The King

by Tiffany Reisz

  New York and save it from within.”

  “The righteous Lot fucked his own daughters,” Kingsley

  said. “I wonder if Reverend Fuller remembers that part.” “You know the Bible?” Sam asked.

  “I went to an all-boys Catholic school.”

  “How did you survive that?”

  “By sleeping with a teacher.”

  “Was she hot?”

  “He was, yes.”

  Kingsley made a circuit of the exterior of the building. For

  all the dirt and decay, it had beautiful old bones. Twelve fiftyfoot high lancet windows adorned the main f loor. The top

  two f loors were decorated with jutting corbels that look like

  the beaks of birds. The entire building, with its dark exterior and stone plumage, gave off the impression of a great stone

  raven, hunched over in the cold and sleeping.

  “Maybe we can find out who sold the place,” Sam said. “I’m

  sure we could get the real estate agent to show us the inside.

  Maybe they can show us another building like this one but

  not already owned by a cult.”

  “Or we can look inside it now and see if it’s worth stealing.” Kingsley strode to a boarded-up door and kicked. The

  door f lew open.

  “Damn,” Sam said.

  “I know.” Kingsley frowned. He held up his shoe. “I broke

  a heel. Petra’s going to kill me.”

  He took off both shoes and stepped barefoot into the building. Sam followed.

  “What the hell am I doing?” Sam asked herself as she

  walked in behind Kingsley. “I’ve never met you before tonight, and here I am, breaking and entering a building owned

  by the creepiest church in America.”

  “I told you I’d get you into trouble,” he said. “I’m keeping my promise.”

  “You know we could get arrested for this,” Sam said. “I have a DA’s wife in my pocket,” Kingsley said. He

  reached out and f lipped a wall switch. Surprisingly the lights

  worked. The church must have had the power turned back

  on already. Overhead a dusty chandelier cast dingy hexagons

  of light onto the seedy carpet. “And the DA, too.” “You must have big pockets.”

  Kingsley turned and faced Sam.

  “What do I need to know about you?” he asked. Sam stuffed her hands in her pockets. “There’s not much

  to know about me.”

  “What’s your full name?”

  “Samantha Jean Fleming. I’m twenty-six. I’m a lesbian.” “You don’t say.”

  “Shut up,” she said, laughing. “You have no room to talk,

  Dr. Frank-N-Furter.”

  Kingsley f lipped another light switch.

  “What else?”

  “Nothing much else.”

  Kingsley gazed at her.

  He touched her chin, tilting it up to meet his eyes. “Can I trust you?” he asked.

  “I hope so. And if you’re against Fuller’s church, I’m on

  your side. I don’t know if that answers your question or not.” “It’s a good answer. On my side is where I need you.” “After what you did for me tonight at the club, I’m yours,”

  she said. “Just not in a sexual way. Every other way.” “So, what do you think of the place?” Kingsley asked. “It’s definitely a wreck,” Sam said as they wandered down

  the hall. “The newspaper said the church got a deal on it because the city was about to condemn the place. But you can

  tell it was beautiful once.”

  “I like that it’s not beautiful anymore. I like that it’s been

  hurt.”

  “It’s kind of big for a BDSM club. Most kink clubs I know

  are little shitholes.”

  “Well, my club will be a big shithole.”

  They entered what had been the lobby of the hotel and

  found moth-eaten furniture, fading Persian rugs, layers of

  grime on a curved bar—grime and grim everywhere they

  looked. Once, the decor had been blue and red and gold, but

  now everything had faded to a dull gray. Kingsley opened a

  set of double doors, and Sam peered over his shoulder. “It looks like an old concert hall.” Sam pointed up at the

  ceiling. “Or a dining hall. Hard to tell.”

  She and Kingsley walked through the dining room, step

  ping over broken chairs, breathing in dust-filled air. “Is that an elevator?” Kingsley asked.

  “Looks like it.” Sam pointed upward. “There’s some kind

  of landing up there. I guess the bigwigs got to eat their dinner looking down on the little wigs.”

  Kingsley stood in the middle of the grand hall and turned

  slowly in a circle.

  “Let’s see the rest,” he said. Together he and Sam wandered

  for an hour through the now-defunct Renaissance. A madman must have designed the building. The layout made very

  little sense. One hallway of guest rooms was hidden behind

  the dining room. There were secret doors all over the place

  that led to other hallways. Guests must have gotten lost all the

  time trying to find their way back to their rooms. No wonder

  it had gone out of business.

  “I think M.C. Escher must have been the architect on this

  place,” Sam said.

  “I hate to think what Fuller would do to a building this

  unique.”

  “He’ll probably turn it into a church like his other churches—

  a big ugly warehouse with beige carpet.”

  “This place…it’s been through many transformations.”

  Kingsley stood in one of the larger suites. “Many incarnations. Now it doesn’t know what it is anymore. It only knows

  that it’s been abandoned. I know how it feels.”

  He reached out and laid his hand on an ornately carved

  door frame like a doctor feeling for a heartbeat. “This place

  is perfect,” Kingsley said. “Everything I dreamed of.” “You have weird dreams.”

  “These suites are what I need for our pros.”

  “Pros? Like hookers?”

  “No hookers. I’m not a pimp. I mean professionals. Profes

  sional dominants.”

  “Dominatrixes?”

  “One or two. The best in the city.”

