Cruel Comfort (Evan Buckley Thrillers Book 1)

by James, Harper

  The song ended and she hauled herself out of bed. She stood in front of the window enjoying the warm sun and stretched lazily, giving the boy across the street his daily freebie. Little pervert; he'd go blind if he wasn't careful. She caught a yawn in her fist. Just like every other morning, it felt as if it was only five minutes since she'd flopped into bed, exhausted after another eight hour shift at Chi Chi's, flashing her privates at drunken businessmen and adolescent boys who'd managed to sneak in. God, how she hated it but she couldn't argue with the money. Sure, she could have got a job as a waitress in the club or even in a greasy diner but how many waitresses got fifty dollar bills tucked down their panties for five minutes work? Her hair didn't end up smelling of cooking fat either.

  And even though she hated it, she was fascinated by it as well. They were watching you taking off your clothes but what you saw from your side was far more intimate. You could see them—the way they'd swallow thickly and go completely still, then stand up and shuffle awkwardly to the men's room like there was something in their pants stopping them from walking properly. It made her laugh—she couldn't believe how many married men must launder their own underwear. The regulars probably wore paper.

  She couldn't stand the other girls either, probably because they were so different to her. Not just in looks—all plastic tits and bleached blond hair—but in their attitudes as well. Maybe it was because they didn't have a good reason for doing what they did; they were strippers and always would be. Until their body parts headed so far south they couldn't get a job any more, of course. They never stopped complaining; they didn't like talking to the customers, didn't like asking them for money, and in fact resented having to deal with them at all.

  So get a different job.

  Customers were irritating because they were drunk; they had negative attitudes towards women. The names they called them summed it up—scum, mama's boys, child molesters, perverted old men, assholes, pigs. She almost felt sorry for the other girls that they should be so unhappy with their lives. Almost. It wasn't going to happen to her. She wasn’t going to wake up one morning when she was sixty and look at her wrinkles in the mirror and realize she’d wasted her life chasing someone else’s version of it.

  It was the private dances she hated the most. It was hot and sweaty in the club, and even more so in the small private rooms. It didn't matter how fit you were or how vigorously you scrubbed the bearded clam beforehand, it always got hot and sweaty down there. Especially if you put your heart into the dancing so you weren't just turning around the pole with all the joie de vivre of a rusty weathervane in a light gale. Then, when you had to shove your sweaty twat inches from their noses, you could see them breathing in the warm smell of your sex. Almost chewing it. Things couldn't have been much worse if they were allowed to touch, which they weren't of course.

  She got a lot of private dances too. Precisely because she was more than just over-inflated plastic tits and bleached hair. That, and the fact that she didn't look like a hard, ball-breaking bitch with more tattoos than a stevedore. If she ever did decide to get a tattoo she thought she'd have Less is More somewhere discreet. The other girls wouldn't know discreet if it bit them on the ass. Probably wouldn't feel it either, the size of some of them. Gina was different; she was slim and petite with a good figure and long, auburn hair. She was also what they called purty down here, with a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, but it was her piercing blue eyes that sometimes made men stop and stare in the street.

  If only that was all there was to it, but lately there was something else tucked away at the back of her that was trying not to drown. Call it her conscience. And it was eating her up inside. She was pretty sure some of the girls were blackmailing the customers. She'd seen them slip something into their drinks before taking them off into the private rooms. The guys looked like they couldn't walk properly and it wasn't because they'd enjoyed the show so much. More like they were drugged—and she'd bet dollars to donuts it wasn't just bromide to make sure they kept their grubby hands to themselves.

  The only explanation she could think of was that the girls were having sex with the guys and photographing or videoing it to blackmail them. As far as she could make out there were at least five of them actively involved. Out of all the girls, they were the ones who bitched about the customers the most. Was this their revenge? She'd been watching them closely for a couple of weeks now, ever since she first noticed what was going on. She knew it was risky and although it was impossible to know for sure, she didn't think they suspected she was on to them.

