I had vague memories. Sara rushing in and screaming. Madeline falling on me with sobs. Then rough, fearful voices. Being carried down the stairs. I recalled a stranger’s car and being dumped at a hospital, a small, dingy hospital in Brookline, not a nice place at all.
Then nurses and doctors, bandages and broken bones. Then sleep.
When I awoke, Jenny sat beside my bed and held my hand, my good hand, the hand not in splints.
“Hi sweetie,” I said through a bandaged face and swollen lips. “I bet I look ugly.”
She didn’t agree or disagree. Nor did she smile or frown.
“I was the emergency contact in your cell phone,” she said in a flat voice. “When they called and said that my friend ‘Amber Darling’ had been in an accident, I guessed it was you.”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Were you raped?”
That was a complicated question. I certainly felt raped. The Painter, the Engineer, they got their rape — by any other name. “Not exactly,” I said. “I got beat pretty bad, though.”
She released my hand and stood.
“I didn’t tell them you were a cop. They called the cops though, the hospital, when they saw your injuries. They want to question me.”
“Don’t. It would blow my cover.”
She walked to the door. “I guess now that you’re awake, they can just talk to you and decide if a crime occurred.” She paused, facing away from me. “Speaking of which, did a crime occur? Or was this just part of the game?” She worked the latch on the door.
“Jenny…”
“Yes?” She still faced away.
“I’m sorry.”
There was another long pause.
“By the way,” she said, “your new necklace, the one with the heart, they said they had to cut it off, that it was soldered on. It’s in your purse in the drawer.” I looked at the drawer. “It’s very pretty. Did a man or a woman give it to you, solder it onto you?”
I didn’t answer that. She opened the door. “The last time, the Mill’s case, I accepted that. I stood by you through it all, all the ugliness, all the sex.”
She really didn’t need to continue. I remembered every horrible moment of the Mill’s case, and I knew all that she would say. But still, she said it.
“But it was with men, and I understood why you had to do it, to get inside. But after they raped you, shot you, and dumped you in the river, I thought that you’d learned, that you’d given your share — more than your share — and that it had taken too much from me.”
She walked through the door.
“I won’t go through that again.”
It was difficult with all the tubes, bandages, and splints, but I got my purse from the drawer. From it, I got my phone. I dialed Green’s number.
He answered, “What’s up? Make it fast, I’m in a deposition.”
“I’m in the hospital. It’s bad.”
“Hold on.” I heard him muttering something to whoever he was with. Then there was a pause. I heard a door close. “Alright. Tell me everything.”
I told much, about the party, about the Painter, the Engineer, and the little game they played. Still, nothing about Sara or Madeline.
An hour later, he arrived with Detective Scott in tow.
Green looked away when he saw my face. Scott studied me with a blank stare.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s go over this again.”
I gave it to them again, the abridged version.
“We’ve never heard of the Engineer or the Painter,” Scott said, “or anyone like them.”
“Whoever they are,” I said, “everyone at the party knew them and were afraid of them. I’m sure they’re our guys, and that the Painter is the strangulation guy.”
Finally, Green managed to look at me and study my beaten face. “So, I guess that the Engineer is the one who beats his girl to death.” Yeah, that seemed painfully obvious. “That leaves one question.”
We all kind of said it at the same time. “Who’s the cutter?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
I tried to shrug, but I’m sure it wasn’t obvious in the hospital gown and with all of my tubes. Green said, “So, anyhow, so far it’s a fine bit of police work, but you’ve done enough. Please consider this case over for you. Homicide has enough now to start digging.”
“Right,” Detective Scott said. “But still, I’ll need to know more about this Omega person, and the address where this party took place.”
I lay quietly until Scott became visibly annoyed. “She’s not going to tell me, is she?”
Green shrugged.
“She’s hiding something.”
“No doubt a girl,” Green said. He smiled when my face gave it away. “No matter. Homicide will make do with what it has. We won’t ask more from Detective Wimberly.” Next, he pulled a chair over next to the bed. “Now, for a serious matter. I assume you haven’t told the hospital staff who you are.”
“No.”
“And I expect they’ve asked how ‘Amber Darling’ is going to pay for all of this.”
