by Dan O'Shea
Naomi, with no embarrassment at all, wore a look of haughty sexiness, her long hair, dyed blonde, flowed around her shoulders and over the back of the couch. One hand swept the hair from her perfectly-proportioned face, the other hung off the armrest. A black bra dangled from her fingertips, one cup brushing the carpet. She was young and fit and firm and Carver ran his eyes over her body. He put the picture back on the table before the gynaecologist caught him leering. The gynaecologist, however, didn’t seem to care. He wore the look of a man showing off a new car, a new home, some new expensive toy.
Carver said, “This agency…”
“Hearts Await dot com, yes.”
“How much did you pay?”
The gynaecologist flushed. He got out of his seat and walked back into his apartment. Carver took the opportunity to give Naomi, in all her nubile perkiness, another look. The gynaecologist returned with a fresh bottle, wobbling slightly. He poured himself a glass and said, with a pronounced slur, “About one hundred and fifty thousand dollars. It was a special package, marriage included, should we go that route. The whole works.”
One hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Carver felt veins pulse in his neck. He loosened his tie.
The gynaecologist emptied another glass and laughed. “Yes. I know. That part of this…mission, if you will, is not your concern. I’ve farmed out the vengeance just as I’ve farmed out the retrieval.”
Carver refilled his own glass. “If I was a man as open to manipulation as you are, I would be careful who you tell about your vengeance farming.”
The couple who ran Hearts Await died two weeks prior to Carver getting the call for this job. He remembered reading about it in the paper – gunshots, gore, murder/suicide was the gist and the verdict both. Even then, before he was a part of all this, Carver had gone, Pfff, yeah right.
The gynaecologist smiled. “But you’re in on this now, aren’t you?”
Carver nodded.
The gynaecologist moved over to the edge of the balcony, stared down at the traffic humming by below. “Anyway, Naomi, as you know, was born in Japan where she lived the first five years of her life, before moving here with her Japanese mother and French father, before bouncing back and forth from here and Japan. Her English is as good, if not better, than her French and her Japanese, and they are stellar. She is fiercely intelligent and she is manipulative.”
Carver nodded.
The gynaecologist said, “Will you bring her back to me?”
Carver nodded.
The gynaecologist pulled a USB stick out of his shirt pocket, slid it over to Carver. “Everything else you need to know is on that. Including two things you should know right now.”
“What’s that?”
“She’s working as a whore and she has a boyfriend.”
“The boyfriend going to give me any trouble?”
“I hope he does.”
“How’s that?”
“The little shit has all my money. I realise it may be more difficult in getting that back than her. It would be nice, however, should your paths cross, that he pay in other ways.”
The gynaecologist gave Carver a sour-faced look intended to make clear his desires, as though his inference was too subtle. Carver thought it made him look double-chinned and mildly retarded instead.
2. Throw Away The Key, Officer.
Carver was in Club Blue Sky for one girl in particular, but saw no real need to hurry the search. He figured the gynaecologist was already out of pocket a half mil, so what was a few grand more?
He watched them come and go, ubiquitous hotties in sexed-up cop uniforms, and fondled the wad of cash in his pocket. He sat on a squarish couch, leather stretched tight across its padding, as tight as the skirts over the arses of the present constabulary. They giggled as they passed him, all high-pitched and cutesy, plastic cop hats perched atop spray-stiffened hair. He raised his Asahi at them, mangled some phrases he memorised on the flight over, making them giggle all the more. They called him cute. They said he looked like various American actors, all of them handsomer than he and none of them actually any good.
He saw two of these cops chat amongst themselves, eyeing him off. One subsequently stumbled over. She was gorgeous, but ungainly, unable to walk in her knee-high white vinyl boots. She moved like a Japanese Bride of Frankenstein. She sat down next to Carver, said some things he didn’t understand. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his stack of yen, dog-eared notes rubber-banded together like dirty, ill-gotten loot. The girl’s eyes went wide. She said more things. Carver reached into his other pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped some touchscreen buttons and up came the photo. Officer Hotstuff smiled like it was Christmas. Carver drained his beer, peeled a bunch of notes from the yen-pile, slid them over. He said, “Where is she?”