  She knew she should say something about it, but who to tell? The club management? They might be in on it. The police? They'd want more proof than she would be able to provide. They'd probably just ignore her anyway. She was only a stripper after all, not a pillar of the community, someone to be believed. It made her laugh; the pillars of the community—the No Funs and Shouldn't Dos—they were the ones with their tongues hanging out in the front row, the minute their wives went away.

  The longer it went on, the more it was eating her up, and it was starting to have an effect on her studying. This was the second year of her MBA so she still had over a year to go. She was determined she wasn't going to go the same way as her mother; she wanted more from life. She hadn't been able to get an internship and that's why she was doing what she was doing. There was no way her mother was able, or willing, to help with the tuition fees and when a friend had suggested becoming an exotic dancer as a joke she'd laughed it off. But the idea had stuck and grown legs and the rest was history.

  She had to admit there were some unexpected perks as well as the money. She'd got killer abs—not the six-pack that the guys go for but, even so, she was in better shape than she'd ever been. There were some unexpected downsides too; small ones like glitter. As one of the other dancers liked to say Glitter is the herpes of craft products: it gets everywhere and never really goes away. And bigger ones too; she got to meet more seriously odd people than other people meet in a whole lifetime. The dirty talkers were the worst; men who wanted to say the most disturbing things to you while you dance and take your clothes off for them and get away with it. Their wives certainly had a lot to answer for. Or their mothers.

  But on balance, it was okay. Sure, the minute she finished her course and got a proper job she'd quit but for the moment it paid the bills and working nights meant she could go to her classes, even if she was dog-tired the whole time. Until now. Up until now she'd managed to compartmentalize the different parts of her life, but not any more. Her conscience was giving her a hard time and she was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate. Something's gotta give. That was another great movie; made her not worry so much about getting old.

  Chapter 2

  Evan hadn't seen Jesse Springer for years. Back in college they'd called him Sticky. Something to do with what went on in the dorms at his prep school. It was best not to ask. His family had a ton of old money and the last Evan had heard, Sticky was a hedge fund manager at some company called Grabbit & Fukkem or something like that. Money goes to money. They'd kept in contact for a while after college, invited each other to their weddings and then drifted apart. Then, out of the blue, he'd got a call from him wanting to make an appointment to come to see him. Yesterday, if not sooner.

  It was a beautiful day; sunny with a warm breeze that wafted the smell of freshly baked bread from the bakery next door through the open window of Evan's office. The sort of day that made Evan glad to be alive. Sticky, however, didn't look quite so chipper. Dressed in chinos and penny loafers sans socks, he looked about as preppy as you can get. And, despite the breeze, it was a warm day so did he really need the sweater draped round his shoulders? Then again, it would probably get a little chilly out at the yacht club later on. But sitting in Evan's new visitor's chair at that moment he looked very hot and ill at ease. Evan had bought a new chair because he couldn't stop thinking about Kevin Stanton every time somebody sat in the old one. S
tanton had killed himself after Evan proved his wife was cheating on him and Evan had never forgiven himself. The idea now was that Evan did the kind of work that helped people out, not made them want to top themselves.

  'So you've got yourself into a sticky situation,' Evan said, trying to keep a straight face. It wasn't easy.

  Jesse groaned and rolled his eyes. 'Don't start. Nobody's called me that for years.'

  'Sorry. I couldn't resist it.'

  'If only a quaint old phrase like sticky situation covered it. Take a look at this.' He opened his expensive looking briefcase and pulled out an envelope. He selected a photograph and pushed it across the desk. 'This was hand delivered to the house yesterday morning. Along with a load of others.'

  Evan leant forward to look at it. Mmm mmm mmm. 'Nice tits,' he said. He looked back up at Jesse. 'This is at the yacht club is it? No wonder there's a waiting list.'

