The Fifth Avenue Series Boxed Set (23 page)

Harold looked out a window and watched a scene that was so far removed from his life on Fifth Avenue, it disquieted him.

People were scoring crack, dealing crack, doing crack—among a host of other drugs.
 
He saw an elderly woman slump against the side of a deserted bus and tie a rubber tube to her upper arm.
 
He looked away before she could inject the heroin and glanced at the building that was to his right.
 
He checked the address to make sure this was the correct place, saw that it was and told the driver to return in three hours.

“Wait for me if I’m not here,” he said to the man, and stepped out of the car just in time to see a van and two Bentleys slowing to a stop in front of him.
 
Harold thought the cars looked ridiculous here.
 
It wasn’t often that this part of town saw automobiles worth $500,000.

But that was part of the fun.

He entered the building.
 
Inside, leaning against a yellowing wall, was a tall, dark-haired man dressed in tight black leather pants and nothing else.
 
He was handsome and built, his face and chest clean-shaven, his nipples pierced.

The man lit a joint, inhaled deeply, held the smoke and exhaled it in Harold’s face. Nothing was going to hurry him.

He cocked his head towards the briefcase in Harold’s hand.
 
“That your membership card?”

Harold nodded.

“Then hand it over.”

Harold did as he was told and parted with ten thousand dollars.

He walked up a flight of stairs.
 
The lights were dim and trippy dance music pounded down at him from the floor above.
 
Faintly, he could hear someone screaming, then laughing, then crying.
 
A woman…?

He climbed the stairs faster, the familiar rush of excitement beginning to flood his senses.
 
The second floor was an empty shell.
 
The windows were closed and blackened with spray paint.
 
The track lights were soft spots of red that strobed in time with the music.
 
Metal cages filled with naked, writhing bodies acted as walls.
 
The air was a heady mixture of alcohol and sweat.

Harold joined a line of men and women removing their clothes and handing them over to the clothes check.
 
He recognized a famous actor, the CEO of a powerful conglomerate, a U.S. Senator, two priests.
 
He began unbuttoning his shirt.

The place was crowded.
 
He moved naked through the room, nodding at men with secrets, with pasts—men like himself.

In one of the steel cages, a man was wrapped in plastic from head to foot.
 
Soon his master would start the bandaging.
 
Beyond the steel cage was a wading pool.
 
In it lay a woman on her back who was staring up at the circle of ten men masturbating above her.
 
In shadowy corners, solitary men high on whatever drug was circulating preened, posed and prowled.
 
And finally, in the last steel cage, was Harold’s reason for being there.

The man standing beside the black leather sling was naked save for the executioner’s hood he wore.
 
He was tall and grossly overweight, his back and chest covered with coarse dark hair.
 
A single latex glove was stretched up his right arm.
 
It glistened with lubricant.

Harold nodded at the man as he approached.
 
As he settled himself into the sling, thoughts of Helen, George and Leana shot through his mind.
 
He thought of his three kids, of his life at Redman International.
 
And then he winced as the man began pressing inside of him.

He began to perspire.
 
His eyes watered.
 
He felt a sudden flash of guilt and was about to stop this when the man held a coke inhaler to his nostril.

Harold met the man’s gaze and breathed in deeply.
 
There was a medicinal rush and he nearly gagged.
 
He hadn’t snorted cocaine since the night of the party—just moments before he danced with Leana.
 
The fact that she had noticed a change in him and suspected something was still too difficult and terrifying for him to believe.
 
If anyone learned of his other life, Harold wasn’t sure what he would do.

He took another hit off the inhaler.
 
And another.
 
He felt no pain now, only a sweet, gray, misty bliss.
 
This wasn’t just coke.
 
It was laced with something else.
 
Harold welcomed it.
 
He started to float.

He focused on the man standing above him and saw only his dark eyes framed by the black hood.
 
Harold thought they were the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen.
 
He tried lifting a hand to remove the hood, but in spite of the floating sensation, his arm was oddly heavy and he could lift it only a few inches from the sling.

And so he just closed his eyes.
 
He was sailing now, his body on a higher plain.
 
He had waited four weeks for this, four long weeks, and he was pleased to be here, happy to have spent the money.
 
It was all worth it.

*
  
*
  
*

“How’d you like me to ram my cock up your ass?”

