Krissy

by S. J. Lewis

  She quietly opened the emergency door and slipped out into the dimly-lit alley. She shut the door behind her just as quietly. They weren’t supposed to use that door to leave the building, but no one was keeping tabs of how anybody left, and the alley led to the rear parking lot, where Krissy knew she’d find Strasser’s prized BMW. She had a key in her hand as she rounded the corner and spotted the car, just twenty feet away. But as she came closer to the gleaming silvery machine she saw that someone else had beaten her to it. There was a long, deep scratch across the hood, the left front tire was flat, and it looked like someone had pelted the vehicle with eggs: Rotten eggs, from the smell. As she came even closer, it was apparent to her that the eggs were rotten. She wrinkled her nose as she surveyed the damage. There really wasn’t anything that she wanted to add to this act of disapproval, so she pocketed the key and walked away. Even in her most comfortable running shoes, her legs still ached subtly from three days on her feet in those damned boots, but she had her own appointment to keep and she’d have to hurry if she was going to catch the next bus back to her apartment building.

  Amy wouldn’t be there waiting for her, which was probably just as well. Sweet, slender Amy had lasted for just over two weeks before deciding that she really didn’t like being tied up, or handcuffed, or blindfolded, or any of those other things that Krissy liked to do to her. She especially didn’t like it when Krissy used the strapon, even though Krissy was so skilled with it that she could almost always make Amy come. At least their parting had been on an amicable ‘we-can-still-be-friends’ note, unlike the endings of many of Krissy’s other short-term relationships. It gave Krissy hope that perhaps someday they might get back together, but she knew from experience that it was more of a wish than a hope. At least she’d helped the girl get a job, waitressing at an upscale bistro, so she knew where to find her if she ever wanted to go looking. Maybe she would, but not tonight. Tonight she planned to meet the very wealthy, very middle-aged King Jackson. In spite of the fact that he wore an expensive wedding ring he’d been hitting on her throughout the convention, flashing a fat wad of cash at her every chance he got and making indecent proposals to her whenever he thought he wouldn’t be overheard. She had turned him down coyly every time, but in such a way as to give him the idea that she was at least a little interested. And a little more than an hour ago he’d told her what hotel he was staying at, and at what time she might find him in the hotel lounge. Apparently he’d made this trip without Mrs. Jackson, and was feeling a little lonely.

  She hadn’t told him yes, but she hadn’t exactly told him no either, and she’d made sure that her expression and body language told him that she was intrigued by his offer. She was fairly certain that he’d be there waiting for her at the appointed time, and for some little while after that, hoping to get lucky with the winsome, buxom ‘Lynn’. That was the name on the nametag she wore pinned so close to her cleavage that he had to at least pretend to look at it…repeatedly.

  Well, ‘Lynn’ was not going to show up tonight. King Jackson would no doubt be very disappointed at that, but if she appeared as Lynn she’d be too easy for the police to put one and one together and come looking for her. Instead, Mr. Jackson was going to have to settle for the intriguing redhead with the syrupy Southern drawl, Amanda. She already had the costume laid out back at her apartment, right down to the green contact lenses. He was going to have to work for her, too. While Lynn was bubbly and girlish, Amanda was used to men hitting on her and much more reserved, though if you bought her a drink or two and turned on the charm she usually warmed up nicely. With a little more effort, you might even get her to come up to your room with you for a light late supper delivered by room service and maybe a drink or two more. She’d used the Amanda character more than once, but not always as a redhead. As Amanda, she not only spoke differently but held herself differently, moved differently, even had different facial expressions than Lynn. There would be no reason for King Jackson to make any connection at all between the two, and no reason for the cops to do so either, should Mr. Jackson go to them later.

  The bus was just pulling up to the stop, and she scampered across the street to catch it. As she plopped herself down on an uncomfortable seat, she could already feel that old familiar tingling starting to spread throughout her body.

  It was impossible to put into words how exhilarated she felt at the beginning of one of these high-value hunts. That’s what they were, hunts. She would stalk her prey even as her prey thought he was stalking her, and choose how and when and where she would strike. Actually, the ‘how’ was pretty much always the same, a little something added to a drink that would put her prey out until sometime the next day. The ‘when’ and ‘where’ did vary a little, but were limited by the fact that she needed her prey to pass out either in some private place or near enough to it that she didn’t have to drag him too far. There had been one overweight businessman who had suddenly collapsed in the elevator on the way up to his room. She’d checked to make sure he was still breathing before relieving him of his wallet, got out at the next floor and left that hotel in a hurry. The next day she’d nervously checked the paper to see if he’d gone and died on her anyway. He hadn’t, and she learned that in fact his collapse hadn’t been due to the drug she’d given him but to a mild stroke. Even so, the experience had been unsettling, and it was weeks before she could bring herself to go hunting again.

  She hopped off the bus at her corner and hurried to her apartment. She didn’t dare waste any time tonight. She figured that she had about half an hour to get ready for business.

  Just twenty-five minutes later, she emerged from her apartment building transformed, though much of the transformation was concealed under a long light coat. The wig she wore was a dark red, parted in the middle and falling straight to just above her shoulders, where the ends curved slightly inwards. The red heels brought her up to about average height. She made her way to another corner and hailed a cab. While Krissy always rode the bus, Amanda never did.

