The Black Wolf

by J. A. Redmerski

  After we’re frisked, stripped of my gun, and swept for wires, Miz Ghita meets us at the door, dressed in a long black dress that hangs to her ankles, and enough jewelry on her hands and wrists and ears and around her turkey neck to feed two third-world countries. Around her head she wears a black knit hat of sorts with two black feathers affixed to one side.

  “Right this way, Mr. Augustin,” Miz Ghita gets right to it, which I appreciate.

  We follow her through the grand vestibule, past a towering statue of Venus of Arles and then another of Neptune with his trident and dolphin, and are led into the great hall where dozens of people are mingling, sipping glasses of wine and nibbling hors d'oeuvres—it’s exactly the kind of atmosphere I’d never go out of my way to suffer; all of the noses in the air, the smell of money and plastic tits and narcissism—I’m gonna need a carton of cigarettes, a fifth of whiskey and a Jackie when this mission is over.

  “Mr. Augustin,” Miz Ghita says in her rigid old woman voice, “this is Trevor Chamberlain; Trevor—Niklas Agustin.” I shake the short man’s hand. “He is CEO of The Chamberlain Corporation,” she goes on. “You may be familiar with it.”

  She’s testing me.

  I nod and say in German, “I’m quite familiar with The Chamberlain Corporation,” and look only at the company’s CEO when speaking. “It was the highest grossing in Munich last year—regardless of the scandal with the secretaries.” I offer Trevor Chamberlain a faint smile. “You’ll have to share with me your secrets sometime.”

  Trevor smiles at me likewise and says, also in German, “The secret, as you probably already know, is simply to have enough money to get one’s self out of anything.”

  We laugh lightly. Trevor sips his wine. I notice his eyes skirt Izabel. And then Nora.

  A seemingly young woman, middle twenties, walks up carrying a tray of wine glasses. She, like the other servants making their rounds, is dressed in a simple black dress that drops just above her knees. A piece of black fabric is tied around her tiny waist, lending shape to her hourglass form and lavish breasts. She wears no jewelry, no makeup; her little black shoes are flat-soled; she never looks me in the eyes, even when serving me. I take a glass of wine from the tray; she bows her head and turns to Izabel, offering her the same.

  Izabel looks at me first, smiles, bats her eyes. I nod and then she helps herself to a glass.

  But the servant girl doesn’t offer Nora the same luxury, and this confirms two things: she is the same as ‘Aya’, and the servant girl knows it, because a slave knows another slave just as sheep knows another sheep.

  I feel Miz Ghita’s eyes on the three of us, watching, waiting for one of us to fuck up.

  Just as the servant girl begins to walk away, I stop her.

  I hand my briefcase to Nora; she holds it with both hands down in front of her.

  “Girl,” I say, and she halts, turns slowly but stops to face Miz Ghita without looking directly at her.

  “Do as he says,” Miz Ghita consents, and then the girl turns to me, keeping her eyes to the floor.

  Miz Ghita listens; Trevor Chamberlain sips his wine—he looks at Izabel again, and then Nora.

  “Turn around,” I tell the girl.

  She turns around. Slowly, so I can examine her; carefully so she doesn’t drop the tray balanced on one hand. She has long dark hair, almost black, that dips past her waist; creamy light caramel skin; deep brown eyes, and full, plump lips that alone could set even the most insensible or calloused man on the brink of sexual beggary.

  “Lift one of the glasses,” I tell her.

  The girl does exactly as I say, curling the slender fingers of her left hand around the stem of one glass and lifting it. She holds it there, unmoving.

  “This one is not on the market, Mr. Augustin,” Miz Ghita speaks up.

  I take a casual sip from my glass and say without taking my eyes off the girl, “Anyone can be bought, Miz Ghita; ask Mr. Chamberlain here.” I take another sip. “Don’t you agree?”

  Trevor smiles a crooked smile and then joins me in checking out the girl.

