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The House of Singing Winds
By
Sir Marc Wyld
Chapter Five
Market Day
J.D. and Tommy are at each other the moment they immerge from the cockpit after shutdown at Wo Fat Aviation’s flight line. The argument is the same one I hear every time we land at any field in the Orient. By international law, all air traffic control communication worldwide must be in English. That does not mean, however, that that English is easily understandable. J.D. has long held the opinion that someplace in the world there is a Celestial whose soul and sole purpose in life is to extinguish his. The fact that Viet Nam is so far in the past has no bearing on J.D.’s beliefs. To him, the war is an unfinished, undetermined item. In his view, since there is no treaty in existence or no surrender or armistice in place, the war is still there, still brewing, in hiatus, like a sitcom in summer. He is not, to the best my knowledge, racist nor anti-Oriental but he is sure that anyone who speaks English poorly must be a communist sympathizer. Why learn to speak any language well if soon the whole world will be speaking Chinese?
Tommy holds the belief, on the other hand, that an enemy is a concept. The enemies he trained for and been eager and prepared to meet had made war an academic scenario to him. His enemies are fueled by oil profits, not idealistic social concepts. Take more desert, you control more oil. Control more oil, control more money and it is money that controls the world. The war Tommy fought has been declared “officially over” and verified as a definite addition to the win column and then, ergo, they are no longer our enemies.
I have heard this argument so often that if they do not fly together, I know their lines well enough I can stand in, if needed, and relieve a little post flight stress. However, this exchange does irritate me and, as always, I do not say anything. Each has six lines in this little bitch ritual they go through and it lasts exactly 48 seconds. J.D. is pure Navy and as everyone knows, a bitching sailor is a happy sailor.
“Are you ecstatic?” I ask.
“Like a pig in shit, boss.”
As always, these two lines go right over Tommy. Mr. USAF never has had a clue as to what these words meant other than the end of this discussion.
A Lincoln Continental limousine pulls up beside the aircraft and a large man, Wo Fat emerges. Tommy always says this man’s name as if it were an adjective and not his name: Whoa, fat! That always makes me laugh, not because the joke is funny, but because Wo Fat does not get the joke and he never will. Since his business is a holdover from the days of British rule, he is allowed to run Wo Fat Aviation just as he always has. Capitalism ends at the eastern border of the New Territories and is alive and well in Hong Kong proper.
Wo Fat is here to kiss my ass for the eternal buck and I like that in a man because kissing my ass is also the equivalent of outstanding customer service: I have never paid this man one cent he has not earned. His greeting is designed to show my importance to his bottom line. Also there is the fact that he is meeting me in my own limousine and that is a perk, even if that perk only lasts the six hundred yard drive from my personal hangar where it is garaged to his terminal. J.D. and Tommy trust this man’s company with their bird and I trust this man’s company with my aircraft.
Appearing at the cabin door, Miss Singh emerges into the early afternoon sunlight. Her time in the lavatory has not been wasted transforming from Knob Bobber to the future Linda for the last time. Wo Fat feasts his eyes on a woman he would pay “many Hong Kong dollars” for in Suzy Wong’s in the Wan Chi district. What I see is a butterfly of engineered perfection emerging from a cocoon.
Whores are one of the least expensive commodities on the face of the planet. This one, however, is of great value and, therefore, not a whore. Very early tomorrow morning, my limousine will arrive at the doors of the Bank of Geneva. Two armed guards will open my car door and escort me through the lobby directly into the vault. There I will meet a senior vice president and he will personally verify the contents of the suitcase I will be carrying. The money will be in neat bundles of crisp, new thousand dollar Euros. The amount they represent in that suitcase could easily cover the cost of several Gulfstream jets.
The money will then be divided equally and half deposited into my account and the other half in an account owned by one Amahdee Singh. My funds will then be split again and half to the First Bank of Manila while the remainder is transferred to the home branch in Geneva where it is immediately converted into gold that will be placed into a safe deposit vault the size of a small apartment using a forklift.
