Free Another Life by Andrew Vachss Page A

asked. “An actual kid?”

“It’s not that simple,” I told her. “Yeah, I’m looking. But not for pictures. Not for scenes. Not even for buyers. I’m following a trail. Starts with a guy who works the strolls. He’s not the kind of wannabe dom you run across in your business; he’s only interested in piece-of-meat merchandise.”

“Use and abuse?” Cyn asked.

“His use is abuse. But all we’ve got documented is verbal. He doesn’t need to role-play; he is what he wants to be. He pays; the girl does what she’s told. Every time he does his thing, he’s making a point.”

“Not fooling himself?” Cyn asked, making sure.

“Not even close. This isn’t the kind of guy who pays to spank a girl while she calls him her boss, or her ‘master,’ or whatever gets him off. The one I want, he’s right out front. With him, it wouldn’t be ‘You’re a bad girl,’ it would be ‘I pay you cash; you bend over and take it.’ No scenes, just payment for services.”

“That’s asking a lot,” Rejji said. “Most pro subs like it at some level. I mean, they may not like the client, but they get off on the scenes themselves. Spanking, that’s the comfort-zone end. But some of those girls, they’re pretty close to the other edge—RL.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Real Life,” she said. “Even if they’re being pimped, their boyfriends—or their girlfriends—have to be into the scene themselves. One girl we know, she broke up with the guy she was living with because he wouldn’t choke her. In her mind, that was supposed to be their special thing. She’d let a trick flog her for money, but asphyx sex, that’s not for strangers. You’ve got to trust to play that way.”

“Maybe. But anytime you let a stranger tie you up…”

“That’s right,” Rejji said. “That game, it’s all risk. If you’re going to trick, you never know. Not everyone follows the script. You remember Olivia?”

“Mistress Greta,” Cyn added, as if that would clear things up for me.

I shook my head.

“She did the whole Nazi thing,” Rejji explained. “You know: blond wig, black uniform, high leather boots, German accent.” She stifled a yawn with a very ladylike patting of her lips. “Had herself a complete dungeon setup, very expensive. Regular clientele, too. Like making an appointment for a facial.”

“And?” I asked, ignoring her word games.

“And she’s dead. Somebody—probably more than one—put her through hell before they finished her off.”

“You heard this?”

“We saw it,” Cyn told me. “On the Internet. Somebody posted the video, and made sure it got around. The URL’s gone now, but we figure it’s been downloaded plenty of times. Not even illegal to possess it; they only showed her taking it, not the finale. That makes it art. Probably could have sent it in to apply for an NEA grant.”

“No strangers; no exceptions,” Rejji said, schoolgirl-proud that she’d memorized the material.

“No contact. ” Cyn pulled the leash even tighter. “We deal with strangers all the time, but never in the flesh. Rejji and I, we make little movies. We do it all: casting, directing, set design, lighting, sound. Now if you want to be the screenwriter and you’ve got the money to finance the production, we’ll consider it. But, no matter what, you never, ever get to meet the actors.”

“That’s your rule. But it’s not the—?”

“Of course not,” Cyn said. “There’s…levels in this business, same as any other. Standards, too.”

“You mean, like, security systems?”

“No,” she said, crisply. “I mean what I said: standards. Wait….”

She walked out of the room. As soon as she was gone, Rejji leaned over and licked my mouth.

Cyn came back in, looked at Rejji, said, “Your cheeks are red, bitch,” causing a deeper blush. “I’ll help you with that later.” Then she turned to me, said, “Even the phone-sex operations—and, trust me, you wouldn’t want to meet some of the girls they use—have guidelines. The classier ones, anyway.” She handed me a piece