wine to calm myself. “This looks delicious.”
“Eat up. We’ll talk business after the meal.”
The steak was tender and the salad divine, but I barely made it through without running for the bathroom. The act was taking a toll. The bloody juice oozing from Preacher’s barely cooked steak and the innocent face of the busboy battled for attention until they bled together, making me half dizzy. I pushed my unfinished salad aside. “I’m so full.”
Preacher slowly chewed the final bite of his rare steak. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin and then set it aside and motioned for the waiter to refill our wine glasses.
“I hope you enjoyed it.” Preacher said as the server left.
“Absolutely. Thank you.”
I shifted in my seat, hoping he’d take the hint that Lily was anxious. I also needed some fresh air.
“On to business.” Preacher’s soft voice strengthened with authority. “I have an established network of gentleman looking for quality female companionship. And right now I’m looking for quality females to fill that need.”
Quality females. As if our gender were no better than produce at the market. Keeping my expression neutral was excruciating. “Exactly what kind of companionship?”
“Whatever the client needs. These are professionals looking for a distraction–a release–from high pressure lives. Some may just want good convers
ation. Others may expect more. Our ladies will need to be willing to comply.”
His word choice sent another wave of fury through me. I inhaled slowly. “Well, what if one man wants to talk and the other wants,” I rubbed the side of my neck, “more? Do they pay the same rate?”
“I like the way you think. Yes, they do. That way if they change their minds during the course of the meeting, the fee is covered.”
“And what if the female isn’t comfortable with certain requests?”
Preacher shrugged. “She’s always able to say no. But unsatisfied clients would likely result in no more bookings.”
He spoke so smoothly, without any struggle for the right words. I wondered how many times he’d had this conversation, or if he changed it when he convinced young kids to allow men to violate them for a fee.
I chewed on my lip. “How would I get paid?”
“The clients pay our fee directly, through a private online system. They’ll pay you in cash. We set the fee.”
Of course they did. “What if they don’t pay or try to cheat me?”
“Then you let me know immediately, and I’ll handle it. We’re running a fair trade.”
“Women who do this sort of thing sometimes get physically hurt.” As if he cared. His concern would be limited to the quality of the merchandise. Men looking for high-end call girls didn’t appreciate bruised up women.
“It’s a risk, but I don’t believe it’s a very large one. My boss has many connections and screens the clients himself.” He preened, stretching his arm over the back of the booth.
Now we were getting somewhere. If I could just get a first name, it would be a start. “It’s not your company? What sort of connections could ensure my–the ladies–safety?”
“I’m essentially the operations manager,” Preacher said. “As for connections, I can’t say. Just know that he has them. And we’ve got a good track record.”
Good track record meaning you have your street prostitutes and trafficked kids under control, and now you’re confident in branching out to a more socially acceptable form of prostitution.
I cocked my head to the side. “But I thought you were just now expanding into this form of human relations?” I forced a giggle at the pathetic innuendo.
Preacher didn’t laugh. Instead his expression turned stony. “You’ll have to trust me. Either you want to get out of your parents’ house and make some real money, or you don’t.”
It was evident he wasn’t used to answering a lot of questions. If he was telling the truth and actually looking for higher-end girls, he’d have to show a lot more patience than he did with his street girls.
Lifting the glass of wine to my mouth, I twitched my fingers, making the liquid slosh against the glass. “Exactly how much money?”
“For you? As a beginner-in-training? Eight hundred dollars an hour. You’ll get more as you gain repeat clients.”
So grown women made less than the boys he was selling. Kids are the highest commodity. I widened my eyes until they hurt. “That’s a lot of money.”
His snake charmer smile might have scared another woman, but its appearance had the effect of tossing fuel on a burning fire. I counted to three before voicing my next question.
“How does your boss find the clients?”
“I’m not allowed to answer that. Just know they are rich men with no violence in their pasts.”
I twirled my fake hair again. So not regular street johns. Preacher and his boy were going after a fresh market. “Okay, I know I’m pushing, but this is all so new to me. How are you paid? Like, would you be considered a,” I glanced around and lowered my voice, “a pimp?”
His upper lip curled, and he sat back with a sharp huff. “That’s really offensive, girl.” His silky smooth veneer slipped on the last word. “You think I beat my women and keep them on dope and barely give them enough of a cut to eat? Cause that’s what a pimp is. You think that because I’m black?”
“Oh no, no.” I started waving my hands again. “I just thought that’s what the men who found the clients were called. I didn’t know!”
“Well,” he adjusted the lapels of his shiny suit jacket. “You did grow up sheltered.” The polished Preacher had returned, and I had little doubt he believed the lies he spewed. He’d convinced himself he was different than the rest of his kind so he didn’t have to face the consequences of a shattered conscience.
Just like me.
