of men and occasionally women across the entirety of Windberg’s elite spectrum. Politicians, businessmen, and titans of new industries were in their midst: the wielders of power and substantial monies. The assembly settled in large, leather-backed seats, accompanied by a table, paperwork, and anything else they so desired. The finest smokeables were on hand and indulged in – as was the private bar, which was always liberally used. Each of the men was adorned with a woman who spoke with wisdom, laughed at his humour, and advised on dark matters that none should be advised on at all. These clients watched the stage intently with their collaborators, with the exception of one who was devoid of such company.
Misu strolled from a side entrance out into the smoky haze. She walked with swagger and confidence, relieving a passing serving girl of two filled tumblers without a break in pace. The house band had begun their set, with brass and string melded in energetic harmonies. Though late, a lonesome man acknowledged her entrance. He watched her approach, fold her bare legs across the side of his seat, and plant her behind on the leather.
‘Drink?’ she offered, beckoning with one of the glasses.
‘I am quite comfortable, thank you,’ came the reply as he turned back to the stage and its matters.
‘Suit yourself. More for me,’ Misu exclaimed. She drained the first of the drinks with one almighty mouthful, drawing the glassware only when she saw her eyes at its base. The other was held on to, the brown sour mash stirred daintily with a fingertip.
The man, heavily built and imposing, was by no means blessed with handsomeness but was still agreeable to look upon. His thick black hair, roughly swept back, would have matched Misu’s own if it wasn’t littered with small blazes of white at the temples. His jowls were just large enough to be pronounced, giving the impression that a frown was worn much more often than anything else. Judging from his hands, hefty and showing the scars of labour, Misu assumed that this was an individual quite at ease about getting his hands dirty. She licked her finger to cleanse it of drink.
‘Quite the display tonight, wouldn’t you agree? Mister Fort has truly outdone himself,’ she said, taking in the stage performance. Misu was right. It was.
But for all the wrong reasons.
A buck of the hips. A stamp of a heel. A toss of the head. The pout of lips. Serving alongside the music pranced a cacophony of women, impeccably dressed in their own unique style. Tassels hung down bare thighs, shaken suggestively as each woman rocked with her arms held high, like candle smoke dancing in the ghost of a breeze. Sequins and silks clung to skin, some more revealing than others, parading their femininity like cattle at market. Blonde curls were tossed side to side. Sweat wetted brows. Cleavage was pressed. Buttocks presented. Bodies pushed against one another, lingering at times, detaching immediately at others. It was a cauldron of burlesque, with twisting bodies contorting in performance, moving to the music the way they had practised time and time again.
Those of importance took in this recital with silent depravity.
Each participant on the boards was cold-eyed, gazing past every feasting patron as if they simply didn’t exist while they danced.
To them, they may as well not.
For everyone on stage, eyes were set upon the only individual whose opinion mattered, past the guests and into the private booth that housed the club’s owner.
A unison of gasps from frozen poses signified the end of this particular performance, a respite for these first players before a second batch took over.
Wilheim Fort slammed his hands together in applause, showing what most would take to be considerable pride in those who worked so hard under his roof. It wasn’t pride of course. It was nothing resembling that feeling, but as long as the pretence was there, everyone else fell into line. Others joined in with clapping, quite appreciative as to what they had the pleasure of witnessing.
Fort unbuttoned his rust suit jacket, revealing a pale white shirt barely restraining the folds of his neck and the bulge of his gut, which shook with every strike. The first of the night’s purchases was made by a bespectacled gentleman who approached him, quite keen to rush a transaction. Money was paid. Contracts signed. Promises made. Property exchanged.
Misu watched patiently for her time to speak, observing the man next to her taking in everything before him, entranced. It was a feast for the eyes and when he had digested the new bodies on display, she engaged with him once again.
‘Marvellous are they not? Every one a peach. Mister Fort is quite the collector. Only the best come through his doors, even some fair-haired beauties from the grasslands up north.’ Misu sipped at her drink. ‘My yes, quite a breathtaking assortment, though he is willing to let these particular ones go, at a price of course.’
‘Have they outdone their usefulness? Whatever would I need with tarnished goods?’ He gave a snort.
‘Not in the slightest. Mister Fort has plenty of those willing to perform entertainment in every capacity. Immense talents as you can see – nothing but supreme quality. He doesn’t offer them dismissively. He’s giving you a chance to take home finery, to have them perform in your own establishments, knowing full well that they are the best.’ Misu purred, ‘I assure you, dear. They are the best.’
‘You’re not like the others here, are you?’ he deduced. ‘You’ve not even told me your name.’ He assessed the body language of the other benefactors sitting nearby. The women were half draped, some with hands roving to coax sales by dubious means. By comparison Misu seemed less enthused, which provoked some curiosity.
Misu’s lips parted in a smile and she ran her tongue over perfect teeth.
‘Do you want me to lie to you about what we do here? Maybe roll in your lap like some obedient pet? Could I secure your business with hot kisses, appeal to those baser instincts all men succumb to? The answer is, of course, no. That is not how the deal is to be done. You’re a man of good stature, meaning that you have experience of the transparency of others. To give you falsehoods would be a waste of my time and yours. All this you see here, I have no stake in. I take no money when it’s exchanged. I’m just here to broker any sales. Would my name even matter?’
Misu drank again, slower this time, while he watched silently. ‘And that way you know that I have no interest in deception and all decisions will be your own. I can fetch you one of these silly girls who cavort for attention if that is your preference?’
He reached for a cigar on the table before him and cracked a flame from a match. After a series of testing puffs, he rasped, ‘I think you could stay.’
‘Good decision.’
The bodies vied for attention before them.
‘Let’s say I’m interested. Elaborate on that one there.’ He pointed to a girl with baby-doll features and long legs, whose flurries of kicks sent her gold sequined dress to shimmer this way and that. Misu curled her mouth in agreement.
‘Ooh, Quinn. Decent eye you have. As you can see, she dances like a bird in the rain. She’s feisty, though like all wild things, she is made to be tamed. Sure one could be content with a horse that obeys your command but where’s the fun in that? Life is about challenge. It took a while for her to fall into the way of things, a significant amount of convincing. Now she’s aflame with spirit, agreeable, but might be prone to more emotional displays. Put that one in front of punters and I assure you, wallets will be opened as much as mouths.’
Misu’s companion tossed his head back in delight
