Concierge

by Stella Barcelona

  Call them low hanging fruit, mine for the picking.

  I don’t care what anyone calls them because I call them money. While most citizens avert their eyes from people who put out signs that say, ‘will work for food,’ those who’ve slipped through the cracks of a fractured society, my reapers assess their potential for becoming inventory.

  The beauty lying on the table in front of me was plucked off the streets of New Orleans, on Esplanade Avenue, on the fringe of the French Quarter. New Orleans is only one city where I gather my prey.

  “Black or white?”

  “We’ll call her Eve.” My non-answer is a delay tactic before I give the final tug on the line. My hook isn’t just sharp. It has a barb capable of carving a bloody path through flesh, and I plan to set it in deep.

  Naming the product makes them more real. A more tangible product spells more money. So, we name the acquisitions who’ll remain whole. Not all are so lucky.

  Eve from Esplanade Avenue will bring in a glorious sum. Eve’s baby on the black market will produce even more. We’ve created a no-questions-asked adoption agency. We’ve made plenty of money and I damn well plan to make more. I have an insatiable desire for fuck-you money. The kind that maintains private jets, yachts, and residences wherever the hell I decide to live. The problem is that the business end of the operation is so easy, it’s gotten boring.

  “And she’s white,” I say, delivering the clincher.

  His sharp, ragged inhale tells me he’s hooked. “Tell me more.”

  “Exquisite skin. Like satin. More lily-white porcelain than peaches and cream. There’s something fresh and…innocent about her.”

  Innocence.

  A magical elixir that even I can’t resist. The cliché ‘opposites attract’ is tired and overused for a reason. Innocence is the screaming opposite of what I am. Destroying purity, hope, and optimism provides me sustenance. Like a vampire’s desire for blood, my desire to create darkness where there once was light is insatiable.

  I shut my eyes, remembering one particular time when I’d encountered joyful innocence, wrapped in an irresistible, sensuous package that had torqued emotions I’d never before experienced, and didn’t know I goddamn even possessed. Feeling alive with such desire had been so heady, so arousing, I’d fantasized creative ways to destroy that innocence. I had planned to take my time with her because I like to build fires within people, stoke them, and then watch as I reduce smoldering fires to ash.

  But with the one person who will always be my siren song, I’d been cheated of my desire. Dammit-to-hell. I hate when memories of Andi Hutchenson burst into my day. Because she isn’t simply a memory. She’s now an obsession that makes a mockery of my overriding rule in life—that I get what I want. Whatever I want. Whoever I want. However I want it. I never lose. Never.

  Biting back bitterness, I tell myself that my days without Andi are numbered. That thought helps me regain control. Keeping my voice calm as I lift a hand to Eve’s gently swelling belly and feel the heartbeat there, I say, “You have two hours to exercise your right of first refusal. Your two hours started ten minutes ago.”

  Eve’s chest rises and falls with anesthesia-assisted sleep. Leather restraints that had bound her ankles and wrists had been removed a few hours earlier. “She’s in the middle of her second trimester. We think she’s as young as fifteen. Five feet two. Petite. A natural honey blonde. Even her pussy hair is blond. She has blue eyes. She’s beautiful.”

  A pause. “I’m interested.”

  Of course you are. “Your first refusal option expires at noon, central time.”

  “I need more details.”

  Fingering one of the girl’s pink nipples, I look for a reaction. “You know all there is to know.”

  “I paid twenty-five thousand dollars for this option.”

  “Yes. That’s why you have it.”

  “Evidence of drug use?” Sexual tension is apparent in the hoarse gruffness of his voice. My guess is that he has his hands on his stiff, hard cock. “I don’t want a heroin junkie.”

  “Marijuana. Nothing else detected.”

  “Tell me…is she firm, or soft?”

  “Firm, but soft where you’ll want her to be. Long legs. Tight thighs. A nice, high basketball of a swell at her stomach. You’ll have to rub her down with lotion to help her fight stretch marks.”

  The client groans.

  God. This is so easy, it’s boring.

  “How large are her breasts?”

