Hypno Harem 2: Harem-Scarem! (9 page)

D
inner
was meatloaf with green beans and a squash casserole. It was tasty enough. In their months together, Daisy and the others had acquired some proficiency at cooking but Woody was—as always at mealtimes—just a little disappointed. And as always, he kept it to himself. The food was okay, nourishing, well-cooked but it was so…
ordinary
.

Before he’d acquired a harem, Woody had never given much thought to the dining habits of a Harem Master and his slaves. One summer when he was a teenager, he’d come across a stack of his father’s old
Playboys
in a box in the basement. He’d spent June and July goggle-eyed over Miss September, Miss November, Miss December and all the other fold-outs of the month.

There were also photos of Hugh Hefner—“Hef”—in the Playboy Mansion. There was Hef in his famous silk pajamas on his famous round bed accepting a martini from a girl in a Bunny outfit; Hef playing billiards with Dean Martin while the bunnies handed them ashtrays and drinks; Hef discussing literature with Norman Mailer while a bunny lit his pipe. Ever since Hugh Hefner had been Woody’s model of the perfect Harem Master.

He couldn’t recall any photos of Hef having supper, but somehow he doubted Hef ever ate meatloaf and squash casserole. More likely he dined on venison or shark steak or aged cheese from a cave in France, always served with a rare vintage. The rare vintage served at tonight’s meal was Lipton iced tea, milk for Berta.

“Master, what did you think of our dance number?” Daisy asked. Brownie and Happy looked up from their plates.

“It went over really big,” said Woody. “The crowd loved it.”

“But what did
you
think?”

“I liked— uh, I
loved
it. Very creative. Funny, too.”

“We rehearsed it for a week, three hours every day.”

“Is that so?” asked Woody, unsure if that was a lot of work or not very much.

“If we’d had two weeks, it would have been two hundred percent better,” said Brownie, taking a bite of green beans.

“We choreographed it ourselves,” said Happy, pouring herself some iced tea.

“If we’d worked with a real choreographer, it would have been
five hundred
percent better,” said Daisy, serving Berta another piece of meatloaf.

“Well, yeah, but did it need to be?” asked Woody. “Seems to me it was more than good enough for 4Play.”

“No, it’s
too
good for 4Play,” said Daisy.

“What do you mean?” said Woody, with the uncomfortable feeling he was falling into a trap.

“Do you know how much we’re making at 4Play?” said Happy.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Not counting tips, which you keep, each of you makes forty-five dollars an hour, which goes into our household fund.”

“Right. Thirty-five dollars an hour,” Daisy repeated sourly. “Do you know what we could make in Las Vegas?”

“No idea.”

“With that act, maybe seventy an hour. With a
real
act, one that we’d rehearsed over and over with a professional choreographer, two hundred an hour.”

Woody was surprised. “Really?”

“We’re good,” said Daisy, putting down her fork. “When we started out, it was just, well, because you wanted us to make money. It was fun, good exercise. It still is. We like the attention and Harry makes sure nobody hassles us.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear that.”

“But we don’t want to go on making forty-five dollars an hour,” said Brownie.

“We’re in our prime,” said Happy. “This is the time to capitalize on our assets.”

“Not to mention our asses,” said Brownie. “Five years from now, we won’t be 4Play’s headline act.”

“
Eight
years from now we’ll doing a novelty act with firecrackers like Dinah Might,” said Daisy. “If we’re going to make money,
now
is the time.”

“Well,” said Woody slowly, not sure where this was leading. “That makes sense.”

“But to get to Las Vegas, we need money,” said Happy.

“How much?”

“Fifteen, twenty thousand at least.”

“It doesn’t cost that much to fly to Las Vegas.”

The three of them looked at him like he was the dumbest person in the world. Woody wondered if their mental conditioning was wearing off. Maybe they needed a brain hacking tune-up.

Daisy spoke slowly. “When Happy says ‘get to Las Vegas,’ it’s like saying ‘get to Carnegie Hall.’ It’s the cost of putting an act together.”

“Okay, I get it,” said Woody, hiding his annoyance. “But we don’t
have
fifteen thousand dollars, much less twenty. All I have is a bank account with less than six thousand dollars plus my grant money, which is controlled by the university. That’s it.”

“You have the Lexus,” said Daisy casually.