  “Mistress Felicia? You want this club to be special, you

  want her.”

  “Isn’t she still in prison?” he asked. Last he’d heard the notorious Mistress Felicia was still locked away in Danbury for

  ignoring a subpoena to testify in a high-profile divorce case. “She got out last month. She says she’s retiring, but she

  might come out of retirement for you,” Sam said with a wink. “I’m not a submissive,” Kingsley said.

  “I mean for the club. She’s the best in the city. You should

  woo her.”

  “You know a lot about kink in this city.”

  “Everyone tells the bartender everything. Plus, I’m kinky.

  Does this come as a shock to you?”

  Kingsley looked her up and down.

  “Not at all. I want people like us at the club. I want all

  of our kind welcome here—gay and straight, bi, as long as

  they’re kinky. We’ll need professional male dominants, too.

  A few bouncers.”

  “Then you’ll need some of the leather guard,” she said.

  “What else?”

  “Pro-submissives—male and female.”

  “Those will be harder to find. There’s ads for dominatrixes

  in the goddamn phone book, but pro-subs? How many people do you know who want to get the shit beat out of them

  for a living?”

  “Enough of them do it for free. The
y might as well get

  paid for it.”

  “What else?” Sam asked. “If it’s an S and M club, I guess

  we’ll need some sadists.”

  “I have one sadist already. Not on the payroll, but he’ll cer

  tainly bring the pain, out of the kindness of his heart.” “Is he good?”

  “He can slice a lit cigarette in half with the tip of a whip.

  But we’ll need more than one. There are more masochists in

  this city than you would believe.”

  “With rent as high as it is, I’d say we’re all masochists.” He stood in front of her and looked at her without smiling. “This might get ugly,” Kingsley said. “I do ugly things

  in my work sometimes. If you work for me, you’ll get your

  hands dirty.”

  “I like dirty.”

  “Illegal things may or may not happen.”

  “I have an amazing ability to look the other way.” “I’ll never put you in harm’s way, but I will put myself

  there.”

  “You’re a grown-up,” she said. “Just make sure my paychecks don’t bounce.”

  “I pay in cash,” he said.

  “This is the greatest job ever. Let’s do it.”

  “This is our kingdom.” He waved his hand, indicating the

  hotel. “Or will be when I’m done with it.”

  “But Fuller beat us to it. It’s sold.”

  “I’ll buy it from him. And if he won’t sell, I’ll steal it.” “That’s not a good idea,” Sam said in a stern voice. “Seriously. Politicians suck up to Reverend Fuller all the time just

  so he’ll tell his TV f lock to donate to their campaigns. He’s

  famous. He’s important. And he will not be happy if you fuck

  with him.”

  “Do you want his church in this town?” Kingsley asked. “No,” she admitted. “I hate his church.”

  He looked at her through narrowed eyes.

  “Tell me why you’re on my side,” Kingsley ordered. Sam

  didn’t answer at first.

  Finally she spoke.

  “The Fullers… Their church… They run reorienting

  camps.”

  “What are those?”

  “It’s where they send gay kids to try to turn them straight.” “That can’t be legal,” Kingsley said, eying her with horror. “It’s legal. There are hundreds of kids at those camps right

  now.”

  “That gives me even more reason to fuck with him.” Sam sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Sam, I dreamed of this building. I recognized it the second I saw the picture in the paper. This is fate.”

  “Fate is a bad thing. Fate is why Oedipus screwed his

  mother and lost his eyeballs.”

  “My mother is dead. I’ll get a guide dog. I always wanted

  a dog.”

  “You’re crazy. You’re going to buy his church from Reverend Fuller and turn it into an S and M club?”

  “You know you love this idea. Admit it.”

  “Get back at Fuller and his fucking church? Let’s do it.” “Keep that bottle of champagne I bought tonight.” “Why?”

  “We’ll drink it together, you and I, on opening night.” “I serve at your pleasure, Your Majesty.” She gave him a

  mock bow.

  “Good,” Kingsley said. “Now let’s build a kingdom.”

  15

  KINGSLEY WAS DISAPPOINTED BUT NOT SURPRISED when Fuller’s ministry refused to sell the Renaissance to him. He upped his offer, and they turned it down f lat. He tried buying the building through one of his more legitimate fronts, a fake travel agency he “owned” as a way to manage excess cash f low, and Fuller still wouldn’t sell.

  Time for Plan B.

  “What’s Plan B?” Sam asked as she f lipped a page on her clipboard. For a week, she’d been working for Kingsley, and so far she’d done everything he’d told her to do in a timely and efficient manner. He’d told her to go buy a computer if she wanted one. Instead, she kept his entire life in order on her clipboard.

  “Plan B is blackmail,” Kingsley said as he took a seat behind his desk. “We need dirt on the Fullers. Real dirt.”

  “What kind of dirt?”

  “Any dirt will do as long as it sticks. Do you know anything incriminating about the church?”

  “Um…well, they’re very fundamentalist. They believe women should submit to their husbands.”

  “That’s terrible. What if the husband’s the submissive?”

  “Kingsley, be serious. A lot of the men in the church beat their wives because of that mind-set.”

  “I believe it, but as horrible as that is, that’s dirt on the church, not the Fullers. We need to find out if Fuller is beating his wife. Or cheating on her. Or laundering money. Or anything. But whatever it is, it has to be something he is directly involved in.