Officer Hotstuff chewed on her bottom lip. Her incisors were pointy and prominent. Her lips were pink and glossy. Carver shifted in his seat.
She spoke more nihongo. Carver shook his head. She reached out and grabbed his wrist, pointed to his watch. “Three o’clock. I will take you to the bitch.”
Carver leaned back and nodded. She took the cash, stuffing it in her right boot. She looked at Carver again then back at his money. She smiled at him. He nodded. She took him upstairs to a private room. She told him Naomi stole her boyfriend. She gave him a blowjob so fine he didn’t have the heart to put it on the expense account.
3. All Aboard The Pervert Train.
Little cartoony signs hung on the carriage walls. Each in a circle with a line through it, each increasingly weird – a lit cigarette, a pair of full, glossy lips, a chubby hand disappearing inside some pink panties:
NO Smoking, NO Kissing, NO Groping
She was the only other on the carriage, standing, grasping onto swaying hand-holds, staring out a blacked-out window. Carver gave her the once over, checking her against the images stored on his phone and the naked picture stored in his head. She was demurely dressed. A red sweater buttoned tight, a frumpy skirt. Her blonde hair done up in a severe ponytail, ill-fitting glasses slipping down her small, sharp nose. It was her. It was her gone sexetary, but it was still Naomi.
Carver approached her, running his hand along the fine blue felt of the train’s seats, fixed horizontally down the length of the carriage. He stood behind her, leaned in closely. She smelled good. She smelled faintly of fruit and even more faintly of fresh perspiration. It was hot in there after all. Her breath quickened. Carver reached up and cupped both hands around her breasts. She gasped. Carver nuzzled into her right ear and said, “We’re going home, Naomi.”
She didn’t struggle. Her whole body sagged into his, defeated. The Australian accent was thick and clear when she said, “Shit.”
Carver took her by the hand, exited the chikan densha – the pervert train – one of many “Image Clubs,” themed rooms, created like studio sets, of sexy Japanese nightlife. He burst through the club doors and it was only once out on the Kabukicho streets that she pulled against his grip. Dawn approached, the sky lightened as if going chameleon – a blue that matched exactly a piece of illuminated Katakana signage.
The streets were still packed with punters, perverts and gawkers, all clutching cheap diaphanous umbrellas to ward off a fine drizzle. Naomi tsked at the droplets that fell on her face and she tried to shield her hair. The precipitation was more of a bother to her than Carver, who still clutched on to her shaved-down forearm with one hand while running the other through his dark, slicked back hair, meticulously Brylcreemed into place.
Miki, aka Officer Hotstuff, leaned against a nearby porno mag vending machine and smoked. Off-duty, she’d gone plainclothes, but the outfit was only slightly less revealing than her sex worker gear and she fended off almost as much attention, mainly from thin, androgynous, Ziggy Stardust-coiffed young men – all of them hosts trying to lure her into their Host Clubs, for a spot of paid-for romance; you’re-so-wonderful chitchat, you-should-come-back-and-see-me-again. Of course I love you,
bring me a present next time.
Carver smiled at Miki, Naomi bristled and unleashed a stream of harsh, guttural Japanese in her direction. Miki gave her the bird. Friends no more, it seemed.
One of the hosts fluffed up his hair, spotted Naomi and Carver and strutted up to them. Ballsy of the little shit. The host went into his spiel, cooed at Naomi, buzzed around her like a march fly that Carver fought the urge to swat.
Naomi threw her arms around the host. The host’s crew started to surround Carver. Carver looked for Miki but found that she had vanished.
4. A Most Embarrassing Beating
Hosts. Pussies, by and large. No time to train to fight when there’s that much hair to style, that many suits to choose from, that many women to hustle, that many hearts to harpoon. Dandies; skinny, soft, coiffed, but so numerous it was like punching an androgynous hydra: Carver decked one, three more took his place. Through sheer numbers, they bustled Carver into an alley and forced him up against a beer vending machine. They surrounded him like clones, rolled stiff white shirt cuffs up over their jacket sleeves and while Naomi giggled and jumped up and down on the spot, began to put the boots in. Pricey boots at that.