“They’ve asked.”
“Don’t worry. You did the right thing keeping quiet, but I’m not letting an officer swing in the wind.” I didn’t say anything. “But still, if this goes through the normal channels, there will be all kinds of questions from all kinds of people, questions that will be tough to answer” — he paused — “for all of us.” Still, I stayed quiet. But he was correct. There’d been many unpleasant questions after the Mill’s case, questions that were hard to answer. “Anyhow, I’ll make some calls. Some kind of arrangements can be made. In the meantime, keep quiet. I’ll put some private feelers into the Norfolk DA’s office and see if he knows the director of this hospital.”
After their visit, I lay alone in my room for many days while I healed. Green’s calls must have worked, for no one bugged me about money, and the nurses seemed slightly nicer. Then I was ready to be released. Again, I called the councilor, they wouldn’t let me go unless I had a ride. When he arrived, they wheeled me to his car and he drove me home.
I checked the mailbox and removed a large pile. Then I climbed the creaky stairs to my cold, dark apartment. Jenny’s things were gone.
I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The bandages were off, but the bruises remained. The gaps in my smile remained. And around my eye, where they’d sliced into my face to set and pin the bones, the stitches remained. Some of that could be fixed, perhaps, by Green’s magic phone calls to the right people. But bridgework and plastic surgery could only do so much.
I’d seen women after similar beatings, it was part of my job. I’d never be pretty again. I’d probably never get a girl like Jenny again.
I went to my room, lay on my empty bed, and cried for a very long time.
The next day, I put on a big floppy hat and too much makeup and took the train up to Sara’s neighborhood. I walked through the crisp air along red-brick sidewalks under awkward looks. I arrived at her building and climbed the stairs. When I knocked on her door, there was no answer. I knocked again and waited. Then I tried my key. She’d given me a key.
The apartment was empty with a thin layer of dust. It seemed quiet, ominous, as if sadness lurked in the still shadows. When I checked her closet, the suitcases were gone. When I looked in the bathroom, their toothbrushes, deodorant, and other sundries were gone.
In a cabinet in the hallway, I found the toolbox with the solder gun. It was hard work alone, but I removed the necklace from my handbag and soldered it back on.
Then I left her apartment and strolled along to Lily’s place, where the party had been. I climbed the brick staircase to her heavy old door and knocked.
Lily answered. When she saw my face, she gasped.
“Please come in,” she said. She grabbed my elbow and pulled me, glancing each way down her street. “Did anybody follow you?”
“No. At least, not that I noticed.”
“Things have gotten really bad since that night. Sara’s hiding out.”
“Yeah. I was just at her place.”
“Look — ” She looked at me again and sighed. “Sara is with Madeline, staying at The Independence Hotel. Do you know where that is?”
I nodded. Everyone in Boston knew the Independence, an old jail turned luxury hotel. I knew it better than many others, at least among we normal folk who could never afford to stay there. I’d sauntered through their lobby many times, wearing a tight cocktail dress and fishnets. I’d ridden the elevators — the desk clerks knew to let me right up — and met the unsuspecting johns in their rooms.
We all knew — it was no secret — that the desk clerks were just as quick to let the real call girls in. It was a game we all played.
“I know The Independence.”
“Okay,” she said. “Then check at the front desk for a Beverly Sommers. And Amber…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t get followed. She called for the Engineer and the Painter to be kicked out, and she might make it stick this time.”
“Oh?”
“Unless they kill her first.”
The doorman gave me an awkward stare, but he opened the door just the same. I walked across a small entranceway and proceeded up the escalator to the lobby. And the lobby, like the lobby of all posh hotels, was a thing to behold, at least half the allure of the place. It had been the central tower of the old jail. It climbed to a grand, gabled ceiling. Along its sides were may balconies looming over marble floors. It doubled as a restaurant and lounge, and its well-dressed patrons milled about or sat on cushioned chairs, sipping cocktails, lolling away the cold Boston morning. I strutted directly to the desk. If anyone recognized me, I’d have been surprised.
As I neared, the desk clerk quickly hid his look of disdain. They were good at that, desk clerks at luxury hotels. He rested his hands flat on the desk. “How may I help you?”