  She was running slightly ahead of schedule when she arrived at King Jackson’s hotel. She knew every four- and five-star establishment in the city. This one fully deserved the five-star rating that it proudly, but tastefully, flaunted. The uniformed doorman saw her coming and opened the heavy door for her with a smile. She favored him with an answering smile and a hint of a wink as she swept on by. Amanda could get into any place she wanted, any time she wanted. She made her way to the lounge, skipping the coat check. Entering the hushed, dimly lit room she did a quick, unobtrusive scan of the place and spotted King Jackson sitting alone in a booth, trying to conceal his growing disappointment. The bartender looked at her and smiled as she approached. Men always smiled at Amanda, and she always smiled back. Then she made a small theatrical production of doffing her coat before she sat down on one of the richly upholstered bar stools. She knew without looking that King Jackson saw the move, as did every other man in the lounge.

  Under the coat, she was wearing an expensively tailored dress just a few shades darker than her wig. It was cut low in front, and very low in back, with narrow spaghetti straps holding it up. The flared skirt ended several inches above her knees. It fit her snugly around her waist, and loosely above and below it. It showed off a great deal of her flawless, creamy flesh without being too suggestive. She settled herself onto the bar stool and when the bartender hurried over to take her order she leaned forward, propping herself on her elbows, and smiled again, sweetly.

  “Ah’d just love one o’ those margaritas mah friend told me you serve here, hon’,” she said in her most syrupy, honeyed Southern drawl. “Do y’all suppose you could make one fo’ me?”

  To his credit, the bartender tried to keep his eyes fixed on hers, though it was clear that it was a struggle for him. His returning smile, as he assured her that of course he could, was a bit glassy. Amanda leaned back as he hurried away. A Southern accent could do things to men’s minds and libidos, and she’d practiced hers with a helpful
woman with whom she’d had a brief affair. Sally was a grifter between jobs, and often as they lay in bed together, she even helped Krissy polish and refine her Amanda persona. In the heat of passion, Sally didn’t sound very Southern at all, but Krissy never found out where she actually came from.

  Amanda half-turned on the stool and scanned the rest of the lounge. Most of the customers there were men, some sitting alone, some in pairs or small groups. There were a few couples, mostly older men with women who appeared to be their wives, and one with a dazzling young blonde who was either a trophy wife, a mistress, or a high-class call girl. She caught King Jackson’s eye as she looked around and favored him with a hint of a smile and the barest nod as their eyes met. She could see that he was interested, but as he was still hoping that Lynn would arrive he wasn’t likely to make a move any time soon. He would once he’d given up on Lynn. In the meantime, she’d have to fend off the advances of the other single men in the bar, no matter what age they were. Amanda attracted males as moths to a flame, and she had a way of thoroughly singeing their wings and sending them away without ever being rude about it, or discouraging the next randy guy in line from taking a shot. She didn’t concern herself about any of the men who already had feminine companionship, even though once she’d been approached by a well-to-do couple who invited her back to their room for a threesome. The woman had looked quite interested, even eager, but Krissy…she had been in her raven-haired Lucinda persona then…had turned them down, doing her best to look regretful as she did so.

  As for the men here in groups, usually they didn’t cause any complications. She suspected that none of them wanted to get turned down by the smoldering redhead in front of their buddies. Male egos could be so fragile.

  Most of the single men did indeed give it a try, and she sweetly, politely, and definitively turned them all down. In between their successive efforts, on occasion she managed to catch the eye of King Jackson, who, at some point seemed to have concluded that Lynn wasn’t coming after all. She had to be subtle about it, so as not to give him the idea that she was deliberately coming on to him but to give him the impression that she found him interesting and some hope of succeeding where so many lesser men had failed before him. After all, he’d come here with the expectation of a steamy night with Lynn. His pump was already primed.

  She was almost done with her second margarita before he worked up the nerve to approach. She caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye and repressed the smile she felt.

  “May I?” he asked as he gestured at the barstool next to her, the scene of so many defeats. She turned no more than her head and smiled at him. He took it as either approval or acquiescence and sat down next to her. What came next was as familiar to her as the cheerleading routines she’d learned in high school, and as intricate. He introduced himself, she introduced herself, and they spoke trivialities for a little while. Then he told her a little bit about himself, and asked about her. She deflected his questions in her most charming manner, leaving him with the impression that she had come here because a date had stood her up. That gave him the opening to suggest that no sane man would do such a thing, or words to that effect, which gave her the opening to thank him for the compliment.

