The Butterfly Effect

by D. F. Roberts

  The next morning shortly before meeting the limo that would take me to the Bilderberg Garden Hotel, I handed a slip of paper to Marilyn.

  "If you have not heard from me by noon, I want you to call the names on this paper. One is an attorney here in Amsterdam, the other is my attorney in the United States."

  "I thought you said this trip was safe, that you weren't in any danger."

  "I'm not in any danger, not physical danger, Marilyn, but if this situation is a D.E.A. sting operation, I will be arrested as soon as I transfer funds to purchase the drugs."

  "You don't call that dangerous?” The lady was seriously pissed. “Goddamnit, Martin, if I had known this, I would not..."

  "Marilyn, the odds are very good I'm involved with a real drug transaction, not a sting operation. I checked out both Roth and Reicherter thoroughly. I used three independent investigators. They are what they claim to be. Those names on the paper are merely a precaution. Would you prefer I meet with Reicherter without preparing for every eventuality?"

  Fear replaced anger in her eyes. “No, I understand why you want legal backup. What I don't understand is why you put yourself in this position."

  "The task had to be done, Marilyn, and it couldn't be delegated."

  She walked up to me and kissed me thoroughly. She gave the embrace her complete attention as if it might be our last.

  "I'm in love with you, Martin Crowe, but if you are put in jail for twenty years, I won't wait for you."

  I smiled. “What about nineteen?"

  A small grin appeared. “Maybe. Call me when the funds need to be transferred. I'm hooked up with Vera now."

  "One more problem must be discussed, Marilyn. This morning, the delivery I accepted included two untraceable cell phones.” I handed her one of the phones. “When I want the funds transferred, I will call the phone I just gave you. If you don't hear from me within a half hour of the call to the transfer funds, get rid that cell phone. I leave the method of disposal to you. If I'm arrested and my cell phone is checked to discover the last number I dialed, you can't be linked to the call."

  Frans Reicherter was a short, jolly man, soft looking but only slightly overweight. He gave the impression he had never exercised a day in his life. He greeted me as if I was an old and dear friend. When I entered, two beautiful women lounged carelessly in the settees. He asked them to go down to the hotel bar for an hour.

  "Prostitutes,” Frans said after the girls left. “Very talented. If you wish, Martin, you may have one of them, or both, when we are finished.” He grinned affably.

  I laughed. “Not this trip, Frans. Perhaps the next visit I'll stay longer and give myself some time to recover from jetlag, so I can enjoy myself more. Thanks anyway. Besides, as you pointed out yesterday, the ambience of the honeymoon suite functioned as designed, and my lady wanted attention shortly before I left to join you."

  He shrugged and grinned. “I understand. Would you like coffee, a drink?"

  "Coffee, please, with cream and sugar."

  We settled on settees facing each other. The walls of the room were painted a blue-gray, nearly the same color as the carpet, and live plants were spotlighted, as were the works of art on the walls. It was an elegant room, designed for business, not pleasure, and Frans got down to business.

  I searched the room for microphones and cameras while we talked, but discovered nothing suspicious. Of course, I knew professional surveillance specialists would offer no visual clues to their efforts.

  When it was time to transfer the funds, I hesitated. Without actually purchasing the drugs, I wasn't at risk from the authorities. I swallowed, committed myself to the transaction mentally, and said, “Frans, I like you. I think we can do a lot of business with each other, but I'm hesitant to pay you half the cost of the product before delivery. What recourse do I have if you fail to deliver?"

  "Ah,” he said, “the drug dealers dilemma. Answer me this, Dr. Crowe. What recourse do I have if I deliver the product and you don't transfer the balance of the funds as agreed?"

  "You could have me killed,” I said.

  "There's that, and you have the same recourse. But killing doesn't solve much except to satisfy an urge for revenge or to make a point to others."

  I laughed. “True, but believe this Frans. If I put my deposit down, and you don't deliver as agreed, I will have you killed. You know my financial picture. I have enough money, so the fee to take you down won't be seriously missed. Granted, I want more money. That's why I decided to go into this business. I like the profit margin. But I won't have you killed because of money. I'll have you killed as a matter of principle. My principles will demand retribution, Frans."