  It’s important to bond with the buyers, especially in front of the sellers—the sellers don’t like it when the buyers bond because they tend to have words about the merchandise behind the sellers backs—or in front of them—point out the things they don’t like, confer and weigh the pros and cons, shed light on flaws that the other buyer might not have noticed otherwise. But this, too, is all part of the game; buyers are never really friends, they want to point out flaws, over exaggerate them, make them up even, all to dissuade another buyer from bidding too high—or at all—on his merchandise. I really don’t care about the game, or any of this shit; I just want to make Miz Ghita nervous, put her in her place, intimidate her properly by showing her how difficult I can make it for her business if I don’t get what I want in the end.

  The servant girl stands before me in all of her extensively learned obedience, never showing an ounce of discomfort even though that tray on her hand, and the other holding the glass in the same position for so long, has got to be taking its toll by now.

  Bringing my glass to my lips, I take my time, watching the girl.

  “I’m not in the market for a brunette, anyway,” I finally say. “I’m looking for something a little lighter, maybe in a honey. And besides, I don’t like left-handed girls; there’s something…” I wave my free hand in gesture, “…unnatural about them.” I laugh lightly and wave the servant girl away. “Call me superstitious.”

  Trevor Chamberlain cocks a brow as his mouth touches the rim of his glass; he appears to be considering my comment—seed planted, score one for me. This particular buyer will now be checking any girls he’s interested in for ‘lefties’, and either offering less than he would have had she been a right-handed girl, or offering nothing at all—what a gullible idiot.

  Miz Ghita, clearly perturbed by my pointing out the imperfection, wrinkles her mouth with displeasure, but says nothing, because after all, it would be bad business to argue with the clients in front of other clients.

  The servant girl walks away quietly, disappearing into the small crowds of mingling guests.

  “Your superstitions,” Miz Ghita puts in, “are just that, Mr. Augustin.” She turns to Trevor Chamberlain; a serene smile setting her face. “It’s all in what you choose to believe; left-handed people are unique, not to mention the more creative sort; it would be regrettable to pass up the opportunity to own one”—her cold eyes pass over me, telling me she can fix anything, and then she looks at Trevor—“Madam Francesca will be here shortly; please enjoy your wait by helping yourself to whatever you need.” Translation: Please converse with anyone here other than this man.

  Trevor Chamberlain nods his appreciation, and then turns to me. “Mr. Augustin,” he says with another nod.

  “Mr. Chamberlain,” I offer the same, and he walks away.

  “Tell me, Mr. Augustin,” Miz Ghita says in a suspicious manner, “why a man who has such intolerance for imperfections would have a girl with only nine fingers.” She glances at Nora’s hands.

  I sip my wine casually, always taking my time, and then answer, “I get the sense you’re assuming that when I bought her, all ten digits were in-tact.” I offer her a subtle smile, lifting one corner of my mouth; a gleam in my eye.

  “Madam Francesca is unlikely to do business with anyone who disfigures his property—we spend far too much money, time and resources molding our merchandise to perfection.”

  “Why would any of you care what I do with my property after it is mine?” I ask.

  “Oh, I don’t give a damn,” she bites back; her wrinkled mouth tightening on one side. “But Madam Francesca is, shall I say, particular about her pieces—do you think a great painter would appreciate a man destroying what he put his heart and soul into creating after he takes it home from auction? Would an architect want the skyscraper he spent years designing and building, demolished to put a parking lot in its place?” Her beady brown e
yes grow colder and she cocks her head to one side. “Madam Francesca takes pride in her work—this is yet another reason we are particular, and careful, about who we sell to outright.”

  Now to test Nora’s ability to improvise.

  “Aya,” I say without looking at Nora, “look at Madam Ghita and tell her why you were relieved of your finger, and how you came to be in my possession.”

  Nora, still holding the briefcase, raises her head, and she looks right at Miz Ghita but never holds eye contact for longer than a second—she knows that to hold it would suggest they’re equals.

  “Aya’s finger was removed by her former master for being disobedient, Madam,” Nora says in a soft, meek voice. “Master Niklas purchased Aya because of her imperfection.” She lowers her head again immediately after.

  Well played, Nora Kessler, well played.

  Miz Ghita’s cold eyes shift to look at me, and I can actually see a small spark of belief—and surprise—hidden within them.

