Wild Card

Taking a phone book off the night table, Fuller opened it to the yellow pages section for escort services. There were pages and pages of salacious ads of women willing to go the extra mile. He found a service called Discreet & Willing, and dialed it on the rotary phone. A woman with a husky voice answered.

“Hold on,” the woman said.

“Make it fast,” Fuller replied.

The woman put him on hold. Fuller was hungry. It had been a week since he’d satisfied his cravings. He’d be thirty-four in the spring, and had assumed that as he’d grown older, his cravings would diminish. It wasn’t working out that way. She came back on the line.

“I’d like to arrange a date,” he said.

“In call or out call,” the woman asked.

“Out call.”

“Rate’s a hundred an hour, two hour minimum, plus fifty for the room. Pay before you play.”

“Deal. I’m looking for a girl named Amber.”

“Have you used our service before?”

“Yes.”

“What’s your name?”

Fuller thought back to the name he’d used the week before. “Harold.”

“Oh. I remember you. Amber said you were rough.”

“Should I call someone else?”

“No. You’re on.” She gave him the name of a motel not far from where he was staying. She gave him a time, then said, “Make sure you identify yourself to the manager.”

Fuller acknowledged her instructions before he hung up the phone.

An hour later, Fuller left his motel, walked a block to Atlantic Avenue and headed south. Out in the ocean, black storm clouds were forming, and he turned up his collar to the bitter wind. Four blocks away, he spotted the blinking sign of his rendezvous point, and felt himself get aroused. No matter how many times he arranged to meet a call girl, it was always exciting. Call girls understood that men had different needs. More importantly, they understood his needs. Reaching the motel, he glanced through the window into the office, and saw the slovenly manager sitting behind the counter. He went in.

“What’s up?” the manager asked.

“I’m here to see Amber,” Fuller said.

“You must be Prince Charming. Room costs fifty bucks. No credit cards.”

Fuller paid up. Picking up the phone, the manager dialed a number and said, “A gentleman requests the presence of your company. Will do. I’ll send him right up.” The manager hung up. “She’s in room 9F. As in fuck.”

“Much obliged,” Fuller said.

“I’m sure you are.”

The motel was a dump, and Fuller had to search for the room. His heart was beating faster now, the sound like a bass line in his ears. He found 9F next to a soda machine, and tapped lightly on the door. “It’s open,” a voice called from inside.

He took a deep breath and entered the room. Amber lay beneath the sheet of a queen bed. She’d put a low wattage bulb in the lamp on the night table, and it cast a creamy patina on the room’s cheap furnishings and nautical wall paper. Fuller thought about the two hour minimum as he removed his wallet and extracted his money. Maybe he would use it up this time. He started to throw the money on the bed, then froze.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Krista,” the girl said.

“I asked for Amber.”

“Amber’s sick.”

She slipped out of bed and came over to where he stood. Naked, about five-seven, with everything he liked in a woman except for the scar running across her belly. A C-section, he guessed.

“Amber called me, and asked that I take the job. She told me all about you.”

Fuller was holding the money in his hand. Krista tried to take it, but Fuller wouldn’t let go. “What does that mean?” he said.

“Amber said you were into bondage.”

“That’s right. Are you?”

She flashed a devil’s smile. “Isn’t everybody?”

Krista had brought two pieces of white clothesline and a silk gag. She talked about herself while Fuller tied her arms to the headboard. She’d gone to Atlantic City High, liked to smoke grass and party, blah blah blah. Normally, he tied his girls so they were lying face up, but the scar on her belly was a turn-off, so he tied her face down. To make her comfortable, he put a pillow under her stomach. Then he stripped off his clothes.

“You want to use the gag?” Krista asked.

“Only if you keep talking,” he said.

The fun left Krista’s eyes and she grew silent. Fuller liked it when a girl was a little afraid. It made him feel in control.

“I’m going to turn off the light,” he said.

“Do whatever you want.”

He turned off the light on the night table, then started to climb on top of her. He heard a door bang open, and felt a blast of cold air invade the room. He looked fearfully over his shoulder. Standing in the doorway was a man wearing a baggy green Army jacket and a plastic Richard Nixon mask, cradling a sawed-off shotgun.

“Hello, Special Agent Fuller,” the man said.

The man entered, shutting the door with his foot. Krista’s head snapped around, and she started to scream at the top of her lungs.

“Shut her up!”

Fuller did not want to die. He shoved Krista’s face into the pillow, silencing her.

“Guess who,” the man said.

Fuller hesitated, his mind racing. “You’re the Dresser.”