Poisoned Pearls

by Leah Cutter

  So sales were through the roof. I should have been happy. It meant I still had a job. Hell, maybe the cheap bastard would give me a holiday bonus.

  But my mind kept drifting, seeing Kyle’s body in the alley. Thinking about Ferguson asking about Helen. And yes, damn it, about Sam as well, with her perfect teeth and skin and hair and how she really wasn’t my type despite the fact that I didn’t really have a type beyond female.

  Since my lying, cheating ex Natasha had left, I hadn’t bothered looking for another girlfriend. Natasha hadn’t just broken up with me, no, she’d torn my heart out and gleefully stomped on it with her spiked heels.

  I still couldn’t believe I’d been such an idiot, that I hadn’t seen she’d been cheating on me. Particularly since she’d been doing it right under my nose, with one of the girls at the peep show out front, that skanky bitch Frieda.

  Though I knew Natasha had been friends with Kyle, I didn’t bother to call her. I figured I’d let her find out on her own.

  Of course, because that was my luck and my life, Natasha called just as I was closing up the store for the night.

  I just looked at my phone when her name popped up on the screen. Damn it. Why hadn’t I blocked her number?

  Calling myself all kinds of fool, I answered. “Hello?”

  Maybe Natasha was hurt and someone else was calling all her contacts.

  “Cassie? Honey? Is that you?” Natasha’s warm voice flooded the line. Chills ran down my back. I flicked off the last of the lights and stood in the dark, just listening to her.

  “Yeah, it’s me,” I told her.

  “You okay?” Natasha asked. “I heard about Kyle.”

  I shrugged, knowing she couldn’t see the gesture, knowing she’d know I made it anyway. “I’m all right,” I said.

  “I’m so sorry,” Natasha said.

  I couldn’t hold back the bitterness in my laugh. “For what?” I asked.

  “For your loss.”

  Ah, there was the chill back in her voice, the coldness I’d come to expect.

  “Thank you,” I said. I wasn’t about to engage with her. That way just lay more heartache.

  “Look, I heard you were warning people about walking the streets this week,” Natasha said. “And I know you think you’re indestructible.”

  I snorted. Bitch had no idea how close she’d come to destroying me.

  “But you be careful, too,” she warned. “If there’s someone out killing sex workers, they could be taking other people, too. Anyone who keeps the kind of hours you do.”

  I shook my head. She was wrong. No one would take me for a street girl. Or even a street boy. I didn’t look the part. And I did take care of myself.

  “All right,” I grudgingly replied. “You take care of yourself, too.”

  Her merry laugh came back. It made me nostalgic, suddenly. Remembering a time that was more warm and full of light. “I always do. Ciao.”

  “Bye.”

  I stood in the middle of the dark shop for another moment. Natasha had accused me of being too closed off. She’d gone and found someone more open. She took no blame for her defection.

  I knew she was full of shit.

  I was still glad she’d called, that somewhere in that calculating, gold-diggeresque heart of hers, she had some level of human kindness.

  But that didn’t warm me any as I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck, put on my hat and gloves and zipped my jacket closed, preparing to face the cold, feeling like a gladiator stepping into the ring.

  ***

  I headed up toward the corner where Angela and the other girls I knew had been working previously, at an intersection of old converted warehouses closer to the Mississippi, but no one was there. The wind whipped down the empty street, scattering the remains of the prior dusting of snow. Ice crackled hollowly under my boots. The dark brick sucked up all the light between the streetlamps. A few cars passed, slowing as they went, but I didn’t look up.

  I knew they were looking for the girls. I didn’t fit the bill.

  I turned west, going toward the overpass, where Interstate 94 headed north. I knew Angela sometimes worked there, the cars thundering overhead. It was out of the snow and sometimes the wind, though the corners were darker, and frequently she had to chase off the homeless bums who camped there.

