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JENNY
I come slowly into consciousness and realize I am hanging by my arms in a small room, facing cinder block walls. The pain in my ankles is immediate and I realize that my toes are just barely touching the floor. When I look up, I notice the ropes that suspend me are a light Brown rubber similar to that found in hospitals. With little effort, I can swing my fatigued body from side to side, but I can't turn around.
After what seems like hours, but is probably only minutes, I hear a door open slowly behind me.
"Hello…" I say tentatively, after there is only silence for several awkward moments. Slowly, deliberately, footsteps begin to approach on the fine gravel floor. I can tell from the dense crunching noise, that they are coming from a pair of leather boots.
"Guten Morgan, Fraulien," the husky, masculine, voice intones, in a thick, theatrical German accent. "You appear to be relatively rested as opposed to when I last saw you." R's rolling like a freight train.
"When you last…" I blurt, instantly confused. "I don't…. who are you?"
"Ah ha ha," he laughs, actually saying "ha ha." "A little joke. We are not amused." It isn't a stretch to believe this guy had no sense of humor.
"I have no idea who you are" I spit out, with just a touch of anger spilling into my tone.
"Let us again take up the matter of where your daughter is located."
I freeze. Janice… what do they want with my Janice?
A few more footsteps, and he stands by my side. I think I smelled him before I saw him, an overpowering musk of old tunic, stale cigarette smoke, and expensive whiskey. He was older than I'd imagined; a corpulent, full-faced man of diminutive stature; large, flabby jowls; thin lips, and a generally unhealthy pallor. His bald scalp shines in the light of the room, polished to an unearthly gleam, wisps of white hair circling the perimeter of his skull. An immaculate Black SS officer's uniform has been tailored around his enormous belly and bulbous, bulging ass; matching flared breeches making his already large hips appear larger than any part of his ungainly physique.
His hideous face twists into an unpleasant smile as he leans slightly against a wall, inspecting me. He casually produces a gold cigarette case, a gold lighter, and matching black and gold cigarette holder, easily a foot long in length, from his breast pocket. Patiently, slowly, he inserts a cigarette in the gold-tipped rod and lights it, inhaling deeply, blowing the smoke directly towards me.
"I don't have a clue," I say, turning away from the obnoxious smoke and his fierce stare, which is burning a hole in me through an elegant, gold-framed monocle.
He jabs me in the shoulder with a short, menacing, Black riding crop, gaining my attention immediately.
"Oh, I think you do Froil-lein" he mispronounces theatrically, sighing heavily. "You have just not been properly motivated." He abruptly stands, clicks his heels and snaps the riding crop to the side of his thick, glossy, knee-high boots. A uniformed henchman appears quickly, and exchanges the crop for a monstrous, coiled bullwhip, placing it reverentially in the Commandant's Black, gauntlet-gloved, hands.
He pauses for a moment, slowly stroking my cheek. The smell of fine leather intoxicates and chills me at the same time. He lets loose an evil, deeply melodic laugh, then stares past me, absently pulling on the cigarette holder.
"Major Enrique!" he thunders, jowls inflating like hot air balloons. "Prepare her!"
The gloved thug tears what's left of my clothes off as I hang, shivering.
"I…. I'll never let you hurt my daughter…" is all I can manage.
He stares, obviously unimpressed, and says in a business-like, almost apathetic, tone "We shall see."
He takes several paces back from me, and an almost inhuman force follows a heavy rush of air. It feels like 100 stones are being thrown at me, all at once. And after the stones, come the knives, a searing arc of agony that cuts into my back. Again, and again, it comes. I find myself counting the blows, almost as a distraction, but nothing can block out the torment. When he has laid an even ten, he walks over to me.
His breath is short, and it is obvious that this out-of-shape, self-important prick is not used to performing his own dirty work. He lights a fresh cigarette and walks behind me to inspect his handiwork.
The pain in my back is quickly becoming even more intense, and I feel his leathered hands trace each welt, which are becoming raised and inflamed. Smoke drifts past my head.
"Such a simple question," he gloats, obviously happy with the results of his efforts, "seeking an equally simple answer." He returns to face me, holder jauntily set into the corner of his mouth. "You have far more control than you realize, Fraulein. Tell me what we wish to know, and you will be freed. Refuse… and we will continue."
"Fuck you, you filthy Nazi pig!" I scream instinctively, instantly regretting my response.
He chuckles, seeming almost pleased with my answer, and returns to his position to deal another ten cuts. When he is finished, he again faces me.