  Jesse shifted in his chair and sighed. Evan had noticed that visitors didn't find the new chair as comfortable as the old one. 'For Christ's sake, Evan, it's not funny.'

  Evan looked back down at the photograph of Mr Preppy nestled between the girl's ample bosom while her friend busied herself in his lap. 'You look like you're having a nice time anyway.'

  Jesse managed to squeeze out a tight smile. 'That's what they said. Now look at this.' He got out his cell phone and found the text message and passed the phone to Evan.

  Evan read through it. 'What's that about then?'

  'I checked my credit card statement. It seems I spent over thirty thousand dollars that night.'

  'That's a drop in the ocean to someone like you isn't it?' Jesse's face told him to give it a rest. 'I assume they're demanding more money.'

  Jesse shook his head. 'No. They've had their thirty thousand and that's it. Just take it on the chin—'

  'A bit like the girl you mean.'

  Jesse ignored his puerile comment and carried on.

  '—or we'll tell your wife. I'm sure you remember what Diane's like. Little Miss Jealous.'

  Evan nodded. He remembered Diane. Nice girl but he wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of her. 'I'm not sure I understand what you want me to do. You had an expensive night on the town, but it's all legit, it's on your credit card after all.' He opened his palm in Jesse's direction. 'It's not like they're demanding cash in a briefcase. Maybe they overcharged a little.'

  He didn't actually feel very sorry for Sticky at all. He obviously had more money than sense.

  'There's just one problem,' Jesse said. 'I don't remember a thing about it.'

  Evan picked the photo up again. 'Now that is a shame,' he said. 'If I paid thirty thousand for a blow job I'd want to remember every second of it. All ten of them.'

  Jesse laughed. 'Me too, actually. But I don't.'

  'Hot damn. So you don't feel you got value for money. Sounds like you want the Better Business Bureau, not me.'

  Jesse ignored him again. 'I think I was drugged.' He pointed at the photo. 'Look at my eyes.'

  Evan studied the photo. He couldn't really make anything out. 'A little too close together perhaps—just like any other hedge fund manager if you ask me. But no, I couldn't say whether you look drugged or not,' he added quickly. 'Why don't you tell me what you do remember?'

  ***

  'I had to go to Louisville last week to meet with some clients,' Jesse said, 'and they insisted on taking me to this club called Chi Chi's in the evening.'

  Evan laughed. 'No prizes for guessing what you're going to get there.'

  'Exactly, except at this place anything goes. You've got the regular floorshow and then there's the one-on-one rooms and private dancers.'

  Evan finished his coffee, then pushed back in his chair and swung his leg over the arm rest.

  'So what happened?'

  Jesse leaned forward to take a sip of his coffee but it was cold. He pushed it away. 'We were having a few drinks, watching the show and then these girls came across and joined us. It looked like they knew some of the guys I was with. The guys are probably regulars there.'

  'Not the two girls in the photo?'

  'No. I never saw them before that arrived.' He jabbed a finger at the photo lying on the desk. 'At least I can't remember ever seeing them before.'

  'How about if we showed you a photo of the top of their heads? Do you think you'd recognize them then?'

  'Very funny. Anyway, the girls had a hell of a thirst; it's obviously thirsty work sliding up and down those poles.'

  'I'm sure. And I'll bet there's only one drink that hits the spot, right?'

  Jesse nodded. 'You got it. Vintage champagne. Or, failing that, some cheap shit decanted into in a vintage bottle they found in a dumpster.'

  Evan nodded with him. They'd found the rhythm. 'And you paid, of course. Some small recompense for the amount of money you've taken off them over the years.'

  Jesse carried on nodding, although Evan wasn't sure which part he was agreeing with. His eyes were looking through Evan.

  'Show me your wallet,' Evan said, swinging his leg off the arm rest again and leaning on the desk.

  'You sound just like one of them,' Jesse said with a grin.

  'My ass doesn't cost thirty grand either.'