  “B. Almost C. Her skin is creamy. I see a faint outline of veins. Beautiful nipples. Pale pink. Large. I’m fondling them now. She’s sleeping, but her nipples are hardening.”

  I lie. Eve is too drugged to have any reaction. I, on the other hand, am getting horny. Knowing I need to give him time to make a decision, I stay silent as I trace a line along Eve’s soft skin from breast to thigh. I thread my fingers through her pubic hair, along the crevices and folds of her sex, then dip the tips of two fingers into her moist, warm vagina while I bend my head to her breast. With a liplock on Eve’s right breast and my tongue tasting her nipple, I swirl my fingers into her.

  My partner enters the room. Fondling Eve earns me a marked frown of disapproval. I can’t really disagree with him. I know better than to play with merchandise this valuable because I tend to leave permanent scars on our inventory.

  Breaking away from the sweet flesh, I stand, point to my earpiece, indicating that I’m on a live call and to not interrupt me. I lick the taste of Eve off my fingers as I shrug away my partner’s stern glance.

  Ignoring his silent rebuke, but nonetheless stepping away from the bed, I leave the medical holding room and walk down the wide, carpeted hallway to my office.

  I say to the client, “You’ll love her.”

  “The baby?”

  “Ultrasound indicates your favorite. A girl.”

  The client groans louder, then pants. This is either a sign that he’s coming, or that the temptation to jerk off has become physically painful. Both possibilities are encouraging. “Send photos,” he says.

  Hell. “That will cost you fifty thousand dollars. Nonrefundable.”

  The network we use is encrypted and requires triple-factor identification. My clients are a select few who provide a myriad of passwords, an offshore bank account with an escrow balance of over ten million dollars, and a retinal scan. This client knows the drill and doesn’t need instructions.

  The impatient click of fingers on a keyboard comes though the phone line. “I’m wiring money now.”

  As I sit at my desk, I hear the melodious chime on my computer indicating a direct deposit into our out-of-country, offshore account. I smile, and click a few keys. “I’m sending Eve’s photos and videos now. They will disappear in fifteen minutes.”

  “Got them.” His voice is now a hoarse groan. “Tell me the terms.”

  “We’re offering a six-week rental for five million dollars, with a two million dollar damage deposit. A total of seven million dollars, pre-delivery. You can screw Eve until your balls fall off, but you need to keep her and her baby healthy, otherwise your payout will be ten million dollars. Minimal sedatives, which we will prescribe. Proper nutrition, including prenatal vitamins. Throughout your rental term, our medical staff will make a weekly visit.”

  “Consider the deal done. Is there an option to extend the lease?”

  “It can be negotiated. Upon receipt of your money, she’ll be delivered in twelve hours.”

  As this client institutes the procedure for transferring some of his considerable money to me, it’s now time to mess with him a bit. “Tell me thank you.”

  He sighs. “Thank you.”

  “Now mean it, or else this deal is canceled.”

  “Thank you,” he says, “Concierge. I appreciate the opportunity to do business with you.”

  Ah. There it is. I have an exclusive network of clients, and they all know the cost of doing business with me. Once I hear the correct amount of gratitude and
respect in his tone, my foul mood becomes a little less sour. I break the connection, looking forward to my next transaction.

  Chapter Six

  Gabe

  Saturday, February 13, 12:15 p.m.

  In response to Gabe’s introduction, NOPD Officer Jack Spagnoli said, “What’d you do to deserve this assignment?”

  Considering the question not worthy of a response, Gabe stared at Spagnoli, who didn’t bother to reach for the business card Gabe offered. Neither did Officer Cal Thompson, who stood two feet away. The two men were partners. Thompson was the lead NOPD officer tasked with overseeing residential concerns for the French Quarter.

  “I’m going to be honest. Crazy thrives in this city,” Spagnoli continued, his eyes almost as hard and dark as his tone. “Like humidity, it’s part of our oxygen. But your client is a paranoid whack job. NOPD’s got real work to do. We’d appreciate it if you keep her out of our way.”