  “I see,” she says with a narrowed gaze. “So I take it you’re in the market for a left-handed girl then.” A faint grin flashes across her eyes.

  My mouth lifts on one side and I take one last sip of my wine, setting the glass down on a tray as it passes in the hand of another servant girl.

  “You play dirty, Mr. Augustin,” she says, referring to my manipulating Trevor Chamberlain. “I like that—but don’t make the mistake of thinking I like you; you won’t be leaving this place with any special deals or arrangements—if you leave with anything at all.”

  “I would expect nothing less than a hard bargain, Miz Ghita.”

  “Well just the same,” she says, “that particular left-handed girl is not for sale.”

  “To be honest,” I state, “it’s not only left-handed girls I’m interested in. I look for flaws; flaws make a woman unique, give her personality. But out of curiosity, why is that particular girl not for sale?”

  Miz Ghita looks back at the dark-haired servant girl twenty feet away, weaving her way through crowds with her tray on her hand.

  “She is one of Madam Francesca’s favorites,” Miz Ghita says, and instantly I sense a change in Izabel.

  Maybe it was just instinct that I look at her in that moment, knowing her history with Javier Ruiz, how she was his favorite—I don’t know, but I noticed when her jaw tightened. It was only a split second, but I saw it; thankfully no one else did. Izabel’s soft, smiling, obedient face never falters, and she raises her own glass of wine and puts it to her lips.

  “I understand about favorites all too well, I admit,” I say to Miz Ghita, glancing at Izabel with hidden meaning that Miz Ghita catches onto right away.

  She looks briefly at Izabel, too, and then nods at me, understanding.

  “I wonder what flaw this one has then,” she says, expecting me to answer.

  “Naomi’s flaw is not so visible, but I can assure you she has one,” I say, and leave it at that.

  Miz Ghita looks Izabel over with the calculated sweep of hard beady eyes—I just hope she doesn’t ask me to prove it, because unlike my brother, I haven’t seen any other part of Izabel’s body to know if there’s anything wrong with it. Maybe I should remedy that later when we go back to the hotel, make Izzy squirm a little, make her regret ever wanting to be a part of this mission—that’ll teach her stubborn ass.

  But Miz Ghita is relentless.

  “I’m very curious to know what it is,” she says, looking Izabel over once more before her vulture eyes, full of expectation, fall on me—it’s such a petty thing, but for some reason she wants to know and she wants to know now. And I can’t refuse her. It would look suspicious to keep it from her because it’s so petty; and after I just paraded Nora’s missing finger, and admitted to Miz Ghita that I look for flaws in my girls, it would seem as though I’m proud of them, and not to show off the flaw of my ‘favorite’ girl, would seem suspicious. Fuck—what do I say?

  “May I show her?” Izabel speaks up, snapping me out of my sudden panicked mind.

  I look at Izabel, and she’s looking back at me, sweet-tempered, confident, fearless—more in control of this situation than I clearly am.

  Finally I nod and answer, “Yes, Naomi, show Madam Ghita your flaw,” having no idea what it is, and hoping like hell I’m not exhibiting that in my face.

  Izabel hands her wine glass to Nora, turns her back to me and says, “If you would unzip me?”

  Reluctant for only a moment, I fit my thumb and index finger around the zipper tab and slide it down the center of her back; smooth, tanned skin appears, replacing the white lace fabric of her dress. She’s wearing no bra, no panties—you’ve got to be fucking kidding me; Izzy what are you doing?

  Izabel steps out of her dress and turns around to face us, standing stark naked in the middle of the room for all of forty or fifty people to see, and every single pair of eyes, minus the eyes of the servants, turn in attention.

  Goddamn she’s beautiful. More stunning than the naked statue of Venus of Arles on our way in, with a waist and hips like an hourglass, average-sized breasts but full and perfect—I can see what my brother sees in her now, I guess. Still doesn’t make Izzy any less of a mouthy bitch though.

  Izabel smooths her fingertips over the gunshot scar on her stomach and then meets my eyes before turning her attention to Miz Ghita—my heart sinks, and I swallow a thick dose of guilt and regret because I’m the one who gave her that scar.