  He smiled nervously. “I understand, Dr. Crowe. But believe this, please. I will not do business with you if you don't make the deposit as agreed."

  We stared at each other for a few seconds, one daring the other to blink. I blinked first. “May I make a call, Frans?"

  He nodded and I dialed Marilyn with the untraceable cell phone delivered to me at The Pulitzer. Marilyn answered on the first ring.

  "Transfer the funds now,” I said.

  "Are you sure, Martin?"

  "Yes,” I said and gently pushed the end button. I looked at Frans. “The transfer will take a while. The funds will move through quite a large number of accounts before they reach you."

  "I understand.” He rose and poured more coffee for himself, offering the pot to me. I declined. “We will wait,” he said and turned on a laptop computer sitting on the table at his side. He struck a few keys and turned to me with a smile.

  "Did you get out and about my beautiful, shockingly sinful city last night, Martin?"

  I noted his friendly return to the use of my first name.

  "No, the trip sapped all my strength. Perhaps, this evening."

  We chatted about his city for the next twenty minutes. He made various recommendations regarding restaurants and museums. His laptop made a beeping sound, startling both of us. He turned to his computer and then back to me.

  With a wide grin, he rose and stuck out his hand. “The funds are in my account as promised, Martin. It is a pleasure doing business with you."

  We shook hands. His was soft, boneless. Mine was a bit damp. If this were a sting, the gendarmes would break down the door any moment. Franz reached into his briefcase. I flinched, expecting his hand to come up clasped around a revolver. Instead, he held out a piece of paper to me.

  "When you receive the product in five days, please transfer the balance of the funds to this account. I prefer doing business with men I can trust, Martin. I believe I can trust you."

  I nodded and took the paper.

  "I trust you as well, Frans. I would not have transferred the funds had I felt otherwise."

  We shook hands again. I used the cell phone to call Marilyn, informed her that the funds had arrived, and told her I would see her soon.

  "Please enjoy my city, Martin. Take your lady friend out and see the sights. You won't see sights like Amsterdam offers anywhere else in the world,” the jolly man said as I was going out the door.

  In the limo, I collapsed back against the seat as if I had just run a marathon.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  After showering away the nervous perspiration caused by my potentially dangerous meeting with Reicherter, my spirits buoyed along with my energy. Marilyn reacted the same, and we decided to see some of Reicherter's city. Marilyn suggested we see some art, specifically a few Rembrandts, her favorite artist she declared with eagerness, so after a quick lunch, we visited the Rijksmuseum, Holland's principal museum. The heart of the collection at the Rijksmuseum was De Nachtwacht, or the Night Watch, painted by Rembrandt in the Golden Age of the 17th century. Marilyn explained to me that while other painters normally made a more or less static composition, Rembrandt placed the group in a chaotic arrangement and used light dramatically. Some of the individuals in the painting, especially those
who only appeared with a part of their face, were not satisfied with the result. I was pleased with the painting. It was breathtaking. After studying he Night Watch, I understood Marilyn's preference for the artist. We strolled leisurely through other parts of the museum and viewed works by Vermeer, Frans Hals, Jan Steen, and of course, more Rembrandts.

  I enjoyed the paintings, but I enjoyed Marilyn's enthusiasm and unbounded joy more. I had not known about this side of her personality. She told me art was her avocation, like helping unusual individuals was mine, that it had been an unfulfilled dream of hers to see in person many of the paintings we viewed that afternoon. She kissed me often, touched me constantly, and I felt closer to her than I had ever felt before. We tired before we visited a fraction of the museum. It contains over one hundred fifty rooms.

  That evening we dined at 't Swarte Schaep, a cozy upstairs restaurant overlooking the noisy Leidseplein. The restaurant was named for a legendary black sheep that roamed the area in the 17th century. The dining room was a study in traditional Dutch décor, with copper pots hanging from the wooden beams and heavily framed paintings on the walls. I enjoyed chateaubriand with béarnaise sauce while Marilyn dined with equal pleasure on lobster mousse with asparagus salad. Her frequent touches continued, and after dinner when we settled into the limousine I had hired for the evening, she kissed me passionately.