“I’m here to see Beverly Sommers.”
“Very good. Is she expecting you?”
“That’s complicated. Would you ring her room and tell her Amber Darling is in the lobby.”
He blinked. Then he picked up his phone and dialed, and no doubt I was not the strangest thing he’d seen that week. After a brief conversation, he said, “You can go right up. Room 1134.”
I went up.
They must have waited by the door, for as soon as I drew near, it popped open and Madeline rushed out. But when she saw me, got a good look at my brutalized face, she stopped short. Her eyes got wide. Horror. “Oh Robin!”
Sara stood in the doorway and watched.
“Hi Madeline,” I said. “I’m sorry — about how I look.”
She stepped back, reaching behind for her aunt.
“Madeline!” Sara said.
The girl stood, poised between me and Sara. I pulled the brim of my hat down over my face. She began to cry. “Oh Robin!” It came out between sobs. Her whole body seemed to slump.
Sara stepped out and glanced back and forth down the hall. “Please come inside.”
I put my hand on sweet Madeline. “Come on, dear, let’s go inside.”
Madeline kept crying, but she let me lead her in. Sara closed the door behind us. Then she stepped up behind me and got close. She touched me, just on the arm, but a touch all the same. “I’m so sorry Robin.” I reached behind and searched for her hand. I found it. She squeezed. “Let’s sit.”
I led Madeline to the bed and we sat side by side. Sara pulled up a chair opposite us and plopped down. She looked up at me, at the brim of my hat.
“Can I see?”
I took off the hat and set it next to me on the bed. Then I looked directly at Sara. She looked directly back.
“That’s gonna leave a mark.” She let half-smile cross her face. Then she let it drift away when I didn’t return the smile. Her look turned serious. “I see.”
We looked at each other. Madeline fidgeted.
Then Sara turned to her niece. “Madeline, dear, how do think Robin feels right now?”
Madeline shrugged, but didn’t say anything. Sara gave her a hard stare and arched her brows. A moment passed, then Madeline said, “Bad.”
“Right. She probably feels bad. How do you think it made her feel when you looked at her and stepped away?”
Madeline didn’t have to think too long. “Worse.” She touched my hand. “I’m sorry Robin.”
Sara went on. “Sweetie, how do you feel about Robin?”
Now Madeline was looking up at me, directly at me and all my damage. “I love her.”
“Right. We love her.” There were still tears around Madeline’s sweet blue eyes. Soon, there were tears around mine. Sara rose and came to me. She kissed my swollen lips.
“Madeline, give our beloved slave a kiss.”
Sara sat back in her chair. Madeline swung over, straddled my lap, and kissed me hard, hard enough to hurt. But I didn’t stop her. Pain from her was such a sweet thing. My eyes closed. Feelings — soft feelings of love and warmth — covered me. My hands crept down and rubbed her bottom, raised her skirt. We kissed for a long time. We only kissed.
There’s nothing wrong with kissing. Her body was so small and lovely.
Sara explained The Culture to me, its genesis, its structure, its rules, and how they were enforced.
It began with the clubs and sex parties. Certain people were more serious than others and, frankly, more wealthy, more beautiful. And like all scenes, there was the endless back and forth of knowing the right people so to get invited to the right places on the correct nights and be seen with, again, the right people. Around this, The Culture formed, first as an informal network, then as an actual online mailing list. There were culture parties, and getting invited to one was the great ambition of anyone in the scene. Being a member — some would give their lives to become a member.
Sara had been a member a long time. She was beautiful, poised, and a wonderful mistress. She knew the edges of pleasure and pain, and how to bring a person there. Plus, she fucked like a tornado.
The Engineer and the Painter were also long time members. They had that brutality that a certain sort of woman found attractive, and that other men naturally yielded to. They were into extreme bondage and abuse. So, it was inevitable that they would get invited into the group. They satisfied certain appetites. However, like all such men, they satisfied their own appetites first, and theirs were insatiable. They grew in power and violence, and none had the courage to stop them.
There was another powerful man in the group, the Professor. He was older, but inspired as much fear as the younger men. He had money, a great deal of money. He could, it was said — and Sara turned very serious when she told me this — buy a killing.
