William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“I will not have anything to do with this case. I told you before-”

“And I accepted it, before,” she said, cutting him off, “because I didn’t know what had happened. But now I do. I understand how you must feel. But joining in this defense is probably the last best hope you have to get over this. And if you refuse to help and this defense tanks, you will regret it for the rest of your life. You’ll be guilt-ridden and… well, pretty much just as you are anyway, only more so. Because you’ll know you could’ve helped, but didn’t. Because of something that-”

“I can’t believe that you would ask me to do anything for her!”

Christina looked up at him. “I’m not asking you to do it for her, Ben. I’m asking you to do it for me.”

Ben fell silent.

“We’ve been through a lot together, you and I. And I felt as if we’d gotten to know each other pretty well. All things considered.” She tossed back her curls. “At the same time, I’ve always felt there was some sort of-I don’t know-barrier between us. Something that prevented us from ever… oh…” She threw down her hands in frustration. “Whatever. The point is, I never knew what it was. But I do now. And I will never let it come between us again.”

“Christina…”

“Please, Ben. Please. For me?”

As they looked at each other, decades seemed to pass in the space of seconds.

After a while, Dee reappeared. “Another cup of tea, Ben?”

“No,” he said slowly, speaking to Dee but looking at Christina. “We need to get out of here. We’ve got a flight to catch. And a ton of work to do.”

The man sitting on the other side of the desk was wearing that same gray suit. “I don’t understand what the difficulty is. I’ve had nothing but good reports about you.”

Well, that was good to hear. Charlie the Chicken could still deliver.

“Do you have some complaint about the hours?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“I admit, I have kept you busy, but I thought that was what you wanted.”

“It was.”

“Is it the kind of work? The clients?”

“No. All that has been fine.”

“I know that last job was… somewhat unusual.”

That would be one way of putting it. If the words sick, twisted, and demented weren’t available.

And what a job it was. He’d known something was up from the moment he’d opened the door. For one thing, she wasn’t nearly as old or as unattractive as most of his new lady friends had been. And what was that thing she was wearing? Pink and diaphanous, it was like a sarong designed by Victoria’s Secret. She was very direct, forward, not a bit embarrassed. She took him not to the bedroom, but into the main parlor.

Where another woman was waiting.

“Would you mind taking off your clothing?” the first woman said, while the second, a brunette wearing a black teddy, giggled.

“I aim to please,” Charlie answered, and he complied. He’d thought they were ready to start the action, and was already envisioning how he would arrange things so he could delight them both simultaneously, dealing with the complexities of multiple breasts, a plethora of private parts…

“And would you mind putting this on?”

Charlie stared at the limp rag she held in her hands.

“If it’s not a problem. The man on the phone didn’t seem to think it would be.”

He took the thin leopard-skin loincloth from her and wrapped it around his hard thighs. Jungle-man suit, that’s what it was. Tarzan of the Bordello.

“Oh, wow. He looks good in it,” said the woman on the sofa.

“He looks good, period,” her friend replied. “Check out that six-pack.”

Would you like me to open my mouth so you can examine my teeth? he wondered.

“Just stay right there,” the woman on the sofa said. “Where I can see you.” She squealed. “Oh, Marcia. Did you see those muscles ripple?”

Her friend grinned. “Do you work out?”

“When I get a chance.”

“Well, your chance has arrived.”

“You want me to work out?”

“Sort of.” She handed him a long pink feather duster. “Start with the top shelves, would you? Work hard. Get all hot and sweaty.”

Ooo-kay… He went to work on the bookshelves just behind him. He wasn’t used to working in a costume, but he liked to think of himself as open-minded. “Hey, if you want, I can-”

The two women were shoving their tongues down each other’s throats.

If they wanted something, they’d let him know. Maybe a Tarzan yell or two. Whatever they needed.

Not much, as it turned out. As his workout-and theirs-progressed, he came to feel increasingly irrelevant. Not that they would let him leave. But they didn’t want him on the sofa. So he dusted down the living room for an hour or so while the two women pleasured themselves with a variety of techniques and implements, then collected his loot and got the hell out of there.

“They did pay you double,” the man behind the desk reminded Charlie. “One hundred each. Plus a very generous tip. Even after we remove our share, that still left you earning a per hour wage of-”

“I know,” Charlie said. “It’s not the money. I’m still desperate for money.”

The man made a minute adjustment to the lie of his desk blotter. “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I’m sorry. If you could just pay me what I’ve earned.”

The man sighed heavily and passed him the money. “All right, then. I’m sorry, too. Best of wishes.”

Charlie stared at the disappointingly small stack of cash. “Could you possibly loan me some money?”

“Pardon?”

“I have to blow town-and make sure I’m not followed.”

“Ah. Trouble with the law.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s just-”

“Charlie, I’ve offered you some wonderful opportunities to earn money.”

“I can’t wait. I’ve already screwed around way too long.”

He held up his hands. “Then I don’t see how I can help you.”

Damn everyone! he thought, as he made his way to the bus. How did he ever get started in this stupid business?

That question was easy enough to answer. Dean. He was the man who put me on the road to chickendom.

When Charlie had first left home, he’d had no idea where to go or what to do. The friend of a friend he was supposed to stay with bailed, and he couldn’t hook up with any theater groups. He was trying to decide whether to give up and go home when he heard that ultradeep voice behind him.

“You got a place to stay, kid?”

Dean was a big man, tough, wiry, with a voice like the Grand Canyon. He took Charlie to the Sizzlin’ Sirloin for a great meal. He was so warm, so sympathetic. Listened to all of Charlie’s stories-why he had to leave home, how he just couldn’t live with his parents any longer. Dean understood. Told him he could stay at his place. Which seemed like a great deal.

Until Charlie woke up in the middle of the night. In pain.

Dean was on top of him, hurting him, pinning him down, punishing him, tearing him. Charlie felt paralyzed; he’d never experienced anything so intense, anything so ungodly painful in his life. Dean’s hot breath was on his neck and his body was all over him and there was nothing Charlie could do about it.

When it was over, Dean rolled over and sighed. “Thanks, punk.”

Charlie should’ve left then and there. But where would he go? He had no money, no place to stay. Maybe those were just excuses. Maybe there’s always an alternative, but he sure as hell couldn’t come up with one.

A week later, Dean invited Charlie to meet some of his friends. Friends with similar interests. After a while, it didn’t hurt anymore. After a little longer, he was barely aware it was happening.