But as the studio door clicked shut above him, he realized that in midst of her sparks and outright indignant fit over the way he’d said ma’am, there was a glaring omission from her fighting words.
She said so herself that she didn’t sleep walk. And of course, she knew that she’d fallen asleep upstairs. So she had to know he’d touched her. Knew he’d helped her. Knew he’d goddamn well carried her down the stairs and tucked her into bed. When she’d woken up, he’d been in her bedroom, just a few feet from her, not merely in the doorway doing a visual check. With all of that, plus the fact that the very sight of him grated on her nerves...she hadn’t fired him.
If she had said ‘you’re fired,’ he’d have to leave.
Yet she didn’t say it. Which meant exactly what?
Hell if I know. But I’m an optimist. So, I’ll stick around and figure it out.
Chapter Twelve
Concierge
My business line rings at 8 a.m. sharp, just as it has every Sunday for the past two years. The Butcher.
Our most valued client.
His orders are indicative of a world of human depravity that even I can’t imagine. Well, that’s not true. Because I’ve imagined it all. Done a lot of it, too.
My weekly conversation with this man who seems to get his fucking rocks off brokering my product to some of the sickest perverts humanity has to offer, used to do it for me. Now it’s just work and it’s gotten too damn easy.
Settling into my desk chair, sending his call to speaker, I answer on the fifth ring. “Good morning. What Valentine may I send your way today?”
Long silences are part of his negotiation tactic. I can handle his silences, but when he starts playing music, I want to vomit.
I’ve learned to keep myself busy with distraction tools. Inventory and accounts ledger—check. Long candle tapers, designed for dripping—check. Matches—check. Desktop computer spreadsheet open to the Butcher’s prior orders—check. Laptop logged into encrypted databases that could prove relevant to the Butcher’s order—check. Various sizes Faber Castell and Sakura Micron pens for doodling—check. A fresh pad of smooth surface Bristol paper—check.
“Four throwaways. Organs harvested. This week.”
Lighting a long, cream-colored taper and setting it in a sterling silver holder atop a silver tray, I stifle sound from my yawn. “Body parts? Again? Have your more interesting clients taken a goddamn vow of celibacy?”
The Butcher chuckled. “Sorry I’m not more entertaining. Just trying to make money. You heard me say four, didn’t you?”
“Of course.” Clicking on his account, I see prior orders for two bodies at one time. Never four. I keep my voice as businesslike and bored as ever. “Terms and price?”
“Stagger delivery over the next eight days,” he says. “First delivery Tuesday, then continuing Thursday, Saturday, Monday. Hearts, liver, kidneys, eyes, skin, bones, skulls with teeth in place, spleens, intestines, genitals, reproductive organs if female. Organs farmed, ready for shipment. Six hundred thousand per body.”
“That petty-ass price is a no go. Next time you open that shithole of a mouth, make your brain talk and not your ass.”
Gentle chastising doesn’t work with the Butcher. That’s why we get along so damn well. I deliver what he wants. Opening a sketchpad and picking up a pen, I doodle in his extended silence and shrug off my budding frustration.
The Butcher’s more interesting prior orders have run the gamut of our products. From our stock of living people, he’s made rentals and outright purchases. He’s also ordered dead people. To be more specific, he places an order for organs, we find inventory suitable for killing, and then we farm the organs that meet his specifications. Sometimes he orders bodies intact. Apparently, the Butcher has lots of clients who like to fuck dead women, so he orders age-specific dead females, with bodies preserved, dressed, and beautiful, in high Concierge-style. Who knew necrophiliacs would be so specific?
Those are among my favorite orders to fill. I love to watch as we transform a corpse from a cold-blue dead person to a fuck-worthy dead person. If the client wants, we send them out beauty-pageant ready, waxed, tanned, wearing lingerie, with toes and nails painted. All for a fee, of course. It’s damned hard to find a manicurist willing to paint OPI’s latest color on a corpse, unless I’m paying top dollar.