Sara wouldn’t explain, but I got the impression that he’d bought one or two before.
“A lot of folks have complained about the Mechanic and the Painter, but until now they’ve never gone too far,” she said as we sat in her room with my darling Madeline by my side — and my beautiful Sara sitting before me.
“You think he can do something?” I asked.
“Yes. I don’t think the Mechanic or the Painter would cross him. If he orders them out, they’re out. If they do the slightest thing to annoy him, they’re dead.”
Honestly, I wouldn’t mind that. But still…
“I’m a cop, don’t forget that. My job is to get a murder rap on them, not to get them killed.”
Sara shrugged. “Then get your murder rap.”
“I’m working on it. Do they have names?”
“Everyone had a name, dear, but they do a good job keeping their secret.”
Which made me wonder, who was ‘Beverly Sommers’?
“But you’re really ‘Sara’?”
“Yeah. I never bothered to stay hidden.”
“‘Beverly Sommers’?”
She smiled. “Just because I didn’t use a fake name, doesn’t mean I don’t have one or two available. When you live as I do” — she glanced at Madeline — “you take precautions.”
We sat. Madeline said, “I want them killed. ‘specially the Mechanic.”
“If he finds us,” Sara said, “he might kill us first. So we wait.”
“For what?” I asked.
“The Professor to decide.”
So we sat quietly. After a bit, Sara said, “Robin dear…”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to make you come. I think you need it.”
“Oh god I do.”
And she did, with her fingers and tongue. It came over me fast, just a little nibble for her, but I fell far. While I squirmed and cooed, while I slid into that perfect place, Madeline sat next to me on her knees and fingered her own sweet pussy into bliss. Then we all collapsed together in bed. Sara touched my slave necklace and smiled. “Didn’t they remove this at the hospital?”
“Yes.”
“You put it back on?”
“Yes.”
We kissed and kissed. Even broken and ugly, I was loved, I was loved perfectly.
Oh Sara. Oh Madeline.
Later, after a long nap, and a bit more playtime between Sara and me, her phone rang. She grabbed it and, when she saw the number, quickly answered, “Hello?” Then she seemed to listen while someone spoke. Soon, she began to answer with short phrases: “yes,” “no,” “she’s here,” and so on. Then her answers became very abrupt. “Alone? She’s my slave. I should be there.” Then she hung up and looked my way. “Sweetie,” she said, “the Professor wants to see you — alone.”
He wanted to meet in a public place, a small restaurant on Newbury Street, and while I hadn’t heard of it — Vincetti’s — it was no doubt like all places in that neighborhood: small, lovely, and posh.
“He says to ask at the front for Carlos,” Sara said to me as I got ready. When I stepped to the door, she rushed and gave me another kiss. “Just tell him what happened to you, sweetie. It’ll be fine.”
Madeline squeezed my hand.
It was far, so I took the subway. I had to switch trains.
The restaurant, like many on Newbury, was beneath street level. A half flight of stairs led down to a glass door. Next to that, in a small hollow area set off by a rail, a window looked up to the street above. If you stood and looked out that window, your eyes were level with the passing feet.
I descended, entered — setting off a little chime — and found myself before a tall, black maitre d’ with black slacks and a stiff white shirt. “May I help you?” He asked.
“I’m here for Carlos.”
“Ah, you must be Amber. Follow me.”
He turned about, vaguely catlike, and strolled back into the small dining room, weaving among the closely set tables with white tablecloths and linen napkins. Several were empty. Three were occupied, two by couples — each pair spoke quietly while sipping wine from crystal — and the third by an older gentlemen. He smiled and stood as I was led to him.
“You must be Amber.”
“Yes. Hello. You must be the Professor.” I held out my hand. He took it and gave a gentle squeeze.
“Please sit,” he said. We sat.
The maitre d’ disappeared back to the front of the place. Soon, our waiter in a white apron arrived. The Professor instructed him to bring a bottle of wine — he detailed a specific vintage — and some bread. The waiter disappeared.
“Nice place,” I said.
“Indeed.”
Moments later, the wine and bread arrived. The wine was opened, sniffed, tasted, poured, then set on the table between us. Few words were exchanged. Soon, we were again alone.
