“All our other clients are cutting back their budgets for the rest of this year heading into Christmas. That’s never happened before. This shitty economy is killing us and yes, I know you need to advertise out of a recession but everyone is running scared.”
Clem heaved a sigh as he listened to Frank’s diatribe. “And…?”
“And when Molinaire signs off on our first campaign and the creative budget is finally approved, you need a vacation and I’m not talking about a long weekend in the Hamptons. You need a good couple of weeks down in Cabo or somewhere so you can unwind and come back refreshed. And spend some time with your wife, dammit.”
Frank had a point but Clem was starting to think that maybe the old man was just getting twitchy about wanting everything hunky dory before he left the building for good. And it certainly would be
for good
. If Clem wanted to wear the crown he sure better tow the line until Coronation Day.
“Okay, Frank. You’re the boss. I’ll work with Fitz,” Clem said emphatically, finally putting an end to Frank’s tiresome monolog.
“Good. That’s settled then.”
Tara sat in her parked car and dialed Mistress Krystal’s number. Her call went straight to voicemail once again.
Beep!
“Hi, this is Angelina. I called earlier…” she was interrupted by a calm, low-pitched female voice on the other end of the line.
“I don’t do women. Don’t call again.” The line went dead.
“Hello…? Shit!” Tara re-dialed. This time the woman picked up Tara’s call right away.
“I said I don’t…” This time Tara did the interrupting.
“I want you to teach me,” Tara blurted out quickly before the woman could hang up on her again. There was a momentary silence. The female voice spoke again.
“Teach you what?”
“Teach me what you do,” Tara replied, nervously.
Silence.
“And what exactly
do
I do?”
“You…er….hurt people?”
Silence.
“I please people. And I don’t give lessons.” The line went dead again. Tara dialed back immediately. This time the voice messaging system answered. Tara waited for the beep then left a message.
“I’ll pay your going rate. I want to learn. I want to know how to do what you do. I’m serious,” Tara said, sounding focused and levelheaded. She waited on the line hoping the woman at the other end would pick up. She didn’t. Tara hung up.
She was now feeling really frustrated. Did she honestly think this Mistress Krystal character would teach her how to smack people around? What was she thinking? This woman wasn’t normal: she was a twisted human being. How could anyone who does this kind of thing to make money have any kind of rational thought process, let alone take on a student? She wondered. And what kind of student was she asking to be? To master the art of inflicting pain for pleasure?
How fucked up was that?
This wasn’t like calling to schedule an art class, this was a whole other world. And a very dark world at that.
Tara started to argue with herself but the cold, hard truth was that this woman was giving her husband sexual pleasure of some sort, which was something Tara certainly hadn’t done in a very long while.
What magic spell was this Mistress Krystal casting that Tara couldn’t?
Tara sat in her SUV and pondered life for a split second before her cell phone’s ring snapped her out of it. She snatched at her phone.
“Hello?”
“Okay. Three hundred dollars a hour. Meet me at the Starbucks on Grandview and Pine at three o’clock. Wear red shoes.”
Before Tara had a chance to respond the caller hung up. She looked over at the clock on the wall – it was close to one. She knew she was getting in deep but Tara was now on a mission: find a pair of red shoes in the next two hours.
In the executive restroom on the forty-fourth floor of the Kemp Building, Kurt Fitzgerald washed his hands in one of the porcelain sinks then dried them off. He carefully checked his perfect white teeth in the mirror for any remnants of the huge burrito he’d just stuffed down during lunch with Charlie Knutson. Life was good and everything was going swimmingly. He ran a comb through his dark hair, slicking it back behind his ears. He was now looking perfectly coiffed.
“Molinaire is so up his own asshole,” Charlie Knutson chuckled as he zipped up his pants and walked over to the sinks.
“That was great timing, Charlie,” Fitz snickered, while admiring his own reflection. “Molinaire’s expression when you said Clem was playing golf! Just fucking perfect.”
The two men high-fived each other just as the door swung open. Clem walked in and glanced over at them without saying a word. He headed straight over to the urinals. Fitz was ready to leave but turned a faucet back on while Clem unzipped his pants and took a piss. Fitz was the last person Clem wanted to see right now.
