The Immortal Game (August Riordan Series Book 1)

by Mark Coggins

  After that the conversation drifted to other things, including sex and jazz and the framed pictures of Jimmy Blanton and Paul Chambers on the wall. I explained that I played jazz bass on a semi-professional basis, and that I especially admired Blanton and Chambers because, although they had relatively short careers, they both were innovators who moved the state of the art forward.

  I invited her to come to a gig I had that evening and we ended by going to lunch at John’s Grill on Ellis Street, where Jodie impressed the hell out of Rupert, the maitre d’, who had never seen a rubber dress before.

  THE POWER STATION

  IF THE DRIVER OF THE CAB I flagged to take me to The Power Station thought there was anything funny about the address I gave him, he didn’t show it. We pulled up across the street, and whether for nerves or curiosity, I decided to walk the perimeter of the old brewery before making my assault on the club inside.

  Now that I saw it, I thought I remembered reading an article about the planned demolition of the building. It was a buff-colored, concrete monstrosity from the 1930s that took up the whole block between Chestnut and Francisco Streets. The Chestnut Street side was a storefront built to house the brewery offices and was only three stories tall. As the building went back to Francisco Street, however, it grew to a peaked facade about seven stories in height. The facade housed a grain elevator and screened the five rows of rusting brewing tanks that sat on the roof. Scaffolding was bolted to the facade to support a boom for scooping grain out of railroad cars, but the time when tracks ran up from the bay was long since gone.

  Walking along the Francisco Street side, I could peer down through an iron grating into the basement. In the gloom I saw squat brick ovens for roasting hops and a jumbled lattice of rollers, chutes, and conveyors to fuel the ovens and move the grain. The fact the basement would also make a nifty dungeon was not lost on me.

  I went back around to Chestnut Street, and up to what had formerly been the brewery office door. There were signs of remodeling here, including patched stucco, new paint, a new door with polished brass fixtures, and a discreet plaque reading, “The Power Station” in the same script as the card Jodie had given me. I used the knocker- which was shaped like a lion’s head-and waited.

  The door swung back, and I was looking at a tall woman in a pantsuit made of a flowing, diaphanous material. It was chartreuse. So was the turban wrapped around her head, but her sash and open-toed sandals were gold. She was middle-aged, stout, and no piker when it came to the costume jewelry counter. She had hoop earrings trained hamsters could jump through, bracelets aplenty, rings on every finger, and enough gold chains around her neck to weigh down a dead body.

  She looked me up and down. “Yes?” she said in an imperious tone.

  “Guess you left the house without your anklets,” I said with a smile. That bought me nothing but a puzzled stare-she probably had forgotten them. “Pass that,” I said quickly. “I was hoping I could come in and get a look at the club. You know, see what there is to see. Find out what you have to offer. That kind of thing.”

  “The club is not open to the public during the day. Only members and their guests are permitted. You may come back after eight PM, if you wish. After eight, we have demonstrations in the public area, and docents available to give tours and explain membership benefits.”

  I proffered the card Jodie had given me. “I was told this would get me an in on the private stuff.”

  The woman took the card and squinted at it from arm’s length. “If you have been nominated by a member, Mr., ah, Riordan, then of course you are welcome. Please come inside.”

  She held open the door and I walked past her into the club. Going by, I inhaled a lot of perfume of the sort a woman in a chartreuse turban wears. That, or a flea bomb had just gone off. The entrance was on a raised platform with rails. It looked down on a cavernous room with a concrete floor and rough, concrete walls. There was a lighted podium at the foot of the entryway, and an area for lounging off to the right with black leather sofas, heavy, iron-bound coffee tables, ornate floor lamps, and potted plants, all arranged on top of an elaborately patterned Persian rug. Further back were a series of tall concrete partitions that came out about twenty feet from each side of the room, leaving a corridor about ten feet wide down the middle and effectively dividing the remaining space into six open-ended cubicles. It reminded me of nothing so much as a series of handball courts, but I suspected they were intended for a different kind of sport.

