Morgan Leary tailed the girl from her appointment in Hazlet, catching the North Jersey coast train just before five. She was shorter than they said. Curvy. Long black disco wig instead of the frowsy blonde crop—pleated red mini-skirt, patterned grey tights, and a set of below-the-knee go-go boots on strong, athletic legs. Morgan tugged on his lead-knuckled gloves.

At Newark she made the platform switch to the PATH train and at Hoboken Morgan followed her seventeen odd blocks from the station to a brownstone apartment off of Columbus Park.

It was a shame he had to beat her.

Lousy hockey bets. Not the skirt but one of her humps—some weasel-faced Ivy League skel named Monty Parker. Monty Archibald Parker the Third, of all things—a small head, arrogant fuckwit three years fresh from Tuck business school playing fast and loose with his rookie MBA bankroll. Couple of busted long-shot parlays and Monty decided to skip on a book that kicked to Morgan's boss, Dante Donofrio. Bad idea all around.

Coincidence it being hockey action. Maybe that's why Mr. Donofrio asked for Morgan. Morgan skated two seasons in the East Coast Hockey League in Pennsylvania and upstate New York. Played decent left wing, but his real talent was being an enforcer, the coach's go-to-guy to grab jerseys and throw paws. He held the league record for three hundred and fifty-two penalty minutes in a single season. Ripped ACL kind of ended the fun.

The girl he followed was no innocent. Ran a service. Placed advertisements in bar rags and in the back of sordid, free weeklies claiming she was a suburban housewife, 28 y.o., into role play, light domination, and prostate massage. 7 days until 10 PM. Out service or in house. PayPal and major CCs accepted.

Morgan snorted.

Prostate massage. Give me a fucking break.

When the girl turned for her building Morgan quickened his pace to close the gap between them. The girl stopped at the top of her building's stoop and Morgan froze.

"You my appointment?"

Shit.

"Umm..."

"Don't be shy."

"Uhh, yeah. The appointment."

The girl batted her eyes, "First time, eh? I'll need a credit card. Or a PayPal account."

Morgan swallowed, "OK."

"Or cash." She touched an earring, "Cash is always good. But sometimes? My credit card connection? Jesus. It's, like, way slow. Small business like myself, you can imagine how I get pushed around."

"That's unfortunate."

"Called twice this week and was on hold for, like, twenty minutes."

She unlocked the building's foyer. Morgan started up the steps.

"I'm at the end of the hall. Apartment 1-D. Be with you in a sec."

More jangled keys. The girl unfastened a nut lock in a narrow mail cage in the foyer wall and collected a few envelopes and a pizza circular, then she crooked a finger in a gesture for Morgan to follow. He did and enjoyed the view all the way down the hall.

Once inside her apartment, Morgan's eyes flicked over the Spartan features—small kitchenette, an art deco floor lamp, and giant movie poster for Al Pacino's Dog Day Afternoon on the far wall. In the center of the living room was an expensive leather-topped massage table equipped with four notched belt restraints. A brass umbrella stand close to the table held an assortment of crops, canes, and peacock feathers. There was a wheeled cart teeming with perfumed lotions, dildos, and soft towels.

"So what's it going to be?" the girl asked.

Morgan flushed.

"Come on, big boy. What's it going to be? Massage? Nipple session?" She was on her tiptoes twisting closed the Venetian blinds.

"I'm here about Monty." Morgan said.

The girl turned.

"Monty?"

"Yeah."

Everything seemed to skip a beat, and Morgan could see the angles being organized behind the girl's eyes. She tsked and sashayed over to the massage table, weaving her fingertips on the edge of the padded leather, all demure.

"Monty is such a bore," she said.

Slowly she opened a drawer in the massage table and lifted to eye level what looked like a small grey and yellow box of chocolates. That's when a light winked and a set of wires wobbled out like a high speed roll cast. The barbs lanced the thin skin just above Morgan's left clavicle, and the amperage dropped him like a bag of wet sand. It was as if a million needles jabbed into every inch of tissue, muscle, and bone. Needles with fangs. The ceiling throbbed.

"Move and you get another."

Morgan rallied from the hardwood floor and attempted a lunge across the massage table but she zapped him again. There was a white light and he collapsed. His teeth clenched so hard he swore he could feel the enamel starting to snap. Then his bowels went. A couple of carne asada tacos for lunch and the spicy waste flew out his hole. His peripheral vision tunneled.

There was rustling from the massage table's drawer and Morgan's eyes snapped wide when the girl dropped a knee on his heaving chest and plunged a hypodermic into his neck.

"Hush-a-bye now." the girl said, disappearing.

Snapping fingers.

"Hey!"

More snapping fingers, then a splash of liquid stinging his eyes. Morgan licked his lower lip. Stank and tasted like bourbon.

Monty Parker was standing side by side with the girl. Both of them had their arms crossed, Monty cupping a glass tumbler half full with brown-tinted liquid. The girl was wigless and blonde now and had changed into a white t-shirt and khaki capris. Bare feet. Monty was draped for a corporate takeover; a two hundred dollar yellow tie from Sak's askew around his stubbled neck.

He slugged back some liquor. "You're Dante Donofrio's muscle, huh?"

Morgan rolled his head and inspected his restraints. Duct tape. Not very imaginative given all the bondage shit lying around the girl's pad but effective all the same. He leaned against the wall like a big "L" and leveled his worst possible glare at Monty and the blonde bitch.

"Yeah. I'm Donofrio's muscle."

Monty laughed, "And you let little Donna here take you out like that?"