  Two girls I didn’t know stood shivering on the corner. They were both more dressed for the weather than Angela had been, the blonde in a long, black duster-style jacket that went down to mid-calf, met by her sleek black boots. The brunette wore some kind of faux fur, just as long, but her feet must have been freezing in her flimsy gold shoes.

  They both were wearing wigs with curls, like Angela’s, though in different colors. Must be the new thing. Plus that all-night makeup that hid the worst ravages of their profession.

  I approached them slowly, with a soft, “Hey.”

  “Hey, girly, how you doing?” the taller one, the blonde asked.

  I reached into my jacket and pulled out a pack of smokes, offering them to the girls.

  The blonde took one, while the short brunette shook her head.

  “You two know Kyle Magnusson? Stripper, over at Richard’s?” I asked them after a moment.

  “Nope,” they both said shortly.

  “You don’t really look like the boy type,” the brunette added flirtatiously.

  “He was a friend of mine. Killed tonight,” I told them. It had gotten easier saying those words, particularly since I’d had all those phone calls.

  Still, it hurt. And the reality was finally settling in—Kyle was dead.

  “Looking for some grievance counseling, girly?” the blonde asked.

  “Now, not really. Looking for Helen, though. Helen of Troy?” I asked, trying to seem casual.

  The blonde looked askance at me. “She’s gone, too. I know Patrice said she’d caught a ride out of town, but I heard she’d been found in an alley. Dumped. Some kind of crazy grin on her face.”

  That detail sent a shiver through me to match the worst the winds could do.

  “That wasn’t her,” the brunette said. “That was Lizzie. Across the river.”

  “You know a working girl who died over in St. Paul?” I asked. Shit. There could have been a bunch of deaths over there and the cops would never connect the dots. We were called the twin cities, but St. Paul was a foreign country as far as the people who lived in Minneapolis were concerned.

  “Girly, we’s dying all the time,” the blonde said. “Ain’t nothing to it.”

  “It might be worse right now,” I cautioned them. “You need to be careful.”

  The blonde stubbed out her cigarette. “If you’re finished with your warnings, Mother Theresa, you’re holding up traffic. We got work to do.”

  I looked pointedly up and down the empty street. There weren’t any cars to be seen. But I knew when I wasn’t wanted. “Ladies,” I said with a nod of my head as I walked off.

  How the hell was I going to find out what had happened to Helen? I didn’t want to go asking that cop, Ferguson, about it. And I sure as fuck wasn’t about to text Sam, no matter what she’d said.

  Who could I ask about Helen? Who would know whether she’d just left town or been killed?

  I didn’t like the answer when it came to me.

  The only other person who’d probably know about Helen was one of the local drug dealers, this Hungarian guy named Csaba—rhymed with Jabba, like Jabba the Hutt.

  I really didn’t want to go see him. Not because I owed him money or something stupid. However, I may have accused him of shoplifting and chased him out of the store, along with his dealers, once or twice. Guy liked his kink, his floggers and handcuffs.

  I didn’t really have a choice, though. He was my only lead. I would have to go see him if I wanted to learn more.

  Chapter Three

  Carletta looked the client in front of her up and down. Tall, blond, skinny as metal pole, that Nordic kind that was typical for up here. Obvio
usly a tourist, given the fancy camera slung around his neck. Though arctic winds were blowing down the nearly empty street, he wore his black parka open, showing off the red lining and his tight red shirt. His hair fell into his large blue eyes. He had a large honking nose and mouth, and horse-like teeth, big and white.

  “Fuck costs more,” Carletta warned as she took the john’s gloved hand. It was strong and surprisingly large, though Carletta wasn’t a small girl. She caught Angela’s eye and nodded once before focusing back on the john.

  Angela would come and check on her in a while, though this guy seemed like a lamb.

  “I know,” the john said, nodding. The light from the streetlamp caught his chin funny when he moved his head, the flesh there a bit whiter, like healed scars. He handed her a clip of folded twenties that Carletta passed without looking to Angela.

  She wasn’t about to get rolled tonight, and Angela wouldn’t cheat her.