  The woman with the turban went down the stairs ahead of me, paused to take a glossy folder from behind the podium, and then led me over to the lounge area. “My name is Amanda,” she said. “Please sit down.” She sat on the sofa across from me and placed the folder on the coffee table between us. “This is some information about The Power Station you may read at your leisure. If you have specific questions about the club, I’d be happy to answer them now. Or perhaps you would just like to hear an overview and then take a tour?”

  Her tone was so matter-of-fact you’d have thought she was selling time-share condos. I said, “Let’s get things rolling with the overview and see where that takes us.”

  “Certainly,” she said with a thin smile. “The Power Station is a private club established to provide its members a discreet, safe, and well-equipped environment for practicing bondage and discipline. Members may reserve any one of ten private dungeons for sessions with other members, guests, or personal trainers from our staff. Each dungeon is equipped with a differing selection of restraints, cages, etc., allowing you to experiment with a variety of styles of play. Members may also make use of the public dungeons you see behind us, if exhibitionism or public humiliation are to be emphasized. In addition, the public dungeons are used by our staff to demonstrate new equipment-which is available for purchase in our ‘Pro Shop’-or to hold seminars in bondage and discipline technique for neophytes.”

  “What kind of money are we talking about here?”

  “Club dues are $200 a month with separate hourly fees for the private dungeons and sessions with personal trainers. In addition, there is a one-time initiation fee of one thousand dollars. Guests may use the facilities if they are with a member or are sponsored by one. Of course, the hourly fees we charge non-members are necessarily higher. This portion of the club is open to the public most evenings-for a twenty-five dollar cover charge-to encourage new membership and promote interest in bondage and discipline.”

  This was like the Beverly Hills Country Club meets the Marquis de Sade with a touch of the Rotary Club’s good works for the community thrown in. “Do I get handcuffs with the club emblem if I join?”

  The woman in the turban didn’t miss a beat. “No, we’ve discussed that in the past, but not everyone likes that sort of restraint. Members receive an unadorned iron ring, such as the one I’m wearing here.” She gestured to a plain black ring on the middle finger of her left hand. “This allows members to identify each other outside the club. That can be useful because we do not use last names here or publish membership rolls.”

  “Why make it easy on the Vice Squad, eh?”

  That one scored a hit. Her face spasmed like she swallowed her retainer. “There’s nothing illegal about what we do here. All members and their guests are 18 years or older. All play is consensual and refereed to prevent injury.”

  “What about the ‘personal trainers?’ Isn’t there a niggling little law about sex for pay on the books?”

  She pursed her lips and shook her head slightly. “I’m beginning to think you don’t know much about bondage and discipline,” she said. “For the submissive personality, most of the excitement in the experience comes from the feeling of giving up control or being humiliated. It is strict club policy that our trainers may not touch or fondle their client’s genitals during a session. That would be illegal. If climax is desired, then the trainer can order the client to touch him or herself. Often this is more exciting for the submissive personality anyway.”

  “At least
that’s what my old pappy used to say. On a different topic, how did you end up in this brewery? I thought I read it was going to be torn down to build condominiums.”

  “It is a nice space, isn’t it? It was going to be torn down, but the city designated it a historic site and restricted the type and extent of alterations that could be made to the building. Since the owner couldn’t sell it for development, he leased it to us. We have renovated about a third of the interior for our purposes and left the rest as it was-which meets the city restrictions.”

  S&M and historic preservation working hand in hand. I said, “I was wondering if it would be possible to schedule a session with one of your trainers today.”

  “Y-e-s,” she said with some hesitance. “Aren’t you interested in a tour first?” Then after a pause, “And you do realize that our trainers always assume the dominant role?”