"Far worse than before, wasn't it?" he asks superciliously, tittering lewdly. He's right, I think grimly, wincing at the discomfort. He continues, obviously savoring his position of authority over me. "As my finely oiled kangaroo-hide whip slashes into your previously pristine flesh, the pain increases, doesn't it?"
I don't say anything, but tiny tears begin to sting my eyes. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of eye contact or an answer.
He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and returns again to the gruesome specter of my wounds, like a depraved connoisseur admiring a piece of fine art.
"You're bleeding," he continues. "We can't have that."
I gasp slightly, shuddering at my growing ability to read his sadistic thoughts. A large cloud of cigarette smoke wafts from behind, and then an interminable period of silence follows. His cigarette holder is so long, it juts over my shoulder. When it disappears, I almost shit myself.
Again, unnerving silence follows. Then, I can feel the heat at my back. Almost instantly it is withdrawn.
"Oh… not yet" he purrs, almost effeminately. More smoke. "I wouldn't want to waste one of these fine cigarettes, and besides, the pain is far more substantial when the ash is close to the filter." He starts to laugh again, a demented cacophony that rings throughout the room.
Then the real pain begins.
PHIL
Jenny never made it home for Thanksgiving that year.
It was the night before the holiday and she had left to go grocery shopping at a Super Target in a large mall about ten miles from home. When it was three hours past when she said she'd be back, and after no answer on her cell, my mind began to race.
I had a sick feeling. It was him. He's done something. I just knew it.
"I was thinking…. If you'd pay 25 grand to save your whore, you'd surely pay at least twice that to keep your wife and daughter safe" the chubby bald man who called himself Mr G. had said, smugly clucking to himself and puffing lazily on a $30 Cuban cigar.
I had to control myself from throttling the little tyrant. We were in a public place, after all.
"What's the point, you slimeball?" I said, drawing the ire of the gangster's two big goons, who sat on either side of him in the plush leather Red banquette of the G Spot, his wittily named downtown gentlemen's club. "Like last time, I'll pay you, and you're going to keep wanting more. No…fuck this. This stops now."
Mr. G merely stared with his dull eyes, ignoring the thugs who were chomping at the bit for a piece of my hide and fingering the lapel of his expensive three-piece suit. He puffed steadily, contemplatively, on the fat cigar and absently began to toy with one of his two diamond pinky rings.
"Oh, it will stop…for now" he smirked. "But insurance is like that…. You never seem to have it when you need it the most." He removed the cigar from his mouth and put it out with a bit more force than he seemed to want to display.
The gangster wheezed as he stood up abruptly and the goon named Tony placed a Camel colored cashmere topcoat over his shoulders like a cape and handed him a chestnut Brown fedora.
"Have a safe holiday season," the fat man sang with sarcastic benevolence, the faint remnants of a twisted smile playing on his lips.
That had been 6 weeks ago. Things seemed to have turned a corner. The harassing phone calls --- the dead lines that woke us at 3 AM --- stopped. The Lincoln Navigator that sometimes lurked around our block was nowhere in sight. Shit, I had even been able to sleep for up to 6-7 hours at night without waking up in cold sweats, imagining the smell of smoke or a cry in the dark.
I sat down and tried to think calmly. Options…think! The cops were not on the list, at least not at this point. The biggest sword that G held over my head was my involvement with his "girls." It had been some misbegotten sense of "honor" that had lured me into his web. Natasha. I had loved her. But now she was gone, as quickly as a couple hundred thousand in home equity that had taken me over 20 years to accumulate. I had nothing, and was tens of thousands more in debt. How seriously would the cops take a guy who had been formally charged with solicitation? Not too seriously. Anyhow, they aren't going to do anything for 48 hours on a Missing Persons…. And by that time, god only knows what G and his thugs will do.
But if I did nothing it might be worse.
I picked up the phone and dialed 91, then paused, and quickly hung up.
I headed over to the Super Target, but found no trace of Jenny's car. I went to the G Spot.
TONY
I see old Phil, that pathetic middle-aged fuck, walk in about quarter to twelve. He walks over to Tommy, who's tending the bar tonight and, after talkin' with him for a few seconds, heads over in my direction.
Even though I've been expecting to see him following the execution of the big boss' latest scheme, it still pisses me off. I'm wrapping biz up with a few of the regular girls and a couple horny johns, and frankly, I'm too busy for this shit. It's Michelob time, motherfucker.
I know the boss is waiting for Phil fuck-face to come around to grovel… he flew in special from New York just for the occasion. But I also know it's way fuckin' late, and the big man is probably just beginning to get nasty with this new girl I fixed him up with, or passed out from snarfing half a bottle of Louis.
Two things I've learned from working for Mr. G in the past four years: he don't like to be disturbed, and he don't like surprises.
