Free A Fool for a Client by David Kessler

he slithered through the slums and sewers of the concrete jungle.
    Occasionally she glanced up at the penthouses above for a moment ’ s relief from the cockroaches and sewer rats below. Just as there were two Americas , so there were two New Yorks , with one placed squarely on top of the other. But it was divided along the lines of personal choice. The top hadn ’ t climbed there over the corpses of those beneath. Rather, they had aimed for the stars and leapt with all the might they could muster, while the low-life rushed in to fill the vacuum.
    It was down among the low-life that Justine had wandered as she pursued her quarry. She hated it. But she had little choice.
    As the curtain of dusk descended around her, she looked up again at the majestic towers of the skyline, drawing comfort from the squares of light hanging there in the night sky like sparkling gems against black velvet. These were the windows of the penthouses, where the curtains need never be drawn against the darkness, where the sense of adventure was untainted by the stench of the garbage that littered the streets.
    She kept to the shade, avoiding the misty pools of light thrown by the tall, lean streetlamps onto the cold grey stone of the sidewalk. From lightless corners she had observed him as a zoologist observes his laboratory specimens. She had studied him in action while he spotted his prey and homed in for the kill. She knew every movement and physical gesture of his routine. The only thing she didn ’ t know were the words. But these didn ’ t matter. She would find out soon enough. The important thing was that she knew what kind of girl he liked. She knew the look... and she knew the type...
    She left the bathroom and entered the mahogany-panelled bedroom. It was fitting, she thought, that she was doing it here and not in her own bedroom. It was a large room in a large apartment, and she was now the owner.
    Some people would have called her lucky to be the owner of one and a half million dollars worth of New York City real estate. But as she shivered in the emptiness of the apartment, she didn ’ t feel lucky today. Bitter was more the word.
    She went over to the full-length mirror, still wearing the bathrobe. Even modestly covered up, with only the carves and forearms to hint at the shape and form of the rest, there was no denying the beauty that would carry her plan through to mid-field. From her teens onward she had never lacked dates or boyfriends, and only her mother ’ s friendly firmness had kept the distractions at bay and the social life in reasonable proportion, to allow her to progress with her studies. Justine had the willpower to study, but having a determined mother to guard the portals made all the difference between pressing on and falling by the wayside.
    Looking at her reflection in the mirror now, Justine could see the source of the potential problem. She had the smooth complexion, the gentle bone structure and the firm, athletic figure that appealed to the traditional tastes of adolescent boys. And she had blossomed early, making her a prime target for the high school head-hunters.
    She realized now that in a way she was lucky  lucky to have been blessed with good looks and lucky not to have been toppled by them. And yet Justine, who seemed to have all the breaks, didn ’ t feel lucky at all. A stupid war miles away in Asia had deprived her of her father ’ s mind and a bullet from the past had deprived her of his physical presence. Disease had deprived her of her mother and the aloofness that she had developed while studying had deprived her of any lasting friendships.
    She sat down on the bed, slipped her arms out of the bathrobe and threw it off behind her. There was a brusque anger in her movements as she picked up the tight-fitting purple T-shirt pulled it over her head and smoothed it down over her body. It was followed up by a pair of frilly briefs of black lace. She didn ’ t know how far the charade would go