William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

Even if the answers killed her.

Another day in the exciting life of Charlie the Chicken, he thought, as he strode through an elegant North Side neighborhood. Lovely homes-big palatial mansions, large enough to house everyone in his apartment complex with ease. The lawns were all perfect, as if they had been mowed with cuticle scissors. Rose bushes seemed to be the thing this year; everyone had them, in some cases in sickening abundance.

It was a lovely stroll, but Charlie wasn’t enjoying it. For one thing, he was working, so it would be a mistake to act as if he were out on some pleasure jaunt. Moreover, this was the first time he’d been outside, exposed, for more than ten minutes since he’d returned to Chicago. Not that he thought the person who was looking for him was likely to be hanging in this neighborhood. But you never knew. You couldn’t be too careful, not with someone like that. When he remembered what had been done to Manny-

He mentally erased the chalk from his brain. He needed to get in a happy mood. This was his first gig for the new service, and he wanted to do a first-rate job of it.

When he arrived at his destination, he had to stop and gape. This place was immense! Not just a house-more like a walled city. The lot had to be two acres, maybe more. It went on and on as far as the eye could see. Must’ve been oil, Charlie reasoned, made back in the days when oil tycoons were practically printing money. No one could afford to build a palace like this today.

He glanced down at his clothing, wondering if he had erred. He was wearing tight jeans, as usual-so tight they clutched the crotch and, quite frankly, made it difficult to walk. He couldn’t wait to get them off. Fortunately, he knew he would not have long to wait. And he’d gone with a white muscle T-shirt. Not exactly the standard attire for this part of town-unless maybe you were the gardener. Perhaps he should try to find the servant’s entrance?

Hell with it. This lady would be glad to see him. He’d checked himself out in the mirror before he left, and he looked damn good, if he did say so himself. He marched up a long paved walkway that led to the massive front door. He wondered: Would the door open, or would it lower like a castle drawbridge?

It opened.

“Are you Charlie?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then come in.”

She was pitifully thin-these rich wives tended to be-but at least she wasn’t decrepit. He wasn’t a good judge of age, but she couldn’t be older than her mid-fifties. And he supposed if he had to choose, he’d go with egret-frame before he’d tackle big-pig fat.

She led him directly to her bedroom, which did not surprise him. He wouldn’t have minded spending some time checking out the ungodly expensive furniture and art objects that cluttered every square inch of the house, but she hadn’t invited him over for a grand tour. Like most of the women in her social strata, she was all business.

She instructed him to remove his clothing, which he did. Then she tucked an envelope under his shirt. That was the cash up front, presumably. He supposed it would be gauche to count it.

“I’m fifty-two years old and I’ve never had an orgasm,” she said, sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed. “I think it’s about time. Don’t you?”

Isn’t this a chat you should be having with your husband? But Charlie knew that probably wasn’t an option. Scattered about the room were pictures of at least three kids so, Charlie surmised, it wasn’t that sex didn’t exist. More likely that Mister Big Business Missionary Position You’re Here to Service My Needs never bothered to ask his wife if she was enjoying herself down there. “I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

That wasn’t good enough. “I explained very carefully to your superior that what I wanted was an orgasm. That’s what I paid for.”

“And I’ll do my best.”

She still wasn’t satisfied, but happily she didn’t push it. “What should I do?”

“I’ll take care of everything, ma’am. You just lie there.”

Of course, he hadn’t meant it literally, but she took it that way. Or perhaps she was always like that, which might explain why her husband didn’t kill himself trying to bring her to sexual ecstacy. Whatever the reason, for the succeeding hour and fifteen minutes, the woman never moved. The Ice Princess lay flat on her back, elbows over her breasts, rigid. She was enjoying herself. He could tell that from the involuntary responses of her body. She was melting in all the right places. But she didn’t move. Only once did a small, high-pitched peep escape, and she immediately squelched it. Must’ve done something powerful there, Charlie thought. Make a note.

By using his experience-born powers of insight, he did get some glimmer of what the woman was into. She liked dirty talk, for instance. Once he started with that, her body gave unmistakable signs of being seriously turned on. And once he’d managed to forklift her under the covers, he took advantage of the Louis Vuitton silk sheets to slither around and across her body. She liked that.

He did, at long last, manage to deliver the Big O. He would’ve preferred to hear her cry out in ecstacy, but her wide-eyed, stunned expression was almost as gratifying. When at last he rested, flopping down onto the bed, she left. He was to give her ten minutes-presumably so she could dress without being seen-then let himself out. Which he did.

Talk about your noblesse oblige-the lady even left him a tip. A five-dollar bill tossed casually on his clothes.

Five dollars? He started to get very worried about what was in that envelope. Breaking away from tradition, he ripped it open right then and there.

Fifty dollars? Fifty frigging dollars? That was half of what he understood was the minimum. What was going on here? He works for more than an hour delivering her first taste of sexual pleasure and she stiffs him?

Goddamn it! He shoved the money into his pocket. He was going to have a talk with the boss. He felt certain he’d never find the woman; she was probably showering all traces of him off herself, assisted by six handmaidens and a eunuch or two. His share of the fifty dollars wouldn’t get him jack. And he’d wasted his whole day. He was tempted to grab some damn antique on his way out, but he knew that would only get him in worse trouble, perhaps thrown in jail. Or with this lady’s connections, maybe he’d just be executed on the spot.

Damn!

He threw himself out the front door, slamming it behind him.

And found himself staring at a smiling face. And a deadly weapon.

Charlie jumped three feet into the air. He fell back, clutching his chest, moving as far away as possible.

“I know what you are,” said the man holding the electric hedge cutter.

The gardener, Charlie said, trying to calm himself. Not the one he was running from. Just the gardener.

“If you came to talk to the missus, she’s busy. Try again later.”

The big man with the stubbled face continued to leer.

“I know what you are. I know what you did. I see you, through the big window outside the greenhouse.”

“There are laws against that sort of thing, pal.” He tried to push past the man, without success.

“Whore,” the man said, placing a finger on Charlie’s chest. “That’s what you are.”

“Look, if I scream, your mistress will come running, and you’ll be-”

“Cheap piece of ass.” Before Charlie knew what was happening, the man had slapped his hand against Charlie’s crotch and squeezed. “Get me some of that.”

“Leave me alone!” he said, futilely trying to push the man away.

“What you want? Money? You already got paid. Now deliver.” He squeezed all the harder. “I can hurt you, boy. Better if you cooperate.”