Twenty-Six Years Ago - Klempner
1184 Words
Twenty-Six Years Ago - Klempner
“I think you’ll be pleased, sir. Would you like to inspect the first shipment?” Bech wears that expression of wax-faced smugness he’s so good at. “Or would you prefer to let me assign them?”
“I’ll take a look, Bech. Let’s see that we agree on the appropriate market for them.”
“This way.”
A group of a dozen or so men and women stands at the end of the room, guarded by a couple of Bech’s heavies. As I step through the door, one of them, a woman, breaks from the line, rushing up to me. She’s not bad looking, but she’s spoiled her face. Her eyes are swollen and red. Scrabbling at my chest, she whimpers….
Christ, you stink….
…. speaking with a heavy accent. “Please, sir, there is mistake.” She waves a piece of paper at me, much creased. “I come here to be governess and housekeeper. I am to be teacher of language and drawing to rich man's children.”
Bech pushes her away from me. “Shut up.”
She doesn’t take the hint, instead grovelling, weeping and screeching uselessly. “Please, sir. My father…. My father will pay you. But if you dishonour me, I will be outcast.”
Bech snatches the paper from her then brings the back of his hand across her face. Staggering, she crashes down onto the tiles. “You were told to be quiet,” he snarls. “Now shut the f**k up.”
Trembling, she stares up. One of the men in the group darts forward, his eyes flashing up towards us, and hauls her up onto her feet again. Cradling an arm, looking back over her shoulder, she limps back to the group.
Bech mutters, “She could be trouble that one. I’d not realised she spoke English.”
Learning curve….
“So, place her somewhere it doesn’t matter. Send her to Finchby. He’ll have an outlet for her. Somewhere no-one cares what comes out of her mouth….”
Bech snorts. “Just what goes in.”
“Find out if any of the others speak English. We’ll target the men for rural work where there’ll be a gang-master to keep an eye on them. The women…. Well, different clients have different tastes. There’s plenty will enjoy knocking them into obedience.”
Bech nods and Hmmms….
Seldom takes notes….
…. Evidence….
What next?
“So, who do we have for the day-to-day running?”
Bech holds up a forefinger. “Ah, I was coming to that. Let me introduce you.” He turns to where, in the background, a sallow-faced man lurks. His thin, blond hair scrapes over the top of a bald pate. “This is Charlie Jenkins. He’s interested in the post of supervisor here.”
Without even thinking about it, I dislike the man. He steps forward, somehow obsequious as he moves. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Klempner.” He looks up at me with a flat grey gaze but never quite meets my eyes.
He gives me the creeps.
“Mr Jenkins.” I keep my voice polite, but I don’t want to talk to him. “Bech here has interviewed you? Approved you for the post?”
“I hope so, Mr Klempner.” His voice is silky, almost oily.
Bech would never have introduced me to the little shite if he wasn’t happy he could do the job. “Fine. Jenkins, you take charge of that lot.” I thumb towards the cringing group then turn to leave, but Jenkins interrupts, “You want me to send one of them to your lodgings, sir?”
That pitiful lot….
The women turn my stomach.
“No. And mind your mouth, Jenkins. Bech, you’re with me.”
Jenkins turns to the group. As we leave, from behind me, his voice rattles. “Clean-up time. You’re to be showered and deloused. Now strip….”
*****
In a greasy-spoon a couple of miles away, the waitress serves good coffee in cheap mugs. “Where did you find him?” I ask. “He makes my skin crawl.”
Bech purses his lips, nodding. “I agree. He’s an appalling little schmuck, but he wants the work. He understands the need to keep a low profile and…. he’ll enjoy it….”
“Is that so? So, where did you find him?”
“He was running a boys’ sports training club. There have been a number of parental complaints about him.” He gives me a meaningful look. “I was handling the complaint.”
“He’s… what? A paedophile? A psycho?”
Bech tips his head. “He’s been labelled a sociopath.”
“And the deal is what? He gets to enjoy playtime in exchange for keeping them under control?”
“Essentially, yes. Of course, he gets paid too….”
“Of course. Does he understand that I want saleable goods? If I find his fingerprints all over the kids….”
“He understands that if he steps out of line, there will be consequences that will start with the complaints about him re-emerging and…. I wasn’t specific about where they could end….”
“He doesn’t touch the kids. I want them clean when they’re moved on. They’ll bring three times the price that way.”
“I understand, sir. And I’ll make sure that Jenkins does too.”
*****
Bech goes, vanishing off to…. to wherever it is that Bech goes.
I’m not ready to sleep. Instead, I walk.
My shoes click on the cold flags, the sound echoing against black-faced windows. The year’s turning and sleet sends needles stinging across my eyes. I pull up my collar.
Lousy f*****g climate…
Wear an undershirt next time….
A pair of hookers hang out on a street corner. “Hey, you looking for a good time?” The voice reflects across the street and one of the pair strolls over.
Everything about her is cheap, from her scuffed boots to her ripped hose and her f**k-me lipstick, several shades too bright for her colouring. She licks her lips, parting them in what I suppose she thinks is an enticing manner. It isn't. She's crude and obvious.
Wonder how many c***s she's sucked already today?
“Want to play?” She’s trying I think to sound coquettish.
“I don't f**k whores.”
Her face twists. “Well, f**k you, motherfucker,” she yells, giving me the finger. I should slap her into some good manners, but I can’t be bothered. I walk on.
Wonder if she's one of Finchby's?
Perhaps I should mention it to him?
Probably not one of his. He doesn't let them on to the street ‘til he knows they'll behave.
The area stinks. The idle and the lost, the drunk and the addicted, huddle, grovel or simply lie in alleys and nooks.
I step over a pair of legs emerging from a doorway, not really looking at the face at the other end. But a voice, sweet and sultry speaks. “Spare some change mate?”
It's a beautiful voice. Or would be if it was less pathetic. I look more closely to see if the face matches.
Christ, but you reek….
She's dirty; stinking dirty and her eyes are popped. The stench of vomit and weeks-unwashed is an assault….
But if she was cleaned up….
“What are you doing here?”
She sits up, weaving as she moves. Her face screws up. “Couldn’t make the rent. Landlord threw me out.”
Her pupils are huge….
What are you on?
No need to ask what happened to the rent money….
I pass her a five, then tear a page from my diary to scribble an address.
“If you go there, they'll give you a meal and a bed.”
“Hey, Mister….” She reaches up an arm. She’s got the shakes. And it’s not the shiver of cold.
Needing a fix….
Finchby’ll provide that for you….
And you can work for a living after that.
*****
- Writer