  “May I explain to Madam Ghita how I came to be scarred?” Izabel asks me in a gentle voice, though hidden within it is a quiet conflict between the two of us: You shot me and you’re a bastard, Niklas. I know, and I’m sorry, Sarai; I’ll always be sorry and I’ll always be a bastard.

  Miz Ghita looks right at me, waiting.

  “Yes, Naomi,” I say quickly. “Tell her how you got that scar.”

  Izabel steps back into her dress and pulls it up, sliding her arms into the thin strap sleeves—everyone watches. “I was shot,” she says, turning her back to me so I can zip her up, “in Los Angeles, California, by a very sick man.” Only I can hear the distaste in her voice, and only I can feel the sting.

  Once the zipper is up, I drop my hands from her and she turns back around.

  “I see,” says Miz Ghita, looking only at Izabel, wanting to know more. “And what happened to this sick man? Was he…dealt with?”

  Without meeting my eyes, Izabel answers, “No, Madam, he is still running free out there somewhere as far as I know. But…I don’t fear him so much anymore”—(I feel her eyes on me, but I don’t look back at her)—“because I have Niklas to protect me.”

  Miz Ghita looks between us curiously.

  “I suppose it was a good thing,” she tells Izabel, but is looking only at me, “that Mr. Augustin found you.”

  I say nothing, and neither does Izabel.

  The three of us—minus Nora—turn our heads in attention as a group of women and men emerge from an arched entrance to our left.

  Niklas

  Three. Five. Six. Eight. Nine women who resemble one another so closely that they look like blood sisters, walk out among a smaller group of men in suits; their escorts for the evening, I’m guessing.

  The group spreads out, six of them with a man on their arm, and they begin to mingle with the guests. Some wear skimpy cocktail dresses; jewelry decorates their wrists and fingers; they all look very much alike, but one woman in particular stands out from the others. There’s something about her that sets her apart from the rest: her chin raised higher, the gleam in her eyes more dramatic, even the way her escort walks alongside her—dark hair, sharp brown eyes—he appears proud, as if he has been given the most important assignment of his career. He keeps his head high when he walks with her on his arm, never looking anyone in the eyes, not because he’s a slave, but because he’s too pompous to spare the effort.

  Miz Ghita makes her way over to the two, the ends of her black dress swishing about her legs, her flashy jewelry jangling.

&n
bsp; “Not yet,” I tell Izabel without looking at her, pushing the words through my teeth like a ventriloquist. I tighten my arm around hers, stopping her.

  You’re too eager, Izzy, just be patient, I want to say but don’t. I can’t—Miz Ghita is looking in our direction.

  I nod at her from across the twenty-five foot space, and the woman with the flaunting male escort locks eyes with me briefly, just long enough to get my attention.

  The three converse; first about us, I’m sure, and then the same amount of discreet attention is given to a few other guests standing about the room. I didn’t expect to be the only man in question here tonight, and I’m glad for that; not all of the suspicion will be on me.

  Finally Miz Ghita, and the proudest woman among the nine with her even prouder escort, make their way over to us.

  “Madam Francesca Moretti,” Miz Ghita introduces us, “meet Mr. Niklas Augustin. Mr. Augustin, this is Madam Francesca.”

  ‘Francesca’ looks at me with a powerful, self-important grace. She presents me her hand at the same moment I reach for it, and I bow slightly and graze the top of it with my lips.

  “I appreciate the invitation to be here this evening, Miz Moretti,” I tell her, addressing her properly. “And on such short notice.”

  “It is my pleasure,” Francesca, who I know is not the real Francesca, says and then adds, “Madam Ghita tells me that you are looking for something in particular, that you have special needs?” She tilts her head gently to one side, inquiringly.

  I nod. “Yes,” I say, “but I would prefer to speak about it in private.” I glance around the room briefly and add, “When time permits, of course.”

  “Of course,” she responds.

  Miz Ghita cuts in, “After the Madam visits with the other guests, and after the showing, she will accommodate you the private meeting you paid for. Why don’t you introduce her to your companion.”