Personally, I don’t like having sex with dead people. Yes, I’ve tried it. Screwing a live person until they’re dead is different than starting off with a dead one. Dead people can’t scream and God knows there’s nothing like a good, horror-filled scream to get my juices flowing.
“Rework your opening number,” I say, prodding him, “we sell people. Not garbage. Six hundred thousand apiece is unacceptable, even for our dead ones.”
He sighs. I brace for whining.
“My offer results in two point four million dollars to you,” he says. “Doesn’t that figure have value?”
“No. Adding four inadequate amounts equals a total of don’t-fucking-bother-me.”
I open a tube of seven-inch matches, pull one out, then run the head along the strike pad. An orange flame ignites and crawls along the match as he stews. From the Butcher’s end of the phone line, “Summer Wind” plays. Incongruously, and always as annoying as hell, the Butcher favors Sinatra. I hate every goddamn tune Sinatra ever sang.
Letting the small orange ball of fire lick my fingertip, I feel a twinge of burning heat before dropping the match on the silver tray, next to where my lit taper has started dripping a steady stream of hot wax. I dip my index finger in warm wax that has puddled in the tray, then lift my finger to the candle flame, letting the fire melt the wax. I lean back in the desk chair, hoping to hell the Butcher’s call will end soon.
Face facts. Business is getting boring. It’s still as lucrative as anything, but…boring. Tedious. Ho-hum. Too goddamn easy.
What good is money when everything that can be done with it is boring as a predictable 7:30 a.m. trip to the crapper?
Last night, after we shipped off Eve, I’d been hopeful that a few hours of playtime with another recent acquisition would take the edge off my growing restlessness.
Nope. Restlessness remained. I barely even came. No surprise there. My prerequisites are specific and our acquisition was a poor imitation of who I’m craving. Now, last night’s plaything needs medical attention and my partner’s pissed off because I created work that slices into profits. A larger problem is that I got virtually zero satisfaction and not enough sleep.
Sinatra’s “Summer Wind” ends, and “My Way” starts. The Butcher, steadfastly silent, can go fuck himself. Here’s a dose of my way, asshole. For being so goddamn tedious and annoying, I’m mentally figuring in a fifty-thousand dollar pain-in-the-ass tax to this morning’s bottom line.
It’s time for some goddamn excitement. Don’t care if I’m not being rational. I want. I want. And I get what I want. That’s my way.
“I can go up to seven hundred thousand per body. Parts harvested,” the Butcher says.
“One point one million per,” I counter, eyes on the orange-red dancing flame on the candlewick. “There’s nowhere else you can make these kinds of purchases. We’ve got a monopoly and even you, with your pea brain, know it.”
“Too high,” he said.
“If you were here, I’d take a bullwhip to you. Fifty lashes across your back.” He groans. I can’t tell if it’s a groan of frustration or desire. Truthfully, with the mood I’m in, it doesn’t matter. “While you think about your naked self getting bullwhipped, your back bleeding, think for a few minutes about your offer. You want us to harvest the organs. You want said parts shipped separately. It’s one hell of a lot of work and we damn well don’t work for free. One point one. You in, or out?”
“At that figure,” he says, “there’s no profit for me, even with you harvesting the organs. A liver and a heart will fetch $400 thousand. Kidneys, perhaps $200 thousand. Eyes—”
“I don’t give a s
hit about your bottom line. I’m well aware of current market prices for body parts.” Lifting an index finger and threading it through the flame of the candle, shivering with the burn, I add, “remember the potential value of what I’m selling.”
“Meaning?”
“Your lowball offer isn’t considering the intrinsic value. Frankly, my products are worth more alive than dead. If you want bargain-basement organs, go somewhere else on the black market. But if you’re dealing with me, you need to up the offer.”
As he stews in silence, “My Way” gives way to “Mack the Knife.”
“At least that one has lyrics I can relate to.”
The Butcher chuckles. Nervously. “Eight hundred thousand per.”
Now we’re talking. “To confirm. No blood tests on our part. No tissue typing. No prerequisites?”