He motioned to my glass of wine. “Please try it.” I drank. It tasted like every other glass of wine I’d ever had. “What do you think?” he asked.
“It’s good. But I’m not really a wine person, so I wouldn’t know if it wasn’t.”
“Pity.” He took a deep gulp.
I studied him. He was a thin man with a small, compact frame. His brown hair was graying, but not yet gray. His eyes were a deep golden brown, and while I was expecting someone of the Boston Brahmin cast, there was something vaguely Latino about him, a certain softness to his features that I thought might quickly turn hard. There weren’t many wrinkles on his face yet, except along his eyes.
“So,” I asked, “what are you a professor of?”
He took another gulp of wine. Then he lifted the glass and swished it about, gazing as it spun. “Human folly.” His eyes glinted and he got a smug grin, as if amused by his own wit. I wasn’t impressed. “And you,” he went on, “besides being a desperate fuck toy, what do you do with yourself? — Amber Darling?”
Now it was my turn to sip the wine and slowly answer. “A little of this. A little of that. I’ve been a secretary. I’ve worked retail.”
“I see. So, nothing of substance.”
“If that’s how you wanna see it.”
He shrugged. Then he said, “So, the Engineer and the Painter played rough with you.”
I squinted at him, not feeling much like being confrontational, but that seemed to be how he wanted to play it.
“No. Not rough. I wanted to play rough with them. I was ready for good, long, and very rough fucking. But they weren’t playing. They wanted to brutalize me.”
“And your mistress Sara just let it happen?”
Actually, my dear mistress Sara had told me not to go with them, but I hardly wanted to say that.
“What could she do?”
Again, he shrugged. “I don’t know, but to the strong go the spoils. If she can’t protect her slave, perhaps you need a stronger master.”
He motioned with his hand. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed that the maitre d’ was locking the door. The other couples, who had been sitting, chatting, sipping wine, were no longer there. I hadn’t even noticed them leave.
I began to rise from my chair, but the maitre d’ and the waiter both appeared behind me. Then, the Professor motioned to me. “Please sit, dear. You’ll be happier, I think, the quicker you realize that you really have no choice in any of this. No choice at all.”
I sat back down and sipped my wine. He smiled. “Very good. Very, very good. You, my dear, are the plaything of powerful men. It’s best if you don’t resist.” He reached and touched my hand, the one that rested on the table, the one in splints. My other hand held my glass. “In fact, I suppose it can be quite blissful to submit, to just feel, mindless, like an animal.”
He rose and walked around the table. Then he reached out and touched my face, my cuts and stitches, my bruised lips. “And I promise you, dear, soon you will feel a great many things.” He looked to the waiter and the maitre d’. “Bring her upstairs. Bind her.”
They put their hands on me. They were strong.
They bound me with ropes to a stout wooden chair. My arms were pulled tight behind me, my torso was secured to the chair back, and my legs were tied to the chair’s legs. Very tight. Then, after the Professor had inspected my bonds and ensured they were sufficient, he dismissed the maitre d’ and the waiter. We were alone in the shabby room. The walls were cracked plaster. The floors were splintered wood. In the center of the ceiling, a single light bulb hung from an exposed wire.
He said nothing. Instead, he pulled up another chair, set it facing mine, and settled himself down. For a while, for a long while, he sat and watched me with his warm brown eyes. Then there was a hard knock on the door.
“Well,” he said, “one of our guests is here. Shall we see who it is?”
I didn’t answer. He walked to the door and opened it. When it swung wide, it revealed a shadowy figure on the landing of the stairs. The figure entered, the Painter. Behind him, he dragged a girl. “Guess who I found skulking around outside.” His voice was a sneer.
It didn’t surprise me that the Painter had arrived. At this point, it was clear that the Professor was no friend. What did surprise me, however, what horrified me, was the girl who the Painter dragged with him.
She wore her little red velvet dress with its shiny brass buttons. Her hair fell in the loveliest ringlets. Her blue eyes darted around fearfully, taking it all in. My dearest Madeline.
“What a naughty girl,” the Professor said. “What shall we do to her?”
The Painter licked his lips.