Уолтер Мосли - John Woman

“He knows all about it,” Cornelius said making sure to use the present tense. “And I’m sixteen now. This way he has somebody in there who he doesn’t have to give a raise for at least two years.”

“How many days a week?” the policewoman asked.

“Every day.”

“You never have a day off?”

“Uh-uh.”

“That would put Lorraine in even more trouble.”

“Why?”

“He broke the law having you there before you turned sixteen and then he has you on the job every day.”

“Please don’t tell,” Cornelius begged. “I need the job.”

“Don’t worry.” She sat back in her chair and grinned. “I do missing persons not child abuse.”

“I’m not a child.”

“I know.”

They talked about films after that. Cornelius had become an expert in silent films since taking his father’s job. He talked to her about great Russian films like Father Sergius and Song About the Merchant Kalashnikov. They also discussed little-known Asian works such as The Goddess and The Big Road. From there he started telling her how Europeans always had a better hold on culture because they spoke so many languages and their histories intertwined.

“Americans are so far removed from the actual events in their past,” the teenager said. “They don’t even know the basic lies that make up our history.”

“You sure you’re in high school?” Colette asked him.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You sound like you’re goin’ out for a master’s degree in about two or three subjects.”

“I read a lot.”

“Don’t you go dancing or play football or something?”

“Between school and work and my dad I don’t have very much time,” Cornelius explained.

“But what do you do for fun?”

“Having coffee with you is nice.”

Colette was the first friend Cornelius had since taking his father’s job. When they got together he would talk for almost the whole two hours before they each went off to work. They went to Uno three times before Colette suggested meeting somewhere else. She’d made up her mind not to tell her boyfriend about their friendship because Harry was the jealous type and might try to stop them from meeting. “... And I like seeing you,” she said.

They met on a Thursday in Alphabet City, at the corner of Avenue D and 2nd Street. Colette was carrying a picnic basket.

She led him past a dark green door, up a winding staircase to the fourth floor.

“Where are we going?” he asked.

“Right here,” she said as she worked a key in the lock.

The room smelled musty. There was only a short sofa and an end table. The wood floor was bare except for a small rope rug. A low-watt lamp tilted on the small table. Colette switched the light on after making sure the chain on the door was secure.

“Is this your place?” Cornelius asked.

“No... well, kind of... It’s the precinct’s apartment. Anybody can come here if they want to get away.”

She reached into the basket and brought out two paper cups of coffee.

“Just like the coffee shop but at half the price,” she said. “Sit down.”

Cornelius did as she told him. She sat with her back to him and pushed her thick hair aside.

“I’ve been wanting you to massage my shoulders again ever since that night at the Arbuckle,” she said.

Cornelius went right to work.

“Oh yeah,” she crooned. “That’s what I’ve been needing. Harry tries but he only does it for a minute and he doesn’t know how to grab the muscles like you do.”

Cornelius’s erection was almost instantaneous.

“Have you heard anything about Mr. Lorraine?” she asked.

Now he was fearful and excited at the same time. This brought back the night of the murder in full force.

“N-no.”

“What’s wrong, baby? You nervous?”

“Just concentrating on the massage.”

Colette leaned back against him and said, “Harder.”

He increased the pressure.

“Harder,” she said again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Cornelius replied. He was already doing the best he could.

“Do you think that you can hurt me?” she asked.

“Well, I, um.”

“Come on,” she dared, rising to her feet. “See if you can throw me.”

“Uh-uh.”

“No really. Try.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You scared?” Her smile was a challenge.

“No,” Cornelius said. “Well... okay.”

He stood up, held his arms wide then lunged at Colette. She ducked under his left arm, rose grabbing the wrist and tripping his left leg, putting him into an armlock facedown on the floor. Colette twisted around until she could wrap her legs viselike around his middle. This pushed all the air out of CC’s lungs. He thrashed around in fear of suffocation.

“Give?” she said.

Cornelius nodded.

“Say it.”

“I give,” he muttered.

Colette let him go, bouncing to her feet.

“You see?” she told him. “You can’t hurt me.”

“I wasn’t ready,” the boy complained. “I thought we were just playing.”

“You want to try again?”

This time he crouched down managing to grab her around the waist. But Colette twisted to the side, pulling him off-balance. He fell as her scissor-legs wrapped around him. This time she held him for the count of ten before accepting surrender.

“I could get you this time,” he said after catching his breath.

“No,” she said. “You can’t and you wouldn’t want to risk losing.”

“What do you mean I wouldn’t want to risk it?”

“The third win makes me the victor,” she said. “I’d own you.”

Cornelius leaped through the air intent on using surprise and his weight to bring her down. Colette sidestepped his charge and CC went sprawling. She fell on his back, twisted both of his wrists behind him and locked them together with what he suspected were handcuffs. He tried to get up but she grabbed his hair pressing his face to the floor.

“Stay down!” she commanded and he went still.

She reached around the front of his pants, unzipping them and pulling them down. Then he felt his underpants sliding down. Cool air caressed his backside.

“Stop it!” he cried.

She said nothing but he heard a rustling then he felt her bare skin against his. Suddenly her pelvis thrust forward and she bit his ear.

“You’re my boy now aren’t you, CC?” she said mid-thrust. “You’re my boy aren’t you?”

She rolled from side to side on his butt.

“Yes,” he said.

“Really, you’re my woman right now,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I’m your woman,” he said and she bit into his cheek.

Cornelius started to cry. At first it was just a gentle sobbing because his pride had been hurt.

“That’s it, baby. Cry for me,” she whispered and he blubbered into the dust-caked floor.

“Harder, baby,” she demanded, rhythmically pressing her pelvis against his backside.

Cornelius wept.

There was a dying man back home in bed and the dead man in the closet. His mother was gone and all he wanted was to cry: to holler and yell and kick the floor with his shoes. At one point he bucked Colette off, then went still expecting her, wanting her to mount him again.

“Get up.” She had to help him because of his bonds.

“Lie down on your back on the couch,” she said.

And he did.

“If it doesn’t stay hard I can’t fuck you.” Her skirt was on the floor already. She pulled off her top.

When she descended he felt something so smooth and so right that he actually gasped out loud.

Then they were both moaning, her nails digging into his right shoulder.

He was looking into her eyes when he came. She smiled and he came again. When it was over she kissed his brow.