  “I think I will pass on the tour. You’ve already given me a very clear picture of the club. As far as the trainers go, I have in mind a particular individual who I’ve worked with before. I believe she’s now an employee of The Power Station. Her name is-”

  “Excuse me please,” the woman with the turban interrupted. “As I mentioned, we really don’t like to use full names at the club. The trainers, in particular, like to keep their role at the club well segregated from the rest of their personal lives. In fact, many of them find it advantageous to assume an entirely different name and identity while they are here.” She reached down to the folder on the table between us and flipped it open. “Here are the biographies of the trainers we have on staff. Perhaps you will recognize the individual you’ve worked with before.” She paused a moment, then tittered.

  That surprised me. It hardly fit with her stiff demeanor. “What’s funny?” I said.

  “Well, you might recognize your old trainer, assuming you weren’t blindfolded the whole time!” She struggled a moment to keep her composure, then produced a good old-fashioned guffaw.

  I yanked the pages with the trainer bios out of the folder and thumbed through them. “That’s hardly the sort of comment I’d expect from someone in your position,” I said in a huff.

  “You’re right-I’m sorry. Still, one mustn’t take oneself too seriously. After all, bondage and discipline is all about having a good time, isn’t it?”

  I grunted. I found Terri McCulloch’s bio about halfway down the second page. The picture was a head shot that didn’t show off any leather garb she might or might not have been wearing. The text said she had been in the biz for ten years, specialized in sensory deprivation, humiliation, and flogging, and gave her moniker as “Mistress Tamara.” I put the sheet with Terri’s write-up down on the table and pointed to her picture. “That’s the girl for me.”

  The turban lady nodded. “Mistress Tamara. She joined us recently. You must be fairly well advanced if you’ve worked with her before. I believe she is available this afternoon, but there are a couple of preliminaries. First, I need you to read and sign this form from the folder. Essentially, it states that you are aware that your session with the trainer will not involve sexual contact, and that you participate at your own risk and will not hold the club or the trainer liable in case of injury.”

  I scanned the form quickly and signed it. There wasn’t going to be any “play” between Terri McCulloch and myself, just talk. I didn’t care what the form said.

  “Second,” said the turban lady, “we have the matter of payment. Hourly rates with a trainer in a dungeon for non-members are $150. I would recommend a two-hour session, so that would come to $300. A credit card or cash are best.”

  I handed over my credit card and the woman left the table, taking the card and the signed form with it. “I’ll be right back with your receipt,” she said.

  Bishop was going to love this entry on the expense report. I watched as she walked down the corridor between the public dungeons, losing sight of her as she turned down a hallway screened from view. She was gone for maybe ten minutes, and when she returned, she had a strained look on her face. “I couldn’t get the transaction to go through,” she said. “Nothing wrong with your card. The phone lines just seem to be busy.” She passed back the card. “We can try again after your session. Why don’t you come with me now.”

  We retraced her route between the public dungeons. When we came to the hallway at the end we turned right and went down a staircase that led to a concrete walkway about five feet wide. Spaced at even intervals along the back wall were tall doors of rough-hewn lumber bound with iron. We walked up to the first one and the turban lady grasped the iron handle and pushed it open. “Please go in,” she said. “You may exchange your clothes for the robe you see on the table, or wait for instructions from Mistress Tamara.”

  “I think I’ll wait,” I said.

  “Make yourself comfortable, then. Mistress Tamara will join you shortly.”

  The door closed with a loud clank and I felt a creepy chill go up my spine. It was hard to see why people would pay money for this. I walked around the room. It had great ambiance: rough concrete walls, sloping concrete floor with a drain in the middle, dim overhead fixtures, and the overall salubrious feel of a concentration camp shower room. All the requisite S&M gear was present, including a square metal cage just large enough for a man to crawl into and an upholstered table in the shape of an X with posts at each corner for binding hands and feet. On closer inspection, I found a crank under the table that caused the posts of the table to extend or retract-a sort of modern-day rack. I was squatting by the side of the table moving the crank back and forth to observe the mechanism when I heard the door open behind me. I straightened up and turned, looking forward to finally meeting Terri McCulloch.