Naomi pushed through the group, kissed her boyfriend wetly, open mouthed, their slurping tongues writhing like something from a tentacle fuck flick. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and said to Carver, “You’re not the first he’s sent, you know.”
Carver wiped blood from his mouth and, whipped, held a hand up in embarrassed submission, like a stupid, cocky man realising just how stupid and cocky he was.
Naomi’s boyfriend yelled at his posse and they stepped back, straightened their ties, fixed their hair.
Naomi stepped forward. “You know what happened to the others?”
Carver shook his head.
“They met my friend, Momoka.”
Like this was supposed to mean something.
Naomi got in close. “I think we’ll take you to meet Momoka too.”
The hosts stepped back in. The last thing Carver saw was neon reflecting off shining, expensive shoe leather.
5. The Torturer’s Day Job.
Repeated cracking noises roused Carver. He opened his eyes and all was red except the woman in black leather lingerie and her two near-naked companions.
Carver focused. The woman, all leg and not much else, was corset-clad. Her boots stretched up to mid-thigh, hugging her supple legs tight. Her long hair was plaited into a single, thick, black, swaying rope. Her eyes were wide but harsh, her smile a crescent of crooked teeth gone pink in the rosy glow of the red light bulb.
Astride her was a pudgy, bespectacled man. He wore only a diaper and a conflicted look on his fat face. He sucked a thumb as the woman swung her riding crop in a perfect black arc and smacked it across his arse. His buttocks were bare; the diaper bundled up tight in the woman’s other hand, wedged right into his crack. He whimpered as the crop landed, but it was tinged with a hint of crystal clear pleasure.
The woman noticed that Carver was awake. She pointed her riding crop right at him, barked out some Japanese and kicked a second man at her boots. This second man, also in a diaper, mewled at her kick and crawled over to Carver on his hands and knees. At this point, Carver had it together enough to realise that he was bound at the wrists and ankles, by thick, buckled leather straps, into a sturdy metal chair that was bolted to a raised platform in the centre of the room. Directly under the red light globe, Carver strained against his bindings, as unwillingly bound men have a tendency to do, and looked down at the man scurrying towards him. Like his fellow, he was bespectacled, but this guy was skinny – comb-over tendrils pasted down to his pate. He reminded Carver of a Japanese version of the gynaecologist and he quickly and quietly cursed his employer and then once more his own stupidity.
The woman barked out something else in low harsh tones and the man increased his speed, wincing as he did so. Carver found himself wondering about carpet burns, then noticed the man’s back was spattered with congealed blobs of black candle wax and whip marks.
The man looked up at Carver. Carver took in his beat-up face, wondered what his own looked like. The man said, in perfect English, “Mistress Momoka says that she has been tasked with ensuring that you never, ever set foot in Japan ever, ever again.”
Carver strained again against his straps, glanced around the room for something, anything, to help him get out of this. It was then he noticed the implements fixed in place on the rear wall behind where the dominatrix sat. Soundtracked by riding-crop slaps and the thumb-sucking noises of the infantilised salaryman across the woman’s lap, Carver’s gaze fell upon whips, clamps, spikes, studs, blades.
The skinny man at her feet said, “She apologises, sincerely and in advance, for what must come next…”
The woman barked again, guttural as a bad guy in a yakuza flick.
The skinny man said, “She says…she says…you look like a man who can really take it.”
6. “I’ve Been To Cities That Never Close Down…”
The gynaecologist said, “And what am I to do now, Mr Carver, without my blonde chimera?”
Carver found it hard to grasp the heavy scotch glass with only the two fingers and thumb still attached to his right hand. They were two more than remained on his left, so he would have to make do. He sipped at the scotch, looked out at the Melbourne skyline and played pretend that this was the start of the gig, not the end, the same event, the same job, just the happier part of it, back when Naomi Babineaux was just a sexy naked chick in a black and white photo.