My confidence faltered, I felt my expression sink to my shoulders. Preacher rattled on.
“So now you know. Pimps are pigs. I’m not forcing anyone to do anything, and I want the girls to be paid a fair wage. So we’re all happy. No drugs involved.” He scowled again. “Anyone on drugs is out, period.”
Mind spinning, I nearly forgot I was playing a part. I stared at Preacher, trying to figure out what he wanted to hear. The trucker’s face snapped into my memory, his froggish voice pleading for mercy. My reasoning why he didn’t deserve it, why I was justified. What was his name? Had I already forgotten?
“Don’t freak out now.” Preacher peered across the table at me. “You look like you’re about to faint. I’m just saying, I don’t like to be called a pimp.”
A pimp. That’s what we were talking about. Somehow I sucked myself out of the void I’d been swinging over. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
“Apology accepted.” Another wide smile revealed nicely capped teeth. “You’ve got an innocent thing going on. I like that. And so will my clients.”
Still foggy, I pretended to think about it. Preacher waited patiently, arrogant grin firmly in place. He liked being in this position, I realized. When Kenny and I saw him on the street in Strawberry Hill, he was clearly a follower, just a link in the chain of command. Now he was the boss, for all intents and purposes. The only person he answered to was an unknown phantom. Maybe Preacher was the real boss.
My mind reeled. I needed fresh air and the privacy of my apartment to digest everything I’d learned.
And to get away from Preacher and every fragment of myself I saw in him.
But first things first. I’d finish this job. “So what do I need to do to get started? Do you have a client in mind already?”
He licked his lips again, loosened his tie. Leaned toward me. The jackal again. “Well first, to be blunt, you have to pass inspection. I need to make sure you’re really the right fit. Like a trial run.”
Sweat trickled down my spine. “What sort of trial run?”
“With me, of course.”
I didn’t have to make my mouth drop open–it sank down toward my chin on its own. “I…what? How do I know you’re not just trying to hook up with me?”
“Because,” his voice dropped, and his eyes were hooded. “I could do that without offering to pay you, now couldn’t I?”
Revulsion consumed me. Then rage. Preacher continued to leer, and I had to admit, if I didn’t know what he was and I was really as naive as the Lily I claimed to be, I would have been flattered. And maybe suckered right in. That’s who I have to be right now. “Yes,” I whispered.
“Good.” His smugness made me want to slap him. “You can take a few days to think about it. If you decide you want to go through with it, call me. I’ll tell you where to meet.”
“And that’s it? I’ll be hired?”
“As long as you don’t freak out or change your mind during the act. See, I can’t have you doing that with a client. That’s why it’s better to go a round with me first.” Another piggish grin, tongue stroking his lips. “And I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
I looked down to keep from launching myself across the table at him. “All right. Give me a few days.”
It was time to go. To think. Decompress and figure out exactly where to take this. Take a shower.
Preacher caught my mood. “I’ll head to the bar and pay the bill. Then you can get out of here.”
I nodded. “I’m just going to use the restroom.”
My knees were weak as I weaved through the tables, my palms and back sweaty. I’d almost made it to the ladies room when I ran straight into a solid mass. Startled, I stumbled back and found myself eye to eye with the busboy. “Sorry. I need to watch where I’m going.”
“It’s okay,” the boy shrugged. “I do it all the time.”
I laughed, feeling marginally like myself again. And this was serendipitous timing. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Well, this is going to sound strange, but when you were clearing tables back there, it seemed like you knew Preacher.”
The boy stiffened, stepping back. “From the restaurant.”
His defensive tone was answer enough.
“Okay. I just, this is our first date, and I’m not quite sure what to think of him. I thought you might have some insight.” I rolled my eyes. “Stupid, I know, asking a kid for dating advice.”
Another bristle. “I’m sixteen.”
“Oh gosh. I’m sorry. I keep putting my foot in my mouth. Of course you’re not a kid. It’s just I’m older and should have some kind of radar for this sort of thing, and I’m just hopeless.” I slumped against the wall, peering up at him through my glasses.
The busboy finally smiled. “It’s okay. Preacher’s not bad. He’s honest, even if it’s something you don’t want to hear. That’s got to count for something, right?”
I perked up. “Yes, it really does. Does he come in much?”
“He has business meetings here,” the boy said. He flushed and looked away. “Is that all? I’m working a private party in the back room.”
I widened my eyes. “A private party? Must be someone really special.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, shrugging his shoulders. “Senator Coleman. He always requests me.”
I worked to keep my expression neutral even as my insides twisted into a burning knot of energy. “The Senator, really? What’s he like?”
“Like any other person with power,” the boy shrugged. “But he leaves good tips.”
“Does he come here a lot?” The Senator didn’t know Sarah. But did he know Preacher? Was this just a coincidence?