“Working the old man pretty well, aren’t you, Fitz?” Clem said, with his back to the two men. Fitz winked at Charlie.
“Now, what exactly does that mean?” Fitz looked at Clem’s peeing reflection in the mirror.
“Like you don’t know.” Clem flushed and zipped up. He walked over to wash his hands.
“Just cleaning up after you, that’s all.” Fitz shot Clem a sarcastic grin as he yanked out a paper towel. Clem fired a look at Charlie Knutson.
“How’s it going, Charlie?”
“I’m good, thanks,” Charlie grinned.
“Are you aware your boss is delusional?”
Charlie Knutson flashed a nervous smile over at Fitz who was not so amused. Knutson knew he was out of his league. He wasn’t going to start verbal sparring with Clem Drew because he couldn’t win that battle. But with these two heavy-hitters calling each other out, he was in no hurry to leave the restroom either, though he made sure he was a safe distance from both of them. This could turn ugly.
Fitz ambled away from the sinks and stood by the door as Clem grabbed a paper towel and dried his hands.
“Ever thought the old man might be working both of us?” said Fitz. Clem wasn’t buying it.
“Y’know, Fitz. You’re standing in the right place right now because you’re so full of shit.”
Charlie Knutson blurted out a snigger that neither Clem nor Fitz appreciated. Charlie got the hint.
“I’d better get going. Catch you later, Fitz.” Charlie made his exit, leaving Fitz and Clem facing off.
“You just don’t get it, do you Clement?’ Fitz smiled. Clem scrunched up the paper towel into a ball.
“What don’t I get, Fitz?”
“You can’t always get what you want.”
Fitz sang softly to the Rolling Stone’s tune as he moved slowly towards Clem. Clem threw the screwed up paper towel at Fitz’s head, narrowly missing him and bullseyeing the trash can.
“Don’t get cute with me, Golden Balls,” Fitz warned as he got in Clem’s face. Fitz was bigger and stronger than Clem though probably not as fast. The two stared each other down.
“Aren’t you late?” Clem said, goading his visibly irked rival.
“Late for what?”
“For Frank’s two o’clock ass-kissing. You don’t want to let him down.” Fitz curled the fingers of his big right hand into a fist. “Go ahead,” Clem goaded. “Take your best shot. Of course, it’ll mean instant dismissal but it’ll probably be worth it, don’t’cha think?”
There was a momentary silence that lasted a few seconds but it seemed a helluva lot longer to both men as they got their emotions in check. They both knew the repercussions of anything resembling fisticuffs.
“Whatever it takes to get the job done,” grimaced Fitz. He tuned towards the door and swaggered out of the restroom down along the hallway. Clem followed right behind him and headed in the opposite direction. He was fuming. The only thing he knew for sure right now was that he was being out-maneuvered and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
CHAPTER 9
Tara entered the Starbucks on Grandview wearing a pair of red Converse sneakers. She looked inconspicuous enough in her tight blue jeans and gray hoody but felt the whole world was staring at her as she arrived for her clandestine rendezvous. Tara stood in line to place an order though she was already jittery and any caffeine coursing through her veins might cause her to hyperventilate. Her eyes darted around the café at the seated customers. She wasn’t sure how she was going to react to seeing the woman who had been beating up her husband for his sexual gratification – not that she had any idea what this person looked like.
Just how sexually intimate this Mistress Krystal had been with Clem, Tara wanted to find out. This was the only way to learn the truth. Her plan, if she could pull it off, was masterful. If carried out to the letter, she would come face to face with Clem at the scene of the crime.
But what then?
Tara couldn’t think that far ahead just yet.
“Can I help you?” a voice behind the counter asked Tara.
“I’ll get an iced Chai, please,” Tara blurted. She handed the young barista some change and waited at the pick-up counter for her drink to be made. Again, her eyes flicked around, clocking the faces of everyone in the place – an assortment of coffee drinkers, book readers and laptop users. Over in a corner sat an attractive blonde wearing a short skirt with knee high leather boots.
That had to be Mistress Krystal.
She stood directly in the blonde’s eye line to make sure her red sneakers could clearly be seen. The blonde was too engrossed in her magazine to even glance up.