Carver said, “Either send someone else, or….”
“Or?”
“Or forget her and let her fade away,” Carver sipped his drink, “like all mythical creatures eventually do.”
The gynaecologist laughed.
Carver heard the toilet flush from inside. A handsome man with a hundred dollar crew cut and a grey Paul Smith skinny suit appeared on the balcony.
The gynaecologist said, “Mr Carver, Mr Wilson. Mr Wilson, Mr Carver.”
Carver waved what was little more than a stump at Wilson and went, “Hey.”
Wilson nodded.
The gynaecologist picked the scotch bottle up from his outdoor table and filled Carver’s glass. He said, “Mr Wilson is the man who took care of the first part of my little problem.”
Carver went blank for a moment, then remembered what Doctor Moron did first when he got fucked over: gunshots, gore, murder/suicide…yeah, right.
Wilson, seeming to sense it, nodded.
Carver looked up at the evening sky once more, up at streaky clouds tinged pink like both Roppongi neon and the private parts of certain strippers he’d seen there, and finished his scotch in one mouthful. He stood and limped back into the apartment, trailed by both Wilson and the gynaecologist. His gaze settled on a framed photo of Naomi Babineaux, topless and sunning herself somewhere tropical. Carver chuckled, blew the picture a kiss, closed his eyes, thought happy thoughts of Miki and the sex-cops in Club Blue Sky and waited for Wilson to get to work.
TRAFFICK
Jim Wilsky
Big Poppy’s job was all about settling things. Settling a misunderstanding, a disagreement, a debt or a small bitch before it got big. He was good at it too; he didn’t like problems or loose ends. He got the results that Mr. Delavan wanted, ran a tight ship. He was settling something right now with Wes Bloom.
“So what you think boy? You think all them little girls that disappear and never get found is all murdered by child killers and such, all of ‘em? How ‘bout them white high schoo’ girls and college girls go missin’ and never be found?”
“Never thought about it like that I guess.” Wes was in a bad spot and he knew it.
“Well your ass best start thinkin’ about it. Its big bidness boy…big motherfuckin’ bidness.”
“I always drive drugs man. Always. That’s my job. Nobody fucks with me because they know I can be a crazy little bastard. And I never been caugh
t. I’m careful. Always on time, load always in full. No skim.” Wes put his hands on his hips. He’d already decided he wasn’t going to do this. “How come I gotta do this kinda drive Big Poppy?”
“’Cause you IS that good Wesley. Dumb as fuckin’ tire iron, but good.”
“Who’s the other guy again?”
“Names’ Billy Kingman. Works El Paso for Mr. D most of the time. Jack of all trades type a dude.”
“Fuck this, I ain’t gonna do it. Drugs is one thing. Haulin’ girls around to be sold off like cattle to sick old fucks? Uh-uh.”
“Wesley, this batch ain’t even home grown girls. They not from here, anythin’ is better than where they from.”
“No sir, no way. It just ain’t right.”
Big Poppy leaned in very close.
“Wesley, you listen now. I ain’t got time to be fuckin’ with you and holding your little baby ass hand on this. Neither do Mr. Delavan. He’s gonna pay yo’ sorry ass good money on this first run. This is new for him, branchin’ out. He’s trustin’ you with it boy.”
The big man stops talking and grins now but it ain’t really a grin, more like gritting his teeth. Then he finishes, “If it goes good, there’ll be better quality of merchandise next time, better money. Fresh little runaways from the good ol’ U.S. of fuckin’ A. Probably rich little southern belles from ‘Bama or some shit.”
“Shit, c’mon man. This Billy or Bobby King, or whatever the fuck his name is, he can handle it. Count me o--.”
Big Poppy’s right hand shot out so fast that Wes never finished talking. He tried to back up but he hit the refrigerator behind him hard and a couple of bottles inside clanked around. Poppy’s hand was pushing in and up, he had him clamped around the throat so tight he couldn’t get air. He felt the fridge tilt back against the wall and he started seeing stars.
