Hooked (3 page)

When she cupped his nuts on the beach, she knew he was hard. Any man would have to be anesthetized not to have a serious hard-on around her. He was hard again.
Christ
.

He seriously thought of asking out of the assignment. Would his boss buy a conflict of interest defense?
Sorry, Captain, but every time I feast my eyes on this woman I want to fuck her.
He doubted that would fly. Besides, his friend and mentor, FBI Special Agent Harry Winokaur, a man to whom he owed his life, would no doubt express disapproval, and Linc never wanted to disappoint Harry.
Forget your dick, Linc, and concentrate on the dirty, stinking job before you.

Michael Corleone’s line from The Godfather stuck in his mind. “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.” He almost felt sorry for her.

Then he wondered how much Tawny really knew about Benny Cooper’s operation. Whatever it was, she was on the fast track to learn more.

B
enny Cooper’s chauffeur-driven Bentley pulled up to the building’s front entrance. Benny enjoyed owning a Bentley. Almost like the car company christened the luxury automobile after him. Didn’t matter that Bentleys had been around longer than the fifty years since Benny’s mother named him. He got out and scaled the five steps to the nondescript door of a four-story brownstone, punched a code on the touchpad, and slipped a key into the door lock. Charles, the doorman, allowed entry to only those with a reservation and password. He waited to greet Benny like a loyal servant.

“Afternoon, Mr. Cooper.”

“Afternoon, Charles. Anyone here yet?”

“Colin, as usual, sir, and a couple of the ladies arrived early for appointments.”

Benny checked his Rolex, then studied the sign-in sheet. “Hmm, Melody’s free for a while. Ask her to come to the apartment in half an hour, will you please?”

“Certainly, sir.”

The unobtrusive façade of the building, nicknamed Upper Eighties, belied the luxury inside. The small, posh lobby boasted marble floors, potted palms, and eighteenth-century erotic prints in gilt frames. Unlike other lobbies, no cameras filmed entries or exits, though they were secretly positioned elsewhere throughout the establishment.

Ever since Benny read in
The Times
that police had identified the body found floating in the harbor as Sarah Marshall, a prostitute, he’d suffered a combination of acid reflux and cardiac arrhythmia. Benny’s condition degenerated when he read the reports that police had ruled the death a homicide. Then he received a phone call on the island from an NYPD detective by the name of Walsh, who specialized in sex crime investigations. The Marshall woman had called Walsh a week before and mentioned Benny’s name. The detective knew Benny’s wife, Eileen, had been in the life, so it was pointless to deny knowing the dead woman, admitting only that he had known Sarah Marshall as Serena, and neither he nor his wife had seen her in years. Puzzled, Benny claimed he couldn’t imagine why Serena alluded to him. End of story.

He hoped.

Benny gratefully accepted his gift to banish unpleasant thoughts as just another perk in his blessed life. This time, however, he needed a little help to put Walsh and Serena out of his mind. In an hour, he’d be a new man. Tension gone, blood pressure back to normal, and no lingering melancholy about poor Serena. In a brief and rare moment of self-reflection, he acknowledged his absolute shallowness. But if that tacit admission conjured any guilt, it passed with a sigh.

He passed a few closed doors on the way down the long hall to the back of the building. No doorknob or handle marred the polished finish of what appeared to be solid wood paneling, but when Benny slipped a key card into an inconspicuous slot, the panel sprang open. He entered the apartment that occupied the back third of the first floor. Decorated in nineteenth-century bordello, the small suite of rooms immediately put him in the right mood.

He needed to have another key card made. What if he had a heart attack or choked on a piece of the exceptional Kobe beef he imported from Japan. No one ever bothered him while inside his apartment, fearful they’d catch him naked, except for garter belt and hose, in the middle of a bondage routine with his favorite dominatrix. Why, it might be days before they found him. The depressing thought gave him the creeps. The idea of bondage in a garter belt gave him an erection.

Benny shed his jacket in the apartment and walked halfway down the hall to an elegantly appointed office where Colin Harwood, webmaster extraordinaire, computer guru, and all-round right-hand man controlled the operation.

“Got a few reservations tonight,” Colin said in his distinctive Cockney accent. He was strictly business, with no interest in the women he bartered. No interest in women, period. At least Benny didn’t have to worry about employee competition.

