“You’re welcome,” Mr. King and Gerard chime at the same time. They catch each other’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. I stifle a giggle.
“Here are the documents you asked me to prepare,” I say, pulling a folder out of my purse. “Can’t say that I understood them, but they’re ready. Just as you specified.”
“Fantastic.”
Mr. King rifles through the papers, speed-reading the odd gibberish he had asked me to type up. Gerard turns onto FDR drive and directs us south. Finally Mr. King returns the papers to me. “Hold on to these. We’re in for an interesting night, Miss Clark.”
I smile and look out the window. It’s dorky, but living in Manhattan I rarely ride in a car anymore and it feels like a treat. I watch the dense lights of the city swirl past, reflected on the East River like phosphorescence over ink.
Suddenly Gerard takes an exit and gives some crazy taxi drivers a run for their money, careening rapidly through a puzzle of streets before swerving into a parking garage. I have no idea where in the city we are.
“Whoa,” I say, clutching the door as we speed underground.
Gerard is burning rubber like a drag racer around the pillars of the parking structure, taking us deeper level after level. Finally, he screeches to a stop in front of an industrial elevator door.
There is a large man with a beard and a leather jacket standing outside the elevator. Another man is sitting on a crate. Gerard pulls the emergency brake and scrambles out of the car, trotting over to open the door for us. He stands to the side, his gaze downcast.
Dizzy from the speeding, I try to exit the car gracefully but am a little shook up. Mr. King appears at my side and offers me a steadying hand. I clutch it gratefully, smiling up at him. His eyes twinkle back.
“Sorry about that, Miss Clark. We were running a bit late.”
“No worries,” I say. I take a breath, pull my necklace back around the right way and follow Mr. King to the elevator.
The giant man gives us a nod and presses a button. “Hello Mr. King,” he grunts. Something like a gun bulges at his side. “Long time no see.”
Mr. King nods but doesn’t look at him. “Bruno.”
I look to Mr. King, uneasy, and he gives me a wink that says everything is under control. Somewhat placated, I follow him into the elevator and notice there is only one button: down. He presses it firmly and the elevator lurches slowly into the depths of Manhattan, lights flickering.
“I can see why this club is exclusive,” I say, trying to break my tension with humor. “Who the hell can find it?”
Mr. King smiles and links my arm around his, pulling me nearer to his face. His eyes are clear and intense and I can smell his cologne. Sensory overload.
“Just stay close to me,” he murmurs. “Alright, Clark?”
You bet, I think, nodding. I’m not going anywhere.
The elevator deposits us on a narrow platform outside a large sliding sheet metal door with the letters D.L. over the top and enormous thugs guarding the door. Bouncers who make Bruno look like Orphan Annie give us the once-over and make us put our hands against the door, patting us down. My stomach churns as I feel the huge hands trace every curve of my body.
“This seems extreme,” I object.
Mr. King shakes his head. “Standard procedure here.”
“We like a safe space to play,” says the taller bouncer, leering at me.
I grimace.
The bouncers finish searching us and unfasten the large metal chain barring the door, stepping to the side to give us access.
Mr. King goes through, tugging me along, and I hear the chain lock behind us. The doors open and my eyes and ears struggle to acclimate. There’s hardly any light, and when there is it’s reddish and murky. Oppressively loud trance music is blaring.
“What’s the D.L. stand for?” I shout to Mr. King.
But he’s not listening to me. He’s walking briskly into a chain-link hallway and I skip to catch up, startled to see men and women in various states of undress making out along the walls.
Wait. They’re not making out.
I hear rhythmic pounding and groaning and grind to a halt, dumbfounded, as I realize that a man and woman directly to my right are having full out sex. The man’s naked ass almost slams me in the stomach as he thrusts in and out of the woman, who is bound up to the chain-link wall by a pair of handcuffs. As I stare in shock, a new man pushes him away and drops his pants for a turn.
I spin around, realizing that all of the couples are fucking and one of them is tied up in some way. Women are dangling or suspended in rows on either side. One or two are upside-down. Some of the people tied up are boys, too. They look like teenagers.
But all the un-bound people look different. Some are in suits, some in leather jackets, some naked, some covered in tattoos, some wearing pinky rings and too much jewelry: all colors, shapes and sizes.
All men.
I’ve heard of sex dungeons and sex clubs in New York, but Jesus god I was certainly not expecting to walk into one tonight.
A strong hand grips my elbow and I jump. It’s Mr. King, his eyes searing into mine.
“I said stay close to me, Clark.” His voice is commanding.
I can’t form words to respond. Noticing my shock, he clenches his jaw and drags me along his side like a small, lost child.
The sex hallway opens to a wide, crowded room with arena-style seating and floodlights. People are shouting and laughing and drinking in their seats. Chains rattle and the sounds of ferocious dogs barking echo throughout the stadium. There is some kind of a sand-floored pit at the center of the room under a chain-link cage and I strain to see what’s happening inside.
On tip-toe, I peer through the heads of the crowd and see a couple of men restraining a hysterical pit bull with chains and a long pole with a loop at the end, pushing the animal into a corner where a crate is waiting. In the center of the sand, another group of men are lifting another, motionless dog into a bag. There is a pool of blood on the ground.
I instantly feel sick.
“Mr. King,” I say, voice weak. “What is this place?”
He doesn’t answer, staring in consternation at the dead dog being carried out.
“Fuck!” He curses. “This isn’t good, Clark. Let’s hope our luck changes.”
He presses his fingers to his temple and I see the muscle of his jaw work. I try to control my impulse to cry and vomit simultaneously.