  “Carletta will take care of you,” she promised, leading him down the alley from the street where they’d been standing. Not like she cared if they did it in the middle of the goddamned Aquatennial Parade—but she didn’t need another indecent exposure charge on her record.

  Plus, hopefully back down the alley they’d be out of the worst of the freezing winds.

  The alley looked like the dozens of others Carletta had been in around the neighborhood, narrow and cold, with snow just along the sides of the bins. At least the cold kept down the smell. Not too many taggers had decorated the walls recently, though the mismatched paint showed where they’d been.

  A large recycling bin on the left just held paper from the office in the building behind them. Carletta led the john that way, then turned her back to the wall, leaned against it, and pulled the john to lean against her.

  Hell, at least it was warmer with another body there.

  “You sure you don’t want to rent a hotel room?” she murmured as she puffed hot air along his neck. The skin prickled up and he sighed.

  Good. He was ready. This wouldn’t take too long.

  “Here is good,” he said. He had some kind of accent, German or something, pronouncing the “d” as a “t”.

  “Come here, tiger,” Carletta murmured as she pulled him closer. Damn, I hope he just blows. She kissed him, open-mouthed and passionate.

  He didn’t taste like anything nasty, like either the too-sweet drinks the college boys had to boost their courage or the cheap whisky the tough guys drank. Instead, he tasted of mint and honey, like summer sunshine and cool, fresh breezes. He reminded her of the incredible blue of sunny skies, instead of the darkness of the Minnesota winter.

  When the guy pulled back, Carletta reached automatically for his pants. He’d paid only for a fuck, not by the hour, so it could all be over in the next two minutes as far as she was concerned.

  The john gave a big laugh, full of life, like her Uncle Ramos. “Eager, aren’t you?” he said, though he didn’t stop her from undoing his zipper, reaching in, and pulling out his cock.

  It was a bit bigger than the average size, even when soft. Carletta was sure to act as though it was the best dick she’d ever seen. “All that?” she murmured, stroking the john to fullness quickly, despite the cold. “Just for me?”

  The john chuckled, looking down, his shaggy blond hair covering his eyes, seeming shy. “Yeah,” he said. One hand reached up and fingered the camera he still wore around his neck.

  “No pictures,” Carletta told him, reaching for it with one hand while the other kept working his dick.

  The john leaned back while keeping his hips forward, thrusting into her palm. “I won’t take your picture,” he said. “I promise.”

  Carletta knew he was lying. When he broke his promise, she’d either charge him extra for it or maybe break his camera.

  Or both.

  “Okay, sugar, I believe you,” Carletta said, twisting and squeezing his dick, getting a small moan for her efforts.

  Fuck. He hadn’t taken something, had he? Carletta hated the stupid shits who were on Viagra. They’d get off but still be hard and would demand something more.

  Carletta started to turn around, bending over to offer her ass to him. But the john stopped her.

  “Want to see you,” he murmured, leaning over her back and covering her with his warmth for a moment.

  “All right, honey, we can make it work,” Carletta said, turning to face him again. She was taller than most of her johns, so it wasn’t that hard to get into the right position. “Got someplace warm for this to go,” she said, reaching for the guy’s dick.

  He just laughed again, letting himself be pulled along. “Yes, elskan,” he said with a smile.

  That sounded like Swedish or something. Carletta decided not to take offense. Even if he was calling her something bad, as long as he got off on it, and paid her for it, it was all good.

  Normally, Carletta didn’t have any trouble accommodating any guy. She was a pro. And though this guy hadn’t seemed that big when she’d been holding him in her hand, his dick had grown fatter. It filled her more than she was used to. Stretching her out.

  It almost felt good.

  Carletta gave an extra oomph to her moan. “Oh, honey, yeah, like that,” she said.

  He adjusted his hips and pushed. He didn’t use all his strength, she could tell—he was still being gentle with her.

  What an ass.

  Carletta rested much of her weight against the brick wall behind her and pushed back. She worked every muscle she knew, drawing his cock deeper inside her, milking and squeezing it, trying to give him the ride of his life.