“Which is less than a year old,” said Brownie casually.

“Bluebook value of at least thirty thousand dollars,” said Happy casually.

“What is this?” said Woody. “A conspiracy? You want me to sell
my
Lexus to finance
your
strip act?”

“The strip act was
your
idea, not ours,” said Daisy. “But now that we’re doing it, we want to make
real
money with it, not household change. You can sell the Lexus for enough to buy a good used car for yourself and enough for us to build a show that will put money in everybody’s pocket.”

When did I lose control?
thought Woody.

D
aisy
, Brownie and Happy dropped the subject, though Woody knew they’d raise it again. And again, until they wore him down. Unfortunately, the girls had a point. Right now he and they were getting by, comfortable with what they had, but they had to think of the future. Where would all of them be a year from now? Five years from now?

Privately, Woody wasn’t sure he wanted to live with three women, much less three women and a thirty-four-year-old little girl, for the next five years. However, he did have a responsibility to them – at least to Daisy, Brownie and Happy. He’d taken them out of college, disrupted their career plans, cut off their relations with other males. To simply discard them once they became inconvenient, that would be well, um, the
E
-word.

Dinner over, the girls started to clear the table. “Oh, gee,” exclaimed Happy suddenly. “Look at the clock! It’s later than I thought.”

“Uh-oh,” agreed Brownie. “So it is.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Woody.

“It’s Thursday. That's what’s the matter,” said Daisy. “We have an early show on Thursday.”

“Since when? You never did before.”

“Since Harry said so. Weekday attendance is down so now we do an extra show on Thursday to build it up.”

“Master,” asked Daisy. “Can we clean up after we get home? Otherwise we’ll be late.”

“You three go on,” said Woody magnanimously. “
I’ll
clean up.”

“You will?” said Daisy, open-mouthed.

“You’re so
sweet!
” said Brownie.

“I love you, Master!” said Happy.

“I do too!” said Daisy.

“We all do!” said Brownie.

Woody beamed like a sultan. All of a sudden he was a hero and a king to his slaves again, all for just a little kitchen cleanup. They were really good girls. They cooked, cleaned, did laundry, kept house, shopped, mowed the lawn, washed the car, spread their legs whenever he wanted and never complained. Well, not until lately. He might have to do something about that, but for now, everything was perfect, truly perfect.

Daisy hugged him. “Just for that, Master, I’ll be
extra nice
to you tonight!”

Happy frowned. “You slept with Master last night! It’s
my
turn tonight.” She pulled Daisy away and planted a wet kiss on his lips. “I’m going to make you
so happy
tonight, Master!”

“It’s
my
turn!” said Brownie. “Master skipped me last week because of… of
her
.” She pointed a trembling finger at Berta, who had been uncharacteristically quiet during dinner. “He said I could spend an extra night with him
this
week!”

“Well, you can’t have
my
turn,” said Daisy. “You can have Happy’s turn.”

“No, you can’t!” exclaimed Happy. “I’m keeping my turn.”

“Master, you
promised!
” wailed Brownie. “Tell them it’s
my
turn!”

“My turn!” said Happy.

“My turn!” said Daisy.

Woody wanted to put his hands over his ears but that was undignified for a sultan. “It’s
nobody’s
turn,” he said loudly. “I’m sleeping alone tonight. By myself!”

Daisy, Brownie and Happy stared at him in baffled disappointment, their faces filled with hurt.

“I, uh, have a headache,” Woody said, feeling oddly guilty. “Anyway, you three better get out of here. Go on. Vamoose!”

They tramped out of the kitchen and he busied himself clearing the table. A few minutes later he heard the sound of Brownie’s old Honda as it backed out of the driveway.

Berta was still seated at the table, strangely slumped in her chair.
What an unpleasant evening,
Woody thought. He’d managed to get crosswise with every female in the house. Well, now that he and Berta were alone, maybe they could spend some quality time together.

He knelt beside her. “Berta, sweetheart, you look a little down. Want some dessert?”

She shook her head, a strange expression on her face.

“What’s the matter? You can tell Daddy.”

“Berta have tummy ache,” she said and threw up all over him.

I
t was
well after 11:00 by the time Woody got Berta cleaned up, got himself cleaned up and got the kitchen cleaned up. She was in bed now, fresh out of the bath, her hair in braids, wearing her Minnie Mouse pajamas. She looked cute, Woody thought, thirty-four-years-old or not.