  With his blood simmering, Gabe dropped his business card on the counter Spagnoli leaned against. “My number’s on that card. Save it. Because if anyone ever transports you in the trunk of their car for a five hour drive, puts out a hundred or so cigarettes on your back, then beats you to within an inch of your life and leaves you, naked, for dead, in a place where rats decide you’re their midnight snack, I’ll pay you a thousand bucks if you give me a call and let me know how well you deal with it.”

  Spagnoli shot him a hard, pissed off look, which Gabe was happy to return.

  Great. Now we understand each other.

  To his partner, Spagnoli muttered, “I’ll meet you outside.”

  Thompson nodded, then shifted a toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other as he leaned against a display case of historic weapons, one elbow on the glass top. Hazel-brown eyes and a soft expression at his mouth gave him a slightly nicer demeanor than Spagnoli.

  “Sorry about that. Spagnoli’s pretty blunt.” Thompson’s phone rang. “Give me a second to take this call.”

  Gabe nodded. As Thompson held his phone to his ear, a group of people wearing glistening beads walked into the old building housing the Eighth District station and found their way to t-shirt vending machines. To Gabe’s right, officers worked at beeping computer monitors. Gabe heard hooves scraping on flagstone. He looked out the open window to see two officers arrive and dismount their horses, as a cruiser drove away on Conti Street, sirens blaring.

  He’d arrived in New Orleans at eleven a.m. His first stop had been the client’s townhome. She’d departed for Crescent Park with two agents right before he’d arrived. In the security room, Gabe had an exit interview with the two agents the client had fired the day before. After that, Gabe had walked the few blocks along Royal Street to introduce himself to the local cops.

  Into the phone, Thompson said, “We’ll be there in five.” He gave Gabe an exasperated glance after returning his phone to the pocket of his jacket. “Reality is, we’ve gotta keep up the charade of good times.” He pointed outside, as a trumpeter’s crescendo filtered in through the open doors. “While keeping everyone safe. The NOPD can’t hold the hand of every resident each time they’re frightened by a noise.”

  Thompson shrugged, his expression seeming sincere—and pained—as he shifted the toothpick again, then continued. “The French Quarter qualifies as a high crime area. People like Hutchenson, who own homes here, have plenty of money. She could live anywhere else. If your client wants an environment where she can paint without seeing the seedier side of life, or an occasional disturbance, she should relocate.”

  “Sounds like a fatalistic approach to law enforcement,” Gabe said.

  Hard-ass cockiness surfaced in the cop’s eyes, coupled with a sneer. “Perhaps,” Thompson said, “but realistic. Where are you from?”

  “Miami.”

  “Then you know about violence.”

  More than you will ever know, dickhead. “Sure do.”

  “Here’s a newsflash. This isn’t Disney World. Despite the atmosphere of forgotten cares—” He gave a nod in the direction of the t-shirt machine, where the tourists were laughing as they pulled out shirts. “—this is real. Gangs from surrounding neighborhoods consider the Eighth District their turf. Plus, half the people here are shit-drunk and easy pickings for criminals. I’ve got one guarantee for people like your client. If you’re looking, you’ll see something disturbing.” His lips pressed into a thin slash of a line for a second. “Last time I fell for one of her calls about someone being kidnapped, I ended up in the middle of an argument between a boyfriend and girlfriend, who told me to butt out, while a shooting occurred three blocks away.”

  “Our response times aren’t optimal, even for serious crimes, and we’ve had too many calls from Hutchenson to know there’s no need to hurry,” Thompson continued. “Since two thirty yesterday afternoon, I’ve had four messages from her. She claims she saw someone being taken from a sidewalk on Esplanade Avenue. In the last year, she’s claimed the same sort of thing at least a dozen times.” From his marked frown, Gabe guessed that none of the calls his client had made the day before to Thompson had been returned. “Today’s the 13th. There are ten days until Tuesday, February 23. Mardi Gras. You ever been here for Mardi Gras?”

  “No.”

  “Crowds start building, in earnest, on the Thursday before. This year we’re shutting down more streets. If I were you, I’d persuade Ms. Hutchenson to stay inside from Thursday on. Trust me, you’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Gabe swallowed a chuckle. Does this asshole think I’ve been working as a security guard at a mall?