“Angie’s hostess this evening,” Colin said. “Also, I have two girls booked for the holidays. One with that Italian racecar driver from Milan, the other with Sergei Rogoff’s son. She’s his twenty-first birthday present.”

“Nice daddy. He can afford it.” Benny craned to peek over Colin’s shoulder at the schedule on the computer monitor. “Fat man tonight, I see.”

“Yeah, Martell wants a twosome. Melody’s his regular, but I called Cindi to pair with her. The guy’s a city block. I feel sorry for both of them.”

“Cindi should get double the money for him,” Benny said. “It’s not every day you get to bag a four-hundred-fifty pounder.”

“She’s not moose hunting, Benny. You don’t
bag
someone like Rick Martell. You feed him a quadruple cheeseburger, a supersize order of fries, and a chocolate shake. Besides, Melody’s not complaining about the pay. Most women don’t make that in a month.”

“Try three.” Benny patted his tech’s shoulder. “Have you checked to make sure the bar on four is stocked for Friday’s get together?”

Benny did everything right at Upper Eighties. He supplied the alcohol because he didn’t want the scrutiny attached to a liquor license. All his ladies were over twenty-one—he insisted—and except for one time, so were his patrons. The exception came with an enormous fee to break the cherry of the son of an old friend, head honcho at a major financial institution. The boy was a child of fifteen the day he met Lily, a man of sixteen the day after. Benny heard the kid’s skin cleared up within a week. Daddy became a regular.

“Took care of that after last week’s party,” Colin said. “Wanted to make sure I ordered only what we needed.”

 “I like doing business with you, Colin. All you care about is money. Making it and saving it.”

“Is there anything else?”

Benny smiled. “Of course. We both have our needs, don’t we?”

“Different though they are.”

Years back, Benny wanted to see what it was like to make it with a guy. His one and only, an eager-beaver Wall Streeter angling to move up, thought blowing Benny was his ticket. But peering down at a thinning comb-over and hairy shoulders while being inadequately deep-throated caused instant dick deflation. Pffft! Just like that. He gave himself credit for being adventurous, but experimentation from that point on consisted of women in all their naked, ebullient glory. And he had the money and venue to make that happen.

Benny caught Colin’s wink as he left the office. The little man was a genius, even if his sexual persuasion was the flipside of his own. Still, Benny never judged. Like his dear, newly-departed mother used to say: ‘To each his own, said the man as he kissed the cow.’ Different strokes for different folks. Whatever floats your boat. Yada, yada.
Role-playing, bondage, multiple partners, gay, or straight. Everything was on the table as long as it suited both partners or all parties, depending.

Those kinky thoughts made him think of Eileen. Why, if he had steak at home did he seek chicken and pork elsewhere as part of a regular diet? No matter how much he pondered the question, he never came up with an answer that made sense. He savored steak—rich, earthy, and full-bodied—but he liked the different flavors of chicken, pork, fish, and all the other delicacies that tempted his insatiable palate for variety. His wife met all his requirements, triple Ds included. Even his mother had liked her. Okay, so she wasn’t Jewish. But she had a college education and a princess complex. Close enough. Of course Mom didn’t know she was a whore, but no woman is perfect.

He pulled out his cell, dialed, and waited for the message machine to kick in. “Hi, darling. Won’t be home tonight. I have business in town. Don’t worry. Kiss the kids for me.” He smooched into the receiver and sang, “Love you.”

Eileen knew his business. How could she not? Upper Eighties was her brilliant idea. She took the ingénues under her wing, taught them the social graces and tricks that turned one-night-stands into repeat customers, knowing full well the young ladies would practice everything she taught them on Benny. How else could he match his girls with suitable clients?

Eileen’s wise acceptance—no, compliance—afforded her two beautiful homes, a Lexus SUV to haul the children, a legitimate lifestyle, and most importantly, Benny. You could take the girl out of the business, but you couldn’t take the business out of the girl. Not entirely. A wicked smile curled his lips.

Back in his apartment, Benny deposited his cell phone and wallet on the hand-carved table beside his bed. Lifting one of the silver-framed photographs of his children, he pressed his lips to the glass. “My darling babies,” he said, placing it back on
the table with the others, turning them all to face the wall. “Now don’t watch.”