  The john leaned closer to her, panting on her neck as he pumped his hips. He didn’t smell like Old Spice or Ax or any of the usual aftershaves, no, he still smelled like a summer hill, grass baking in the friendly sun.

  Carletta felt her breath catch.

  Goddamn it. Why the fuck was he affecting her? It wasn’t right.

  A chill—not from the wind—flowed up her chest. Her nipples hardened. She felt her cunt spasm on its own. For a moment, she lost the rhythm she’d set up, just moving instinctually instead of to that four-by-four count running through her head.

  No. She needed him to come, then go. He was a john. She hadn’t had an orgasm with a john—not ever.

  Closing her eyes didn’t help. The feeling just grew more intense. Her clit was dying to be touched, for her to rub herself against him like some fucking cat in heat.

  Carletta opened her eyes to find the john looking at her, his blue eyes shining bright. “Eager, aren’t you?” he repeated as he wrapped his hands around her hips and started bouncing her off his cock.

  “Damn it!” Carletta said, pushing against his chest, trying to get away, but there was nowhere to go—she was impaled on his cock and the hard wall was at her back.

  How was he doing this? Making her feel? It just wasn’t right. She didn’t come. Not ever. Not with a client.

  “Ah, but you must,” the john insisted.

  Carletta opened her mouth to scream. Angela would come. She wasn’t that tall, but she had a knife.

  Before Carletta could draw a deep breath, the intense feeling in her cunt shot out and up her belly.

  Without meaning to, Carletta started to come.

  Not just a tiny orgasm, no. A big rocking festival, her stomach convulsing, tears streaming from her eyes and freezing on her chin, her mouth ratcheting up into a huge smile.

  The john removed his dick, almost politely, wiping her juices off with one hand. With the other, he started taking Carletta’s photograph with that fancy camera of his, which shone with its own dark glow now.

  Click. Click.

  With each photo, Carletta felt herself grow weaker, even as her orgasm went on. “No. Stop,” she said, her voice no stronger than the swirls of snow at her feet.

  Click.

  Carletta had heard stories about how the old-timey Indians had thought that cameras stole their soul.

  She’d laughed, of co
urse. A regular camera couldn’t do that.

  But this one—this did.

  Carletta’s soul dribbled away, sucked out of her eyes by the strange device while her orgasm went on and on. She couldn’t even be thankful about going out with a bang.

  She didn’t want to go out at all.

  ***

  Odin strode across the open field, singing his victory song lustily at the top of his lungs. Yellow daffodil heads bobbed in time, supported by a field of deep green stems. The blue sky above Odin shone with the clearness of a new day. White clouds lazed near the horizon, showcasing the mountains in the distance.

  As Odin walked, he swung his mighty spear. Warriors who had fallen in the battle leapt up, joining him in his victory song. Even the Valkyrie joined in from the edges of the field, adding powerful harmonies.

  The song swelled as another troop of warriors sprang up in the distance, forming a line, facing Odin and his followers.

  Odin’s heart pounded harder in his chest as he watched the swelling of the two groups. The men and women at his side cheered and bared their teeth, showing their fierceness. When they came to a stop, they clanged their swords on their shields, making a fearsome racket.

  The other troop did the same, hooting and hollering, calling insults on the anointed host, questioning their parentage, the sex appeal and endurance of their mothers, the quality of their swords, the soundness of their shields, the intelligence of their leaders.

  Odin laughed through it all, the insults and the flyting, the building up of courage and nerve, until the two troops couldn’t stand it any longer. They had to race across the open field, to strike with spear and ax, fist and foot. Shields cloven and skulls split. Limbs hacked and lives taken.

  Like the tide, they fell back, only to surge at each other again.

  The Valkyrie carried what fallen they could reach to the edge of the field, where the fallen came back to life and urged their fellows on.

  Again the clash. Again the killing went on. Until only one man was left standing, on half a leg with his head caved in.