Tara collected her iced Chai and took it over to a window seat, in full view of anyone who walked in. It was three minutes after three and not one of the dozen or so patrons looked remotely like anyone who might be called Mistress Krystal. Not that she was expecting someone in fishnets and bullwhip to walk through the door. In fact, she didn’t know what to expect.
As Tara leaned across to pick up the crumpled copy of
USA Today
on the wooden chair next to her, a husky female voice caught her off guard.
“Let’s go, Angelina.”
Tara jumped. “Oh!”
Dropping the newspaper, Tara turned around to see a stocky, middle-aged woman wearing sunglasses and a pretty summer dress walking away from her and out of Starbucks onto the street. Tara left her drink behind and followed quickly.
Out on the sidewalk, the woman kept walking briskly, not even bothering to look back. Tara quickened her step and caught up to her, glancing at the woman who obviously wanted to remain incognito.
“Let’s walk and talk,” the woman said, moving at a steady clip along the busy sidewalk.
“Okay,” said Tara, not sure where they were both going.
“How’d you get my number?” asked the woman in sunglasses. Tara certainly didn’t want to reveal the truth but was stumped for an answer.
“Oh, it was…y’know…friend of a friend. Where are we going by the way?” The two women stopped at the curb waiting for the light to change. “Look, are we being followed or something?” Tara asked anxiously.
“I don’t know. Are we?”
“How would I know?”
“I don’t advertise in The Yellow Pages. You can’t Google me and find me. How’d you get my number?”
“Why is it so important?”
Tara was feeling under pressure to fess up. The lights changed and the
‘walk’
sign illuminated. They crossed the street.
“Why is it so important?” The woman repeated. “Let me think about that for a nano-second. Oh yeah, I remember now – because you could be a cop, a private investigator, undercover reporter or maybe, just maybe, the jealous wife of one of my clients. That’s why it’s important.”
Tara was indignant at the accusation of being a jealous wife even though she had just been nailed straight out of the gate.
“That’s not true. I’m not even married,” Tara lied.
“And that’s not a wedding ring on your finger, I suppose?” the woman remarked, not even looking at Tara. Tara glanced down at her wedding band. She was annoyed with herself.
“Oh, shit.” Tara mumbled under her breath. “Yes. Okay, I’m married. That’s not a crime is it?”
The woman slowed down to a stroll as she pretended to window shop past various shop fronts and boutiques on the block. “Okay, so we’ve established you’re married. You part of the scene?”
“Scene? What scene?”
“Jesus.” The woman turned to face Tara. “You’re a newbie.”
“Newbie? Huh. Well, I guess I am.”
“But you’re into B and D?”
“Well, you know -- I’ve read stuff about it on the web,” Tara said, sounding distinctly naive.
“So you want to learn my trade yet you know nothing about it. You’re already proving to be a very poor student.”
“Well, er -- look, Mistress Krystal…”
“I’m not Mistress Krystal,” the woman announced.
“What? Then who are you?”
“I’m a cop working undercover and you’re busted.”
“What?! No!” Tara yelled. She spun around to see if a SWAT team or a gang of FBI agents were about to move in and surround her. The woman smiled and started walking again. Tara didn’t follow this time. She just watched nervously as the woman walked away.
“Stop!” Tara yelled. “Stop screwing around with me whoever you are!” Tara was frozen to the spot and looked terrified.
The woman turned around and walked slowly back towards her, smiling. She obviously hadn’t expected Tara to get freaked out quite so easily.
“See, hun? I have to be extremely careful. I have to be totally discreet. My clients are high-end. They want complete privacy and they have to trust me in more ways than one. If I’m going to let you into my world, I have to be able to trust you, too.”
“So you
are
Mistress Krystal?” Tara said, feeling relieved.
“Only when I’m role playing.”
“I’m a very trustworthy person,” said Tara, looking straight into the woman’s black sunglasses and hoping to make up for lying about her marital status. “I don’t tell lies.”
“Well, Angelina, you’ve already proved you’re not smart enough to be working undercover but where d’ya get that name? See Miss Jolie and Brad on the cover of People magazine? Not very original.”
“Angelina is my real name,” said Tara, lying again but trying to sound as believable as possible. Mistress Krystal took off her sunglasses and looked Tara in the eyes.