How could one man be so lucky? On the way back into the salon, he passed the full-length mirror, stood sideways, and sucked in the slight paunch he’d noticed only recently. He made a note to cut down on desserts. Benny wasn’t one for abstinence, but he was vain enough to do what he needed to keep from looking his age.

Reaching into the liquor cabinet, he withdrew a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan single malt scotch and poured two ounces into a tulip-shaped Baccarat glass. He inhaled the sweet aroma of oak and sherry before savoring the scotch’s distinct combination of flavors. Sipping slowly, he thought,
Ah, the advantages of being filthy, stinking rich.
The drink was an appetizer to the main course, and the entrée was now tapping on the door. A click of his remote control and the door popped opened.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Cooper?”

Every woman Benny hired knew that satisfying him was part of her job―an occasional freebie in exchange for the exorbitant money they earned at Upper Eighties. Melody entered the apartment looking every bit the model of her day job. Tall, willowy, buxom, and Bahama-tanned, due to an extra-long weekend cruising on a client’s yacht, she seemed relaxed and eager to please. An expensive designer suit fit her body as if she’d been blown into it, like insulation.

“Yes, dear. I’d like to see every bit of you,” Benny said, plopping onto his down-feather mattress like a little kid at a sleepover. “And how many times have I told you to call me Benny in the privacy of my apartment?”

Melody leaned over, scrunching her boobs so they bulged from her blouse. “Benny,” she whispered in his ear before slipping off her jacket and methodically hanging it on a waiting hanger.

Benny hated clothes all over the place. It offended his neatness fetish, one of many
fetishes he’d cultivated. He liked the word: fetish. It sounded kinky.

He watched Melody lower herself onto the edge of the bed, freeing one button of her blouse at a time. Benny absorbed her intent gaze, the seductive come-on smile. If she wore a bra during the day, she knew to remove it before knocking on Benny’s door. He liked his women braless, especially when they had breasts the size and firmness of Melody’s.

Benny slipped his hands inside her blouse and caressed the velvety skin as if he were a blind man seeing with the sensitive touch of his fingertips. She released the obligatory purrs when he pinched her nipples.

“That feels so good,” Melody murmured. “Don’t stop.”

Benny obliged. None of his women had implants. That was another of Benny’s no-nos. A woman jiggling fake tits in his face didn’t work for him, mainly because they didn’t jiggle. Breasts should be natural and bouncy, soft to the touch and responsive. Benny knew his requirements weren’t universal. Some men found more than a mouthful excessive. His wife was large-breasted, much larger than Melody’s full C cup, and Eileen’s were all hers.

Melody stood and continued her striptease down to her lavender silk thong. When she kicked it aside, Benny stared at her all-over tan, including her shaved mound.

“How was your weekend?” he asked.

“As you’d expect. Mischa’s yacht is obscenely large, and the food was to die for. Cindi and I sunbathed nude on the deck with him. He doesn’t ask much for himself. Pretty traditional, actually; always a gentleman. He relished watching us together, which got him sizzling. Then he joined in. We knew what he wanted before accepting the assignment and agreed. Cindi’s quite a good partner.”

“I’m sure you were both well paid.”

Benny knew the client―a billionaire who couldn’t divorce his only wife without being screwed out of half his fortune. Benny arranged discrete trysts with a variety of beautiful, intelligent young women who knew how to revive an older man’s cock and make him feel young again, without the aid of a little blue pill.

Benny handled these arrangements personally, mentioned the fees his ladies set and, if accepted, collected his percentage directly from the client. This relieved him of taking a cut from his women. That would make him a pimp—a word he found distasteful. He preferred to think of himself as…an agent.

“That’s why hardly anyone leaves you, Benny. A couple of girls who did wound up with unscrupulous slugs who hooked them on drugs and pimped them out to lower paying clients. Before long, they were used up and on the streets, giving blow jobs to johns in cars for twenty a pop.”

“I tried to tell them. Allura wanted back in, but I had to say no. No man wants a woman with track marks on her arms. It broke my heart. She was a beautiful woman.”

“Gives me the shivers,” Melody said breathlessly.

Benny figured she was feigning the tremors, but who cared when each heave put her magnificent assets into action.