“None.”
While it could be interesting to know just who would buy organs from the Butcher without blood type and cross matching, identification of the Butcher’s clients is none of my business. Fingers threading through the candle’s flame, I consider the offer and the bottom line numbers for some of our inventory that, truth be told, really needs to move. Like last night’s plaything, who is now almost damaged beyond repair.
Knowing something that the Butcher doesn’t know warms my heart almost as much as the hot wax into which I’m dipping my finger. Mardi Gras in New Orleans offers a way to generate inventory quickly. Always a haven for the homeless, due to its tolerance and temperate climate, during the carnival season the streets become full of people no one will miss when they disappear.
Last night my hunters had a glitch, but that’s highly unusual. The typical ease with which acquisitions can be snagged from the crowded streets of the Big Easy during Mardi Gras means there’s play in my price. Even with a pain-in-the-ass tax factored into the bottom line.
“Nine hundred seventy-five thousand per. It’s a bargain basement price.” Flicking warm wax off my fingers, I reach for my laptop and send the Butcher an email with an encrypted data package, then stand and stretch. “And you pay me today for all four. Three point nine million dollars, wired into my account by ten a.m., Central Time.”
“You’re killing me.”
“No. Trust me. This isn’t what death by Concierge feels like.”
He chuckles and then—Fuck me. Yes. The playlist switches to the song I’ve been dreading. “New York, New York.”
“I’ll make this quick.” Because I have a lot to do on this Sunday, and even more than that, I hate that gravel-pit of a voice singing that lame-ass song. “I have something else that might interest you. I’ll give you first refusal. At three p.m., we’re opening an auction of two prime male specimens. Minimum bid is one point one million apiece. I expect they’ll go, at auction, for at least one point five apiece. Maybe more.”
“Not interested. Got what I needed, and that’s organ donors. One point one is too high for organ donors. I know most of your assets have become higher end, but I’m adapting to what I can sell fast. There’s been a spike in demand for harvested body parts. Surely you know that?”
“Of course. But before you go, check your inbox. I sent a data package with photos and a video. Normally I charge for this sort of thing, but I’m giving you a break. You know the viewing protocol.”
“Not going to open.”
Before he finishes the sentence, I hear his fingers clacking on his keyboard. “Bullshit. I’ll bet your cock’s already hard.”
“Blow me.”
“Probability is sky high that won’t happen in this lifetime.”
“Give me a minute. Damn decryption programs take forever.”
Finally, praise-Jesus finally, the Butcher shut off the music and there is silence in the background. Through the phone line, I hear only heavy breathing as he examines the photos and videos of the high-end merchandise, who no one in their right mind would harvest for pieces and parts.
At least not right away.
“Oh. My word.”
“Yeah. Happy Valentine’s Day. Special, right?”
He groans in answer.
“I’ll sell them now at pre-auction for one point three million dollars apiece. On the other hand, if all you’re interested in is organs, we’re done for the day.”
“How old are they?”
“Seventeen and sixteen.” I’m guesstimating their age. Like an animal shelter does with cute dogs, the ones who have a chance of not going to the gas chamber. Yeah—I’m looking for a loving home for them. As long as someone will pay my price, they can love these two anyway they see fit. “Both handsome, healthy and athletic. They’ll be ready in one week. I need them for stud for a few more days.”
The Butcher moans as he gets an eyeful of the fair-haired boys.
I smile. “Your access to the data package disappears when I hang up. Unless, of course, you buy the goods.”
“Give me a few minutes to run some numbers.”
Run some numbers? My ass. The Butcher knows his goddamn numbers and profit margins down to the last dime. Give him a few minutes to jerk off over what the two drugged-to-the-gills teenagers are doing to each other in the video, thanks to the threat of imminent death and libido-enhancing drugs.
I know not to hang up. I also know it takes the Butcher about three minutes to jack off once he starts moaning and groaning. I’ve listened to him do it enough over the last few years. Keeping up the pretense that he needs this time to contact clients, I tell him, “I’ll hold for three minutes. When I next hear your voice, it better be saying a resounding yes. Otherwise, you won’t be getting first refusal options in the future.”