  It was a bit like a dance. She let King Jackson think that he had the lead the whole time as she guided him along, giving him a little encouragement from time to time to keep him hooked. Gradually, they moved closer together, close enough so that she could touch him lightly on his arm whenever she laughed at one of his funny stories. The bartender brought them more drinks, screwdrivers for him, ginger ale on the rocks for her. He’d probably seen this sort of thing many, many times before. If he suspected that she was anything other than what she pretended to be, he gave no sign of it. She’d been keeping an eye on him looking for any possible sign of trouble from that quarter, and breathed an inward sigh of relief. Now all she had to do was reel in the fish, land it, gut it, clean it, and be on her way. It wouldn’t be hard. He was already so very, very ready that he was trying to jump into her boat. When he finally suggested that they go up to his room and get to know each other a little better she just looked at him for a long moment, letting him worry that he’d overstepped. Then she gave him a warm, steamy smile and coyly accepted his invitation, if he’d just bring along a good bottle of wine for them to share. He quickly procured one from the bartender, paid both their tabs, and escorted her towards the elevators. As they went out of the lounge they passed by a big, rumpled man in a badly fitting suit sitting alone in a booth near the exit, hunched over a half-empty glass and looking morose. Neither Amanda nor King Jackson paid him a second glance. Spooner waited until they were well out of sight before he tossed off the last of his club soda and left the lounge himself. It looked like Palmieri had been right about everything so far. He hoped she’d be right about all the rest of it. He knew that that redhead wasn’t really a redhead, but he was pretty sure that everything under that slinky red dress was as real as real could get. He was looking forward to confirming it for himself.

  Chapter Four

  Everything went smoothly. Certainly King Jackson thought so right up until the moment when the drug kicked in and he passed out on the bed. Krissy disentangled herself from his now limp embrace. They didn’t usually get that far with her, but he was a big man in really good shape and very, very determined. He’d actually gotten a hand under her dress and on her tit just before his eyes rolled up. Her skin crawled where he’d groped it. She ignored the feeling and set to work. She could always take a nice hot shower once she was back home.

  She was so practiced in her routine now that she barely had to think about it as she carefully looted the man’s pockets, turning up an expensive but thin wallet and a thick wad of cash in a gold money clip. The wallet yielded up half a dozen credit cards, but she only took two: One gold and one platinum. She ransacked his room and luggage, turning up some very nice gold jewelry and a small-caliber pistol in a zippered black leather case. She left the gun as she’d found it. She knew perfectly well how to use one, but the city had some really stringent laws about even thinking about owning one and it was best to avoid trouble whenever possible. She usually took everything valuable, but this time she left behind the less-expensive looking jewelry and his watch. It was a break from her usual method of operation. With any luck, the cops wouldn’t connect this with most of her previous escapades.

  After she scattered some misleading hairs about she went back to Mr. Jackson. She tore open his shirt and pulled up his t-shirt, then planted some kisses on his torso in bright red lipstick. She hated the feel of hairy male flesh against her lips, but it was another break from what she usually did and given how big this score was, she’d just as soon muddy the waters as much as possible. Unbuckling and unzipping his pants was easy enough, but the mattress was so soft that after a while she gave up trying to tug his pants down. That done, she took one last look around the room, satisfied herself that everything was in the proper disorder, and left, carrying her coat over one arm. Instead of heading for the elevators, she went to the stairwell. On the trip up here, she’d noticed that the elevator had a security camera. Most of the really high-class hotels had them now, but somehow the stairs never came in for the same level of scrutiny. All the same, once the door had closed behind her she looked around to see if an excess of caution had prompted someone to put surveillance on the stairs. She didn’t see any, so she took a moment to switch her heels for comfy jogging shoes, doff her wig and stuff it into her trusty purse and then put on her nondescript coat. As she made her way down all eleven flights to the ground floor, she felt quite pleased with herself. King Jackson had been a very, very big score indeed, almost worth him actually getting his hands on her. With what she ought to be able to get from Tito for the credit cards and jewelry, it would come to a nice, tidy sum. But she’d have to move fast. It was getting late, and she’d have to hustle to get to Tito’s place before it closed.

  She made it all the way downs
tairs without seeing anyone else. When she slipped through the door there was only one other person to be seen in the carpeted hallway, a tipsy man trying to get into his room. He gave her a bleary smile and nod as she strode past him. From his appearance, it was all he could do to stay upright. Tomorrow morning he wouldn’t remember her at all.

  The doorman opened the door for her as she approached, giving her a smile and a nod. Krissy nodded briefly in response, but didn’t smile. She’d taken off most of her makeup back in King Jackson’s suite, including the bright red lipstick, and she was back in her Krissy character so there was no reason for him to recognize her, but it was best not to flash him a smile as she walked past him anyway. You never knew what some people might remember if the police questioned them later. She walked quickly, but not too quickly, away from the hotel until she had rounded a corner and then picked up her pace. She’d memorized all the bus schedules for this part of town, and the one she wanted to catch would be arriving in five minutes or so, two blocks away. It was late enough now that if she missed it there wouldn’t be another on that route until the next morning. In a pinch, she could actually walk all the way to Tito’s if she had to, but it would be a very brisk walk and she’d get there all out of breath. Also, the route would take her through some bad parts of town, and she’d just as soon not run that risk, not with all the loot she was carrying tonight.

  She saw the bus pulling up to the stop and sprinted to catch it. Sometimes, but not often, they arrived early. She yelled out as she heard the door hissing closed. The bus, which had just started to pull away, lurched to a stop. She dashed up to it and gave the driver, a big, surly-looking Hispanic woman, a big smile as she boarded.