"Is your boss in town?" Fuck-face asks, interrupting me rudely as I'm counting out $3500 in small bills (not a bad night's pay for the boss).
"He might be. What can I do ya for, fuck-face? Need to borrow some money? Broke again? Too bad… the boss is having a good run lately. I have this feeling it's gonna get even better." I can't hide a shit-eating grin, though I know I'm pushin' it. Phil's not looking too good.
"Cut the shit, Tony. My wife's been gone for over four hours tonight, and it's got your boss' name all over it."
"Ho! Hold up, ass-wipe! You can't just come into my place of business, accusing me of somethin' like kidnapping. It's not my fuckin' problem if you can't keep a leash on your coos. Is her car gone?"
"You know fucking well it's gone" the asshole shoots back.
"Well then, ya can't prove nuthin', can ya?" I say. "She coulda just run out on ya. Got tired of eatin' all those boloney sandwiches." I know I'm stickin' the knife in at this point, but I can't resist. He's such an easy mark.
"Just let me talk to him" he says, looking so pathetic I almost feel sorry for the turd.
"All right. Wait outside. I'll see what I can do. No promises!"
Fuck face. I'm gonna wind up missing MY goddam turkey dinner tomorrow over this shit, just you wait and see.
I finish tallying the receipts as quick as I can, then dial Steve, who's over playing valet to his Highness in the Presidential Suite at the Brown.
JENNY
I wasn't the least bit suspicious when it happened, but why would I be? You'd think if you were in danger, your own husband would do something to warn you, right? Especially if the danger involved your child?
I was loading my groceries when a large Black SUV pulled up behind my car, with one of those mobile flasher bubbles fixed to one side of the top. In retrospect, it looked a bit too plush to be a security car.
A guy in a plain gray guard outfit leaned his head out the window and said something like "Excuse me, ma'am, we need your help. We're trying to find a man who's wandering about lost in the parking lot."
I told him I hadn't seen anyone around like that.
"If you could look at a few pictures, it would really help us out," he says, briefly holding up a large black binder. He tries to fit it through the window to give me a look but it's too long or too wide or something. "Could you come 'round to the passenger side?" he asks.
I hesitate, but I'm late getting home as it is…. The turkey requires a good 4-5 hours to prep and bake, and I'm running out of time.
I walk around to the other side of the vehicle and open the door. He holds the book out to me, and then drops it squarely in the foot well of the passenger seat. Instinctively, I step into the car to retrieve it, and that's when the arm from behind me clamps down on my right breast, fixing me to the seat.
The locks drop down and instantly we're speeding off. I grab for the door handle, but a rag with something horribly strong is clamped over my face. Chloroform. I can still smell it.
When I wake up, I'm on the stone floor of an 8 X 8 foot cage.
MR. G
I am a businessman, first and foremost. Let's clear that up right away.
I am sure there are those who call me a monster; an inhuman sadistic megalomaniac bent on using any method to achieve my goals of endless power and wealth. I would respond by saying that I do only what is needed to achieve my goals. And if in that process, I happen to extract a bit of unholy delight in the suffering of a few innocent bystanders, in the lording of my power over their weakness, then that is an added perk. Who's to say one cannot or should not be afforded a few side benefits from a path of personal destiny that I deem to have been mine from birth?
But I digress.
At 1 AM on Thanksgiving Day, I was about to retire to my four-poster splendor in the Presidential Suite of the Brown Palace hotel in Denver when my faithful valet Esteven alerted me to the arrival of Mr. Palmer at the door of my suite. Ordinarily, I would have sent him away, but his appearance afforded me a chance to accomplish what I had intended much sooner than I had planned. I instructed my henchmen to make a quick sweep of both the hotel and the surrounding streets for any trace of the authorities, while my bodyguards, Tony and Vito, performed their usual frisk of Palmer for any wires or weapons. When satisfied, I granted him entry and directed Esteven to escort him to my private office to await my arrival.
While I ideally should have been suited up for the occasion, I chose instead to retain my current state of dress: a luxurious set of Brioni Royal Blue silk pajamas, Blue cashmere socks, Black velvet slippers by Polo, embroidered with my monogram, a Navy and Silver checked silk smoking jacket by Sulka and double-ply Silver silk ascot from Carrott and Gibbs. Matching Pocket Square, of course.
I seated myself grandiloquently in the large, high-backed, Presidential Executive La-Z-Boy leather desk chair with Mahogany trim that I had custom ordered for the suite. One must be comfortable while working, especially when those you are addressing are so very uncomfortable!