  What I met instead was a fist full of knuckles.

  The punch hit me square on the side of the jaw and knocked me back onto the table. Lights danced in my head, then someone reached over and pulled me upright by the lapels. That would be good for another punch in the face, so I brought my leg up sharply and planted a shoe in my assailant’s stomach. I kicked for all I was worth. I heard a loud grunt as something heavy hit the floor. I rolled off the table and stepped back to see what was what.

  Kneeling on one knee in front of me was a thickset man in a black silk tee shirt and tailored slacks. His thinning hair was slicked back and he had a nice gold watch and a dark, even tan that came from a booth, not the beach. His arms were heavily muscled and his neck gargantuan, but his tailor was fighting a losing battle to hide his gut. All in all, he looked like a retired ball player gone soft from the good life. “Is that the kind of punishment you came for?” he said.

  “Ask me when you’re not on the floor,” I said.

  He lurched up and charged. As he came in, I found his stomach again with a solid left uppercut. He bent over the punch and I matched it with one from my right. I managed two more in quick succession before he snaked his arm around the back of my neck and began to pull me down. I resisted for as long as I could, then I pancaked my legs out and fell on top of him. It was a short ride to the concrete floor. His forehead hit first with a sickening thud and his body went limp beneath me. Wrenching his arm off my back, I rolled him over to see if he was still breathing. He was. But he was also going to have one hell of a headache.

  The take from his pockets was meager. A money clip with a little under 200 bucks, a pocket comb, and a small ring of keys were all that I found. He was probably one of those guys who carried his wallet in his briefcase so it didn’t ruin the line of his clothes. I put all the stuff back where I found it and stood up.

  The turban lady must have decided there was something funny about my interest in Terri McCulloch and alerted this guy. Or Terri recognized my name when the turban lady went to fetch her. It didn’t matter. What mattered was I was standing in an S&M dungeon, my jacket was torn, my jaw felt like someone had bounced a Chrysler off it, and I still hadn’t gotten hold of Terri McCulloch. I left Sleeping Beauty on the floor and went out into the corridor.

/>   I marched down the walkway, pulling open doors to dungeons as I went. At number eight I found a white-haired guy with a leather collar making a snack out of the boot heel of a beefy broad with a crew cut and little round glasses. “Hey,” she said as I slammed the dungeon door closed. I retraced my steps, went up the stairs and across and down to the walkway for dungeons one through five. I opened the door on two more tableaus, neither of which involved Terri McCulloch.

  At the back of the building I found a door to a suite of offices and yanked it open. The turban lady was trying to hide under one of the desks, but there were about three yards of chartreuse material visible below the bottom edge. “Go away,” she bleated. “I called the police. They’ll be here any minute.”

  “I’ll bet you called them. Police in this place would be like a fresh breeze in the malaria ward. Where’s Terri McCulloch?”

  “There’s no one here by that name.”

  “Drop the veil, lady. You know who I mean.”

  “She left with the rest of the staff when you started tearing through the dungeons.”

  I was having trouble hearing her. “This isn’t an earthquake drill,” I said. “Stand up and talk to me like a normal person.” She got up off the floor and stood behind the desk, red-faced and trembling.

  “Who’s the no-neck you sent into the dungeon in place of Mistress Tamara?”

  “His name is Chuck,” she said. “He works here, in security. You didn’t hurt him, did you?” She glanced behind me and her eyes got wide.

  “Naw,” said a voice. “He didn’t hurt me. He just beat my fucking head into cement and twisted off my goddamned arm.”

  I turned to find the bruiser from the dungeon leaning against the office doorway. He was very wobbly. In one hand he held his head, fingers partially covering one eye, elbow crooked against his side. In the other, a chrome plated revolver.