  "Let's stroll along a canal for a while,” she said. “I understand they are beautiful and romantic at night.

  The limousine followed us slowly as we sauntered along a canal. I noted pedestrians and cyclists ruled over vehicular traffic and tried to imagine the same in New York or even Phoenix. I laughed at the comparison. I told Marilyn my thoughts and she chuckled as well. The gables of adjacent houses were lit and the pretty humpbacked bridges were festooned with lights—beautiful and romantic.

  The evening was still young and I asked Marilyn if she wanted to see Amsterdam's famous Red Light District. She grinned coyly and said that such an experience might be fun. The district known locally as the Walletjes, or little walls, is situated along and around the city's two oldest canals. It is a place where prostitutes, clergy, children, junkies, residents and cops all interact with social gezellig, while titillated tourists gasp and say, “It's so shocking!"

  I was shocked. Marilyn wasn't. She found the entire experience entertaining. Women displayed their wares behind windows. If a prostitute attracted a customer, the drapes closed and she performed her services. Shortly, the drapes came back open and the lady was available for the next offer. Questioning a few, I discovered negotiating was the watchword, and the girls sold their services in fifteen-minute lots. A “fuck and suck” was priced at about $50 US. As we strolled, drug peddlers harassed us, tried to sell us hashish and a variety of other drugs. Marilyn told me most soft drugs were legal in Amsterdam. We stopped and went inside Absolute Danny, a shop peddling sex toys and clothes catering to fetishes. Giggling, Marilyn purchased the Tarzan vibrator.

  "For when you are away,” she whispered impishly. I wondered. The device seemed to be designed better to satisfy females than the male sexual apparatus.

  Back in the limo with the privacy glass raised, she removed her panties, pulled out my cock and sat on me. “Don't come,” she said. “I'm hot, but my pussy wants just a little taste."

  I groaned when a minute later she hopped off and sat beside me demurely.

  "Put your cock away,” she said, “and take me to one of those live sex shows with audience participation, one where the girls do imaginative tricks with bananas. You just might get lucky."

  Our driver dropped us off at The Bananenbar. I paid the entrance fee, which I understood included drinks. Inside, my jaw dropped. On a specially designed bar, scantily clad or naked women were performing all kinds of erotic tricks. I now understood their banana trademark. One girl was sucking a banana as if it were a hard cock; another actually slid the fruit in and out of her cunt. Still another lay with her legs splayed obscenely and a customer was eating the banana stuffed in her pussy. What would happen, I wondered, when the banana sticking out was consumed?

  We sat at the bar and gaped like the tourists we were.

  "This is really nasty, Martin,” Marilyn whispered. “I like nasty.” She pulled my hand under her dress, and I discovered she had not put her panties back on. Her pussy literally dripped.

  "Your fingers are nice,” she said, “better than a banana. Now a cucumber, that would be a different matter all together.” She giggled.

  We watched and sipped our drinks. One of the ladies spied us (couples were rare) and wriggled over in front of us. Soon a banana poked out of her pussy, and she offered me a bite. I glanced at Marilyn. She giggled—her night for the giggles. “Go ahead. If you don't I will."

  I leaned forward, grasped and fondled both of the girl's lovely breasts while I dipped my head to nibble on the banana. I would never eat another banana again without thinking of that moment.

  When I sat back, I said to Marilyn, “Your turn."

  Without hesitation, she slid her hands down the inside of the girl's shapely thighs and sucked at the banana. A small crowd gathered, and Marilyn took another bite. With no more banana to chew, my lover licked the girl's cunt from the bottom of the crease to the top, glanced up, and when girl didn't object, repeated the lick a few more times.

  Cheers erupted, and we were asked to leave.

  We exited in high spirits, laughing and clutching each other. Back in the limo, Marilyn pressed the button on the privacy screen, and was soon astride me with my cock inside her.

  She kissed me.

  "You taste like a banana,” I said.