I watched poor Phillip squirm in the hard, low-backed, armless vinyl chair over the considerable expanse of my hand-rubbed Cherry desk, glowering with obvious satisfaction.
"You look happy," he spits out, giving me a look one would usually reserve for the devil himself.
I say nothing, smile slightly, and take out a 10-inch Cobalt Blue Bakelite cigarette holder and a silver cigarette case from my inner breast pocket.
PHIL
The minute he took out that goddamn cigarette holder I knew I was screwed.
"You evil little bastard. You obviously want to gloat, so go ahead and get it over with," I said. I really didn't give a shit at this point if I was beaten to a pulp.
G paused as he allowed his liveried assistant to light his cigarette, and then rocked back in the ridiculously ornate chair while inhaling.
"Ah, yes. The moment when an opponent is truly beaten is always an event to be savored," he stated as if he were orating on some profound philosophical truth.
"So you admit you have her?"
" Have her?" he queried, mockingly quizzical. "I wouldn't say I've had her… yet" he slyly finished, raising his bushy eyebrows mischievously and huffing out a couple of leisurely smoke rings.
It took every ounce of restraint to keep my hands to my sides. It was one thing to be intimidated and condescended to by this rich goon, but to actually witness his obvious pleasure at my family's peril was intolerable.
"Look here, Palmer, I was going to feign innocence but who are we fooling? You know I have your wife. And I have you." He made a slight reach across the desk to delicately tap the ash from his cigarette into a mammoth crystal ashtray. "You have, quite simply, no one to ask for help. The police are securely in my silk-lined pocket along with half the money that keeps this little cow town floating, in one manner or another. You know what I want from you, and can probably ascertain your fate if you do not cooperate. For your lovely wife, I have other plans." He steepled his fingers together and a look of malevolent anticipation crept into his eyes, causing them to gleam inhumanly in the dim light of the wood-paneled office.
"Well, Mr. Big Shot, can I ask a question?"
The canyon-like crevice in his brow grew deeper in response to my smart-ass remark, and ape-man Tony cracked his knuckles. I know it was supposed to make me quake with fear, but it sounded so contrived I almost laughed. I enjoyed catching this midget off-guard, since he prided himself on his supposed god-like omniscience.
"If you've got all this money and power," I ventured, "why go to all this trouble for fifty grand?"
"A fair question," he stated flatly, removing the spent butt from his holder and crushing it out. He tried to heighten himself as much as he possibly could in that Barcalounger of an office chair, but failed miserably. "You do know that you robbed me of one of my best girls?" he said, trying to sound threatening but only managing to sound annoyed.
"Natasha? Yeah… I'm aware of it." My turn to smile.
"And if you knew me at all you'd know that no one takes what is mine without paying dearly for it."
"You may own 'half this town' but you don't own the people in it" I replied, surprising myself with my courage (or stupidity). "Natasha is a very intelligent woman who knew when she was getting the short end of the deal. She walked away from your organization without any help from me."
"Well…" he continued, fingering his cigarette case idly (the thing had MR. G inscribed on the face in Roman script. Please.). "Since she was seeing you, I guess you could say she was getting the short end of it." He began to snicker, and his hateful smugness returned full force as his henchmen randily joined in with him. "At any rate, you're wrong as usual. As long as there are poor saps like you, with no assets and over-extended credit, there will always be ownership." He fixed another cigarette slowly into the holder. "And I own you ." He puffed his cigarette alight, showily.
"You don't think I'd get fifty grand together for you, if I could?" I said, my desperation finally showing through. He had hit a raw nerve with his comment about my solvency. This bloodsucker had put me in this position, and now he was criticizing me for it!
"You'll find it," he stated simply "or your wife will be the one who pays. In blood, tears, and confessions."
"Confessions?" I choked out, incredulously. "To what?"
"To where you've stashed your daughter, dick-wipe!" he thundered, suddenly losing his world-weary sophisticate act and revealing his crass upbringing. "She's not at that fucking college anymore, and I want to know where she is. I need a backup in case you're stubborn."
"You fucker…." I spat out, feeling the tears coming to my eyes along with the requisite shame. "You were watching her. I knew it."
"Oh yes" he smiled. "And your wife, too. She's far, far away. Somewhere you will never find her. And every day that my payment is not received, your beloved Jenny's discomfort will escalate. Now if she tells me where dear Janice is located, her sentence will be dramatically reduced…" He puffed thoughtfully on his holder, obscuring his fat face with smoke for a brief instant.
"I'll go to the police with this. You'll never get away…" I trailed off weakly.
"Oh, I will. I am." He sneered, caressing his silken lapels confidently with one manicured hand and waving the other dismissively. "You're pathetic. Throw him out."
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