Free Among Thieves by John Clarkson Page B

appeared in the office for two days. Not surprising with all the mess he’d created. The phone rang until the outgoing voice mail message came on.
    â€œCall me,” said Milstein as he hung up with a curse. Goddamn Crane never answered his phone.
    He stood for a moment in his opulent Park Avenue living room, trying to decide something. Finally, he reached into his desk and fished around for a cheap cell phone he kept there for just an occasion like this. There were three like it in the drawer. His instructions were to use the phones once and throw them away.
    He checked the battery. Half full. That would be enough. He pushed the speed dial for a preprogrammed number and waited until the call connected and started to ring. Milstein listened to the phone ring at the other end. And continue to ring.
    â€œFuck.”

 
    7
    Leonid Markov heard his phone vibrating on the side table.
    About two hours earlier, he had carefully ingested a combination of Adderall, Viagra, GBH (Gamma-Hydroxybutyric), and DOB (4-bromo-2,5-dimethoxyamphetamine) along with slightly less than a half-pint of Stolichnaya vodka.
    A precise amount of each ingredient had been consumed in a precise sequence in preparation for the sex session Markov had planned, ending with the Adderall crushed into a fine powder, placed in a small piece of toilet paper, and swallowed with water.
    He knew it was impossible to achieve the exact effect he wanted, but Markov nearly always succeeded in bringing himself to a point where he was teetering between sensory overload and mental chaos.
    Leonid Markov simply and always wanted more. Drugs were part of getting more. More sensations, more intensity, more phantasmagoria.
    It also made him feel superior to be able to maintain control over the overwhelming sensations brought on by the dangerous combination of chemicals that coursed through his system.
    When his phone began vibrating, Markov was naked, on his back, his flabby, 255-pound body splayed on top of a sturdy masseuse table, knees bent, his thick legs tented wide, his heels on the edge of the table while a black transsexual stood at the foot of the table, penetrating him anally with long steady strokes as she squeezed and stroked his erect penis.
    For a moment, Markov thought the buzzing sound of the cell phone had something to do with his own moaning and grinding of teeth under the Adderall rush.
    But he rallied enough to focus and realized the electronic noise came from the cell phone skittering around on the glass-topped side table next to the king-size bed.
    Markov was working on the second orgasm of three he had planned, so he held up one hand, indicating that the prostitute should stop. Calls to his cell phone could not be ignored. They invariably involved money, and of all the things Leonid Markov wanted more of, money was at the very top of his list.
    He reached over, picked up the phone. “Who?”
    â€œMilstein.”
    Markov grunted, “Call me in five hours.”
    Without waiting for a response, he pushed the END button and dropped the phone on the hotel room carpet, turning his attention back to the transsexual.
    Markov focused on the black she-male who called herself Natalie. She was beginning to look more masculine, but at the same time less human, more animatronic. Her abdominal muscles flexed and pulsed, looking like a set of dark, three-dimensional metallic plates. The shaved stubble of her pubic hair seemed to flex on the surface of her smooth abdominal skin, reminding Markov of tiny nail heads or rivets. The black wig she wore swayed as if it were made of plastic strands that had been covered in a resin that made each strand heavy and somehow dangerous. Markov suddenly felt that if she bent over and any part of the wig touched him, it would slice through him, cutting back and forth through layers of skin and yellow fat and making him bleed.
    Markov avoided looking at her face, which had twisted into something like a mask made of