Miss Singh’s account will remain at this branch and will never be accessed. The money will accrue interest for the next fifty seven years. Upon her death, a letter will be dispatched, by courier to a man by the name Mahatma Singh who lives in Karachi, Pakistan, informing him that a long lost cousin has left him an estate valued at just over fourteen billion U.S. dollars. Such is life.
Wo Fat, content that all my needs are being seen to, enters the limo after Miss Singh and sits across from her on the jump seat and leers at legs that end in the usual place sans the confinement of panties for the entire 45 second ride back to his terminal. I smile. While he may not be able to afford the entrée he is more than welcome to peruse the menu. Just one more perk of being president of Wo Fat Aviation.
Passing Customs, we are greeted by first names and cleared after a round of handshakes that relieve me of the burden of carrying three one hundred dollar bills into the streets of Hong Kong.
The ride to the Hong Kong Hilton though short in distance is long in time. I am pleased that Miss Singh is taking in the sights we pass and that her tears have dried up. Tucked away safely in my jacket pocket is her collar and I touch it. Tonight, it will slip into the waters of Hong Kong harbor off the deck of a Star Line ferry between the island and Kowloon on the Mainland. Knob Bobber will be no more and the last phase of her life will begin.
Arriving at the Hilton, we head straight to the elevators with only a nod toward the front desk and ride directly to the penthouse. The bell captain lets us into the suite and our cases are already in the saloon. Handing me the key, he reduces my weight by another one hundred dollar bill, bows deeply and leaves. Miss Singh retrieves her cases and heads toward the room I point toward. I pick up another particular case and walk around to stand in before of the leather wing chair facing the fireplace. As expected, the cultured, gray haired figure of Malestrom is sitting in the chair. I smile and hand him the suitcase.
“Paid in full.” I have said this sentence at least five hundred times. He opens it, looks at the neatly bundled $10,000 Euro bills that fills the suitcase, closes it and says, “I’m extending this loan,” for the five hundredth time. And the suitcase is placed in a corner of the room where it will stay until my departure. It is a too familiar a refrain of an old song to which we dance.
“I have not heard of a New York Times reporter by the name of…”
“Slut”, I interrupted.
“…Get off a plane in LaGuardia. Well, that explains that,” he says.
“Whose is she? Is she yours or mine?” I asked.
“Oh, quite yours, my boy.”
“I’m only your boy if I’m in your will. Please, make sure there is a codicil that can’t be altered, stating it is your wish I inherit everything,” I said. “A notarized copy of your will will do. What is she doing on my island?”
“Oh, she had been poking about, first at the local BDSM munch scene, then she made rounds at the club scene. Finally, she answered the right personal ad on an electronic bulletin board and she came to my attention. After I learned she was a reporter looking for a follow up story about seventeen Korean women who were found starved to death locked in a container on a ship on the Hudson and determining she had submissive tendencies, I sent her to you. She’s not back, so my instincts were right.”
“Your instincts suck, but, yes, she did enter the parlor and ask to stay so I have another fly in my bottle. Do you have someone in mind to training her for?”
“No,” he said flatly. “She’s a corporate asset.”
“She’s no asset and soon I’ll be sending her back to her old life. I doubt she’ll be believed that she was the property of a white slave ring, trained for sex and servitude; I think that is the slant she is trying to give the story. What will happen is that she will come back fit, tanned, and healthier than when she left and, hopefully, she will get fired for taking a trip to Hawaii on expense account and taking a holiday.” I laughed. “If you don’t see her again back in New York then I’ll let you know when her auction is. In the meantime, do you mind not making my operation sound like one of your enterprises? It’s not my problem you won’t take that shit pot of money over there and get the greatest return on venture capital in the world.”
He smiles weakly and sighs. “Michael,” he says this slowly, “I won’t and can’t take credit for your achievements. I don’t need that money nor do I want it. You have made your own way and while it’s true that it would have been impossible without my assistance, that loan has been paid off for a very long time. I get is a ringside seat to one of the most interesting spectacles in the world; a businessman who trades in the most precious as well as the most worthless commodity in the world, human life. I won’t let you take that away from me and I won’t relinquish my seat. That point aside, who else could be the front man for an operation like this, even if it is an honorary title?” He stands, starts for the door, and then turns back to me.