Standing at the rear of the dimly lit room, his back to one of the metal cages, Vincent Spocatti turned away from Harold Baines only long enough to look at the woman standing beside him.
 
She was tall, fit and attractive.
 
In this light, her hair was red and it curled around the tips of her naked breasts.

“It’ll make you scream.”

He was aware of the woman’s hand moving between her legs.
 
Spocatti looked down and saw the enormous dildo jutting from the harness around her waist.
 
It was black and slick with lubricant and God knows what else.
 
Her hand stroked it in time with the music.

“You’ve got rhythm,” he said.

“I’ve got more than that.”

“Talent?”

“I’ve been told that.”

“Too bad I need to pass,” he said, running a finger along his lower lip.
 
“I like a brown mouth.”

“No worries,” she said.
 
“I’m not into that, anyway.”

Though she was trying for the gutter, the tone of her voice carried with it a whiff of privilege and sophistication.
 
He wondered who she was when she wasn’t just the pretty woman with the fake cock.
 
He nodded toward Harold, who was writhing, peaking.
 
“I think my friend over there would love to have a piece of you.”
 

The woman squinted through the flickering red light.
 
When she saw Harold, recognition flashed on her face and her hand stopped caressing the rubber penis.
 
She stared at Harold.

“Your friend is an asshole,” she said.
 
“Two months ago, he pissed on me after I told him not to.”

Spocatti felt a spark.
 
“Just the piss?”

“That’s enough.
 
It crosses a line.
 
It’s not for me.”

“We all have our limits.
 
How long ago was this?”

The woman shrugged.
 
“I don’t know. Two months ago?”

“How often does he come here?”

“
Here
?”
 
She looked at him quizzically.
 
“This is our first time here.”
 
She tilted her head.
 
“Are you new to this?”

Spocatti admitted he was.

“We move around a lot,” she said.
 
“Have they told you that?”

“Not yet,” he said.
 
“The other group I belong to has one specific place they meet.”
 
He let a beat of silence pass.
 
“How often have you seen him in places like this?”

“You make our club sound like a disease.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Are you a cop?”

“No,” Spocatti said.
 
“I’m definitely not a cop.”

“You’d have to tell me if you were.”

“I’m not a cop.”

“Then why all the questions?
 
What is this?
 
A fucking inquisition?”

He was about to speak when she held up a hand.
 
“Never mind,” she said.
 
“I don’t want to know.”
 
She removed the dildo from her vagina and pointed it at Harold Baines. “I’ve been a member of this club for years—and so has he.”

She turned to leave.
 
“If you don’t mind, I’m going find somebody who came here to fuck, not talk.”

As she walked away, Spocatti glanced with bemusement around the room, seeing things he’d only heard about, only read about, but had never actually seen.
 
The thought that these people, these members of New York society, had paid actual money to come here was laughable to him.

To gain entrance, all Vincent had to do was show the doorman his gun.

He returned his attention to Harold Baines.
 
The man was moaning now, his head lolling from side to side.
 
Spocatti checked his watch and wondered how much longer Baines would be.
 
He hoped not too much longer.
 
Vincent wanted to tell Louis Ryan everything by nightfall.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The young man who worked for Redman Place glanced down at the three cardboard boxes stacked in the entryway of Celina’s apartment.
 
He picked up two, calculated their weight to be around sixty pounds apiece, looked at the rest of the boxes and then looked back at her.
 
“He came back from Redman International an hour ago.
 
I just finished helping him carry a bunch of boxes up to his apartment?”

Curiosity flickered in Celina’s eyes.
 
What would Eric be doing at Redman International on a Sunday?
 
“How many boxes?”

“Eight?”

“Do you know what was in them?”

The young man shrugged.
 
“Office supplies?”

“Office supplies?”

“Maybe not.
 
I don’t know.
 
I only caught a glimpse.”
 
He looked at his watch.
 
“Look, Miss Redman, if I’m going to deliver these boxes to him, I should probably get going.
 
My break’s over in another ten minutes.”

Celina turned to the table beside her and reached for her purse.
 
She removed a $50 bill, glanced at him, and then removed another.
 
“Don’t worry about being late,” she said. “You work in receiving here, don’t you?
 
I’ll phone Jake and tell him to give you the rest of the day off—with pay.”
 
She handed him the money.
 
“And this is for you.
 
Thanks for the information, Dan.
 
I appreciate it.”