Morgan was quiet. He sized Monty up. Four, no...wait. Three seconds. Three seconds free of the bonds and he'd pummel this twit into intensive care.

Morgan growled. "Didn't think she'd be packing all Star Trek and goodnight nurse."

Monty turned his head to admire Donna's profile. Donna's blue eyes were glued on Morgan's massive hands flexing at the tape.

"Well," Monty said, "Donna here has to have back up. Some creeps that call on her can play rough, don't they, sugar? Strange they elect to do that when she offers only the finest in manual release."

"You owe Dante Donofrio eighteen grand, fuckface."

"I'm sorry, are we on a first name basis, Captain Underpants?"

Morgan recalled how he shat himself when the girl zapped him. He squirmed and seethed in his own filth.

"By the way, that's a police grade Taser, dog. Illegal for your average citizens, but one of Donna's clients is NYPD."

Morgan clenched his teeth, "Untie me."

Monty set his tumbler glass down on the massage table, crouched down in front of Morgan and placed his hands on both of his knees, "Let me tell you what's going to happen, tough guy. In a little while we're going to knock you out again and then I'm going to have a few friends dump you along the New Jersey Turnpike, see? Right on the shoulder. I'm thinking near a dark overpass, maybe near the airport. If you're lucky perhaps a truck will come by and take you out clean, but if not I think you'll be out of a job when this gets back to your boss."

Morgan shook his head, "You really don't want to do this."

"Ooooh. I'm all scared."

"You should be."

"You wannabes are all the same. Think you can force people to pay on your terms just because you've some half-baked, tough guy mystique going on. I got to tell you, I'm not intimidated. You know what kills me though? A big, middleweight like you gets taken out by a lady weighing slightly more than a dressed leaf of lettuce."

"Look," Morgan said, "Untie me. I promise I'll only break the bones in your hands and give you another day to get the money together."

"Ha! What do you think, Donna? Should we untie him? Donna? Donna, what the fuck are you doing?"

Donna stuck a fresh hypodermic into an overturned vial and drew back the plunger. She flicked the tip, "Getting ready, baby. You said you wanted to knock him out again, that's what you said, right?"

Monty frowned, "Yeah, but not now. I meant later, when my buddies get here."

"Oh."

"Put that down and get me another drink."

When Monty turned back to Morgan, Donna swung the needle fast and underhand like a softball pitcher. The hypo sank deep into the meat of Monty's left thigh.

"Ow! What the—?"

Monty thrashed out a backhand and caught Donna on her soft chin. Donna spun with a gasp as the needle ripped away from Monty's flesh and skipped across the floor trailing blood. Monty's eyes rolled white and he collapsed in an inelegant heap. After a half a minute, Donna eased over and probed him with her crimson painted toes—out cold.

Morgan looked at her. "Why'd you do that?"

Donna rubbed her chin and flexed her jaw, right then left. "He's all yours, buddy."

"What?"

"Look, I'm not stupid," Donna said. She went to the refrigerator and drew out a frosted bottle of Grey Goose Vodka from the freezer. She unscrewed the cap and took a deep pull. "I had to take you out, don't you see?"

"Umm."

"You were sent here to rough me up, right?"

"Yeah," Morgan admitted, "I was. But I needed to find Monty."

"So, big guy, I delivered him to you. On a platter. And...," she waved a hand around her face and body like a model on game show, "I saved my assets. Sutures and bruises are way bad for business. Pretty smart, huh?"

Morgan squinted. "What do you want?"

Donna sighed and shoved the bottle back in the freezer. "Honey, I could care less about Monty here. Spoiled jackass never wanted to bankroll me proper to expand my operation."

"So?"

"So? So I've got plans."

"Plans...."

"What, you think I want to tug off doughy software salesmen the rest of my life? I want my own stable. Hire a bunch of starving girls hungry to do all the work. With a boss like yours? Dante Donofrio? I'm thinking maybe he'd have the spare capital to invest. Hold on a sec, will you?"

Like Morgan was going anywhere.

Donna bopped into an adjacent room and a half a minute later returned with a black presentation folder. She thumbed the pages in front of Morgan's face. Numbers, colored pie charts, spreadsheets. A business plan.

Morgan nodded as thoughtfully as he could. "Cut the tape," he said.

Donna gave him a sideways look. "Promise not to hurt me?"

"Lady, I just want to wipe my ass, clean up, and have a big drink of that vodka."

Donna sprang to her feet. From a kitchen drawer she pulled out a pair of stubby poultry shears and started working on the duct tape near Morgan's wrists. "You can take a shower and I'll wash your clothes for you while you clean up. There's a robe from one of my johns in the bathroom."

Once Morgan's hands were free Donna jumped back warily as he quickly ripped the rest of the tape off his clothes. He stood and felt a God-awful slip of damp fecal matter on a cheek of his ass. He calmed himself and pointed down the hall. With a grin, Donna nodded and went to fix him a drink.

After the shower, while his jeans and underwear clumped around in the dryer, Donna untied the borrowed bathrobe and fucked Morgan stupid. When they finished, Donna's smile was so full of pride that she never saw Morgan's knockout cross.

Once dressed, he found the files. All the client credit card information along with a laptop. Then Morgan rolled Monty for his wallet, TAG Heuer, and car keys. BMW M Series. Parked outside, no doubt.

All in all, more money made than the lousy eighteen grand hockey welch, but Morgan knew he'd collect that later.

He remembered to break both of Monty's hands on the way out.

Copyright © 2009 by Kieran Shea