Having three minutes to kill, I glance at a large screen video monitor hanging on the office wall. Turning it on requires a series of passwords. Once the screen comes to life, I click the channels of the camera feeds at the farm, where the chores are never ending. Simply checking on whether our highly paid assistants accomplish their work is a full-time job. Baths. Food. Meds. Vitals need to be checked. On this Sunday morning, my partner is at the farm, overseeing operations.
For the assets in our mating program, sexual performance drugs are administered. Mating works better when both male and female actually want to do the act. Ah. The mating. A big part of the reason impregnation at the farm typically occurs the old-fashioned way is because I love to watch it.
Ownership, after all, has its privileges.
It isn’t yet fucking time at the farm. Baths are just starting. A disappointment, but that’s okay, because as I click through camera feeds and eye the inventory, I decide to study my personal work in progress.
Six months ago, we acquired her from San Francisco after she made the mistake of propositioning one of my reapers. Once I studied her for valuation purposes, I realized I had a rare prize. Her lean, angular body, her long, naturally muscular arms and legs, the set of her jaw, and the way her narrow neck met her shoulders reminded me of my one true obsession—Andi Hutchenson.
Mostly, it was the surprising fragileness of her bone structure. The way her back was thin, where I could almost see the outline of her ribs through creamy, translucent skin.
I’d immediately directed her to our clinic in Mexico. This once-homeless prostitute has now been pampered and transformed, Concierge-style. I call her Andi, for reasons made obvious by a few surgeries to make her look like the woman of my dreams. I had her nose fixed, because her wide, flat nose ruined my fantasy. I had her eyelids redone, because hers didn’t have as much of a crease as Andi’s. Dental implants and breast work completed the package.
She’d arrived at the farm a week ago, and, this morning, I zoom in on her and study her face. My mood lifts. I smile, because she’s healed nicely, and the latest round of cosmetic surgery did the trick. She’s almost become the woman of my dreams.
I have a busy day planned. Sunday services. Brunch. The gallery opening—a nice end of day event to look forward to. Just knowing that I’ll see the real Andi sends a shiver down my spine
. So much of a thrill, I suddenly know what I need for my own after party. And the acquisition who is currently pictured on the screen will be my entertainment.
All of which makes the end of this negotiation with the Butcher easy, because his three minutes are up and I now really no longer give a shit about business.
I take the call off mute. “One point three,” I say. “Decide now. Going once. Twice. Thr—”
“I’ll take them both.”
We click off the call, and I immediately make another call to my stylist.
“It’s Sunday,” she answers, tone clearly indicating annoyance.
I hear air swooshing through the speaker, so I know she’s driving the Porsche that she’s able to afford because I pay her a fortune. I swear—I know physicians who make less money than this beauty school dropout.
“This is personal,” I say, working to keep my temper tamped down.
“Not necessarily a way to entice me to work,” my stylist says, between smacks of gum chewing. “I’m on my way to goddamn church, then I’m throwing a princess party at Chuck E. Cheese’s for my four-year-old niece. I need to show up with cake and balloons and presents that I haven’t even managed to buy yet, because you had me working most of the day and into the night yesterday. Know how important this party is to her?”
At first, I stay silent, because I’ve got nothing to give this woman. Nothing. Honesty on this subject will not accomplish my goal. I think the world would be a better goddamn place without four-year-olds and whatever it is that might be important to them. But does this woman really want to hear that I’ve never met a four-year-old I give a rat’s ass about? No. And all told, that isn’t true, because I’ve sold a few and I certainly cared about the money they brought in.
“Aw man. Geez, why did I even ask you that question? Of course you don’t know how important a princess pizza party might be for a kid, because you have no goddamn soul.”
“Lose your whiny-ass attitude and start to think about what I’ll pay you for working on a Sunday.”
Concierge Page 13