  “She’ll want you to call us if she hears a noise in the night.” He paused. “Don’t. If something’s really wrong, call me, or Spagnoli, directly. Don’t bother us, or dispatch, unless it’s a legit emergency. I take it you know what one of those is?”

  “Of course.”

  Thompson did another cheek-to-cheek toothpick shift. “Keep a firm hold on that reality, ‘cause you’re officially in the French Quarter now, which is an alternate universe, and Hutchenson is in a distant galaxy. Here’s my card.” Thompson fished his wallet from his pocket. “Spagnoli’s numbers are on the back. But please think before calling.”

  “Message received, loud and clear. I’ll be sure my client understands it as well.” Gabe walked out of the police station and turned down Royal Street. Spagnoli and Thompson didn’t have to worry. They were the last two people he’d ever call.

  He touched his watch to switch on his communication system’s audio feed. He called Agent Daniel Tyre, one of the two agents that the client hadn’t fired the day before. The other was Agent Jacob Stevens.

  “Tyre.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tyre’s voice crackled through Gabe’s ear mic, competing with a team of street dancers who had boom boxes blasting. They wore red and black leather and were performing for a crowd that was packed onto the steps of a white marble building that identified itself as the Louisiana Supreme Court. “I’m looking forward to meeting you, sir.”

  “Thank you. And I, you. Location remains Crescent Park?” Gabe threaded his way through spectators.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Update me.”

  “Stevens and I are within fifteen feet of the client. We’re downriver of the old Piety Street wharf. Easel’s up. Client’s painting. It isn’t too crowded here. Weather’s great.”

  “What else?” To avoid people on the sidewalk, Gabe stepped into the middle of Royal Street, which was closed to vehicles.

  “Not sure what you mean, sir.”

  Gabe reminded himself to have patience. Tyre had been with the company one year. Prior to that, he’d been a Marine for two years. Though relatively inexperienced, he’d scored high on the psych and field tests that Black Raven gave applicants.

  “Details.” Gabe circled a cluster of tourists who had stopped in the middle of the street for a photo. “Details keep the brain alert on jobs without a lot of action, Tyre.”

  “Um, there’s a great
view of the city. We’re downriver. The river makes a crescent—”

  “Stop. I’ve studied the file. I know Crescent Park’s one of her usual spots. I know what the park looks like and the position of it relative to the city and the river. Tell me something about the client that I don’t know.”

  “There isn’t more to tell. She’s painting. Other than that, nothing’s happening. Typical.”

  A gold-lettered sign, hanging above the sidewalk, caught his eye. The Stapleton Gallery. Paris, New York, and New Orleans. The sign indicated the gallery was hosting an exclusive showing of paintings by New Orleans artist Andi Hutchenson. All proceeds were to benefit Hope House, providing services to the homeless. Sunday evening, from six to nine p.m.

  “Tyre, think about it for five minutes. Then we’ll talk again.”

  Gabe opened the heavy, black-lacquered door with inset glass panels. From the rear of the empty gallery, a chime sounded. As the door shut, street noise faded.

  Works of several artists hung on the right wall. The left wall was dedicated to Hutchenson’s paintings. In person, her work was even more captivating. Vibrant, unusual colors provided a twist on realism. She used shadows and light to paint in a manner that made her paintings seem like…he squinted his eyes…they were changing before his eyes. Puffy clouds, evaporating into air. Buildings, with once-straight walls slightly leaning, their facades seemingly decaying. Birds, hovering expectantly. Musicians, strumming instruments as they sang. People, taking a step as they walked on a street. The flame of a French Quarter gas lantern, flickering.

  In person, ‘Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door, Jackson Square, New Orleans,’ was breathtaking. When he’d first opened the client file, he hadn’t known the musician’s name. Now that he’d studied the file, he knew that the young man was a street kid whom the client had befriended and given a Gibson Les Paul guitar that was Chicago Blue. The file referred to him as Pic. Gabe smiled as he spotted a discreet ‘sold’ sign, a small white tag with black print, on the wall next to the painting.