“My sources tell me Fuentes is your man tonight.” Before I can acknowledge, he turns and is gone.
* * *
I putter around the Wan Chi district for the rest of the afternoon, drink a few beers, eat lo mien and rice from a sidewalk vendor before I return to the hotel. I shower and take a short nap as my early morning with Sollie is now taking a toll. I awake feeling refreshed, dress in my tuxedo and go to Miss Singh’s room. I enter without knocking and find her sitting in a chair on the balcony watching at the skyline of Hong Kong in the dark as the endless neon signs illuminate the city. She is dressed in a saffron sari, her neck, wrists, fingers, ankles and toes all bedecked in golden ornaments. There is a half karat emerald in the center of her forehead and I have no idea how it is kept there. She looks like a Hindu goddess come to life directly from the adornment a temple wall. She turns when I speak.
“It’s time,” I say softly. She smiles, nods and comes to my side, touches the fingers of her right hand to my left forearm and I escort her from the suite, a half pace behind me, eyes downcast. Across the hall, we enter a conference room with nine chairs that contain nine men, all in tuxedos sitting around a polished conference table made to seat many more and I stop her at the head of the table.
From my left trouser pocket, I produce my trusty pocket knife and cut the sari quickly away from her body. Her bronze body is complimented by the gold baubles adorning her while her feet are bathed in a pool of yellow silk and she is now on display for all eyes in the room,.
“Gentlemen,” I begin. “Tonight, I give you a true flower of the Near East. She is 22 years old and speaks five languages with a native accent. She is compliant in all manner of servitude be it is domestic or sexual and she is healthy, fit and certifiably fertile. She has trained at The House of Singing Winds for the past 27 months and she is amenable to any and all fetishes and will obey without hesitation or reservation. If you desire, you may closely inspect the merchandise.”
For the next twenty minutes, the men come up singly, to inspect Miss Singh. They walk around her appraisingly, probing her vaginal and anal orifices with their fingers. They open her mouth and inspect her perfect teeth. They fondle her breasts both roughly and gently and twist her nipples cruelly to gage her reaction. One man gently taps her shoulder indicating she is to drop to her knees, which she does in a single, fluid motion, unzips his fly and retrieves his manhood, already standing at full attention. She worships his cock, the center of his universe, for several minutes greedily with her mouth before he exclaims “Exquisite!” and withdraws his member and watches as rope of saliva connects them. I see a momentary look of disappointment in her eyes.
One gentleman turns her to lay her on the conference table. He brings his fingers to her lips to allows her to wet then and then slowly, but methodically, works first his fingers in and out of her shaved pussy and then his entire hand until he is fisting her violently. He never takes his eyes off her face as he watches her slowly slip away into the nirvana of subspace. I am quite surprised when after taking his fist from her cunt, he takes a few moments to provide her a little aftercare before standing her back in her original position. The final gentleman, after a through inspection asks in a thick German accent, “What about animals? Will she do animals?”
“Sir, as I said, she is amenable to all fetishes and will perform without hesitation or reservation.
“If there are no further questions, I would like to take a moment and have you referred to the documents at your seats. The House of Singing Winds holds a reserve bid of five million dollars on this property and that the successful bidder must agree to weekly inspections for the first six months of ownership and yearly thereafter. This property is guaranteed to perform as specified and within the first two years, any monies will be refunded if the customer is dissatisfied.” That little clause has never been exercised.
With no further questions, I open the bidding. The auction lasts for nearly ten minutes with no lulls in the action. As Malestrom had predicted, Mr. Fuentes, who has a monopoly on computer technology in Buenos Aires with offices in New York and London, closes the bidding at seventy million, six hundred thousand dollars.
The next morning, Miss Linda Singh boards a flight for New York where she is met by a limousine that takes her to Danbury, Connecticut where she will operate a small candle shop and be visited by a married South American businessman three or four times a week. She will live in devoted, contented servitude for the remainder of her life. Thanks to the profits from her small shop and the generosity of her Master, she will never touch a penny of the money deposited in her name in Hong Kong.
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