  She giggled and ratcheted her hips creating a full stroke as she fucked me. “So do you. Jeez, I may never eat another banana as long as I live."

  "I will, but only if it's firmly planted in your pussy."

  "Now, that's a thought."

  She pulled out the Tarzan vibrator and studied it briefly while she continued to move on my cock. She pushed the button that opened the speaker system.

  "Driver, on the way back to the hotel, stop at a shop that sells batteries. I need four double-A's. You go inside to buy them. We're busy."

  "Yes, Ma'am,” the driver said.

  "Now fuck me, Martin. I'm doing all the work."

  "Turn off the speakers,” I said.

  She giggled again and pushed the button.

  "You left the speakers open on purpose."

  Some more giggles, and her hips took off. I fucked her back. She climaxed a few minutes later. I decided to wait. I believed I only had one orgasm left in me for the night, and my lover was just getting started.

  "I thought you planned to use Tarzan only when I was away. From the look I got of Tarzan, you won't need me.” The vibrator contained not only a fake cock but also a butt plug and another appendage that obviously stimulated the clitoris.

  "Not to worry. I have a spot for you, and two places for Tarzan."

  She did, too. And I surprised myself. I had two orgasms left in me, not one.

  We joined the mile-high club between Schiphol and Heathrow, and in the restroom of the Concorde received our second set of wings. It was a close fit, both the restroom and my lover's succulent pussy. Tarzan had done it no harm.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Robert arranged for a limo to meet us when we landed in New York City from the London leg of the trip. The big man was strenuously pulling himself from the back of a cab as the limo pulled up in front of the Marriott Marquis on Broadway. A red paisley handkerchief mopped his brow. He hugged Marilyn and shook my hand. The big man pulled open a wide side door while Marilyn and I moved through the revolving door to enter the hotel. He probably thought he would get stuck in the smaller revolving door. I agreed with his assessment.

  "Your suite or mine?” he asked. “Jill is in yours."

  "Mine is fine. I want Jill to bring me up to date on the boy. How is she doing?"
/>   "She's a different person, Martin. I don't know what you did for her, but you should bottle it and sell it."

  "Good. She needs to become involved in Monarch again. I have a big job for her, one I know she will be happy with."

  Marilyn had checked us in while Robert and I chatted and the three us stepped into the elevator. Jill rose gracefully as we entered the suite. As usual, her beauty took my breath away. She moved into my arms and kissed me thoroughly. Curiously, her best effort didn't produce an erection.

  She smiled sardonically and turned to Marilyn. “I see you've been taking good care of Martin. Good for you. He needs someone to take care of him.” Jill then proceeded to kiss Marilyn with enthusiasm. Marilyn gave as well as she received. Our luggage arrived and the four of us settled on sofas in the suite's living room.

  "How's the boy?” I asked.

  "Physically, he's healing. It will take a long time for him to heal mentally, if ever. But I've arranged the best care I could find for him."

  "I know you have, Jill. Is the boy taking much of your time?"

  "No. He's in the hands of professionals. I'm available and ready to help again. You, Robert and Marilyn, are the professionals in what you do.” She smiled. “And happily, you're my professionals. I'll not question your motives or your methods again."

  "Good, because I have a big job for you involving the kids.” I grinned. “It will be expensive. Can you afford it?"

  "Of course. I'm a rich bitch. After all, money is just money. What's the job?"

  "I'm becoming concerned about the kids that hate French and the Ables. We need to remove them from the New York City area and transplant them into a new environment. Strangely, I believe the trip you suggested to Disneyland and other venues in the area that kids enjoy is a perfect solution. You'll need to keep them busy for a week or two, and they'll need to be chaperoned. Use professionals—child psychologists, whatever. Let them have some well-deserved fun, and then help those who will accept your help by getting them counseling and finding a place for them to live. Sadly, I suspect most of them will refuse your offer. The job won't be easy because these kids are street smart and rough. They're prostitutes, drug dealers and thieves, and they don't trust adults. Add the fact that we'll need to snatch them from the street without their permission, and you'll have over a dozen tigers by the tail. Do you still want the job?"