“Feel better now?” he asked solicitously.

“Uh-huh. I’m sorry I got you messy, Daddee.”

“Oh, well, that’s all over now.” He bent down to kiss her goodnight.

“Daddee, read me to sleep.”

“It’s late, Berta.”

“Please, Daddee.”

“Oh, all right. What do you—”

“I want to hear
Story
.”

“What story?”’

“You know,
Story
.”

“Oh,
that
story. Uh, well, are you sure? Last time I read you that book you got all, ah, worked up. I think it’s not a good book for sleepy time.”

“Please, Daddee, please? I want to hear
Story
. Just one chapter. Then I’ll go sleep. I promise.”

“Well, all right,” said Woody, not without misgivings. He went to the bookshelf and got the book. “Let’s see. Where were we?”

“She was on the floor. They made her get up.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Woody found his place. “Here we are.” He pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. Berta’s eyes twinkled with excitement. She pulled the cover up to her neck. “Go on, Daddee,” she said.

Woody cleared his throat and began to read. “Then they made O get up and were on the verge of tying her, probably to attach her to some pole or wall, when someone protested that he wanted to take her right there on the spot. So they made her kneel down again, this time on the ottoman, binding her wrists and ankles to its legs. Sir Stephen told her that this once she would not be blindfolded because they intended to whip her afterwards and he wanted O to see herself flogged in the mirror opposite. She would not however see his face or that of anyone else since they would don masks for the occasion.…”

I
t was
late Friday night when Jong pulled into Alpha Mini-Storage. He entered the security code at the gate, drove inside and parked the car. He and Mung walked to the row marked “H,” then turned and continued until they reached unit 156. Mung knocked on the metal door: three fast taps, pause, then two more.

“Happy,” said a voice within.

“Birthday,” said Mung.

A moment later, Sook opened the door and they went inside.

The interior was dim, lit only by an overhead bulb. It smelled of cigarette smoke and sweat. There was little in the way of furniture, just four straight chairs and a table with two packs of cigarettes, an ashtray, kitchen knife, wire cutter, scissors, pliers, clamps of different sizes and an auto battery.

A naked Jana Blond sat in one of the chairs, bound with white clothesline and gagged with duct tape. She had a black eye and several bruises and burns on her body. Electric cord connected to the battery was taped to her breasts.

“Any trouble?” asked Sook.

Mung shook his head. “We take them to Ship Channel, tie cinder blocks to bodies. They sink fast.” He giggled. “Frenchman still alive.”

“Not any more,” said Jong. “Any trouble here?”

Sook shook her head. “Jana Blond perfect guest.”

Jong smiled. “So nice of you get this space for us, Ms. Blond. Very convenient. Thank you!”

Sook snickered. Mung put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. Jana tensed noticeably. She made a sound under her gag.

Sook smiled. “Jana Blond say, ‘
You welcome
.’ She say,
‘So clever you find tracking device and lay trap for us.’”

Jana made another noise. Sook pretended to translate. “She say, ‘
Thank you not kill me.’”

“Oh, no kill you, Ms. Blond,” said Jong. “You useful. For now.”

Mung walked to the prisoner and took the cigarette from his mouth. He held the lit end near her face. “You like smoke, Jana Blond?”

Jana’s screwed her eyes shut.

“Open eyes, please, Jana Blond,” said Mung coldly.

Jana reluctantly opened her eyes. Mung curled his lip in contempt and tossed the cigarette to the concrete floor, where he ground it out. He touched a finger to the corner of her right eye, then held it up for Jong and Sook. His fingertip glistened in the dim light.

“Little tear!” Mung exclaimed. “Number one spy Jana Blond big crybaby!”

“Oh, please no hurt me!”
said Sook in a high falsetto voice
. “I be good girl. I be good!”

“I think Jana Blond lonely,” said Jong. He stroked her short platinum hair. “You no worry, Ms. Blond. Soon you have plenty company.” He turned to Mung. “We need more chairs. Also rope.”

Mung nodded. “Also tape.”

“Yes, yes. Not want disturb neighbors.”

“I get tomorrow.”

“Good. Tomorrow very busy day.”

Another tear formed in Jana’s eye. The three Koreans tittered as they watched it trickle down her cheek.