  Jesse got out an expensive alligator skin wallet and held it out. Evan grabbed his wrist and turned his arm to look at his watch. It had more dials and knobs on it than a jet fighter's cockpit.

  'What's that? Breitling?'

  Jesse didn't manage to keep the smugness off his face. 'Something like that. Not quite so commonplace.'

  Evan looked in the wallet and whistled. 'There must be a couple of thousand dollars in there.'

  Jesse shrugged. 'There's no point in earning it if you can't spend it.'

  'Jesus Jesse, you might as well walk around saying I'm Jesse and I'll be your mark this evening. Did you flash this around in there?' He waved the wallet in the air, then threw it on the desk.

  'Probably. I don't really remember.' He slipped the watch off his wrist and looked at it. 'I suppose I'm lucky they didn't steal this as well. Diane bought it. She'd see it was missing in an instant. She gets pissed if I don't wear it in the shower.'

  Evan tried to dig up some sympathy for a man forced to wear a twenty thousand dollar watch night and day. He didn't get very far with it.

  'What happened next?'

  'Some of the guys left. There was just me and one other guy and the two girls. They kept ordering more drinks and putting it on my tab, but even at their prices there's no way it could come to over thirty grand. I was pretty drunk by then.'

  'So that's when you decided to go for your private dance with your new friends.'

  Jesse gave him a dirty look. 'No, smartass, the next thing I remember it was morning and I was back in my hotel room feeling like shit with a plane to catch. At that point that's all there was to it. Too much to drink and I crashed out.'

  Evan could understand that. It had been known to happen to him on occasion. He made a mental note to be a bit more careful in future.

  'It's definitely your body in the photo is it? They haven't photoshopped your head onto some other guy? Some guy with a much bigger unit?'

  Jesse laughed and shook his head. 'It's all me; you can see a scar on my stomach.'

  Evan picked up the photograph and looked closely. The girl's blond hair was hanging down tickling Jesse's stomach but he could just about make out a long, jagged scar. It was probably caused when Jesse tried to stuff too many hundred dollar bills at once into his already over-stuffed wallet causing it to burst suddenly. Evan pictured Jesse writhing on the yacht club lawn trying to hold his intestines in—a bit like in the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan.

  'So you think they drugged you? Some kind of date rape drug maybe?'

  Jesse gave a small shrug. 'I guess. What else can it be?'

  There's always the possibility you're lying your face off and this is for show in case it all comes out

  Evan looked back at the photo. There w
as definitely something about Jesse's eyes. He could see it now. 'You look wide awake in the picture.'

  'I don't know; maybe she'd just bitten my johnson.'

  'Any bite marks?'

  'You want to check it out?'

  'We're not back in the prep school dorms now, Sticky.'

  Jesse admitted defeat with a smile and a nod of his head. 'Is there something they could have used that lets you function but gives you amnesia?'

  'I don't know. I'll check it out.' Evan reckoned he could ask Tom Jacobson, the dentist downstairs. 'What about the other guy? Have you spoken to him since?'

  Jesse stood and walked over to the window and looked out. The smell of fresh baked bread was still strong on the breeze. 'No reason to. Until the photos arrived I had no reason to think it was anything other than temporary memory loss brought on by too much booze. Since then you're the only person I've told.'

  'Do you think he could be involved?'

  'Who knows. Anything's possible but I've known him a long time.' A thought suddenly crossed his mind. He turned to look at Evan. 'Same thing might have happened to him.'

  'Is he rich too?' And stupid too?

  Jesse looked pained. He took his sunglasses off the top of his head where they'd been protecting his hair from the harmful UV rays in Evan's office, folded them and put them in his shirt pocket. 'I'm not rich, Evan. I do okay, but I'm not rich. Forrest St. John Jnr. is rich. Stupidly rich. Or at least his father is. Most of our clients are.'

  'Where does his money come from?'

  'Whiskey and tobacco originally. It's mainly real estate now.'