Date: Sat, 29 Jun 2002 23:38:42 +0200
From: Andrej Koymasky <andrej@andrejkoymasky.com>
Subject: Infamous Trade 04/17

----------------------------

INFAMOUS TRADE
by Andrej Koymasky
(C) 1998 - 2002
written the 20th of July, 1995
translated by the author
English text kindly revised by Jer

-----------------------------

USUAL DISCLAIMER

"INFAMOUS TRADE" is a gay story, with some parts containing graphic scenes
of sex between males. So, if in your land, religion, family, opinion and so
on this is not good for you, it will be better not to read this story. But
if you really want, or because YOU don't care, or because you think you
really want to read it, please be my welcomed guest.

-----------------------------

FOURTH

Six months earlier Dan Firestone joined a group to manage the disco "Power
Book", a four story building, formerly a slaughter house on the West 14th
Street, facing the West Side Highway and the abandoned docks bordering the
Hudson River.

The area, deserted and in ruin, once hosted the corned beef factories. At
that time the only attraction was the S & M clubs and leather shops with
studded clothing for the local clientele. In that part of the town you
could even haggle to pay your rent monthly instead a year in advance like
the rest of Manhattan. Firestone bargained for a long time and in the end
the business deal seemed like an exchange in which both parties were sure
they had cheated the other one. Anyway the rent for his club had been only
a business deal for Firestone.  In fact in an area where commercial space
could have a value of up to forty dollars per square feet, he obtained a
ten dollar per square feet with a ten years contract -- if somebody had
been cheated, it certainly wasn't Firestone.

He redid the entire building. On the ground floor of the PB, instead of a
gay sauna that survived there for three years, he set up a wide dance floor
structured like a high school gym, with all the stuff like wall bars,
vaulting horses and basketballs hoops.  The barmen dressed like school PE
instructors and the young waiters wore shorts and shirts like a basketball
team, and the DJ was a referee. On the first floor there were live
orchestras and there were only waitresses wearing a very tight leotards in
a rainbow of colors in pastel shades. The second floor offered performances
of artists proposing videos, poems, ballets or movies and any kind of
intellectual production. The waiters, boys and girls, were sedately dressed
with black waistcoat and shorts, a white almost transparent shirt and a
green bow tie. The third and last floor, that once was used as an office
complex, was reserved for VIPs. A row of elegant rooms where they could
indulge in whatever they preferred, in perfect discretion.

That evening Firestone was waiting for Fort in a secluded private room.
Firestone was forty three years old, sturdy body without a hint of fat,
thinning sandy colored hair, and the smile of a wolf that betrayed his
tendencies to plot and manipulate people. He had a character of great force
and imposed his own will and rules. Nobody could impose anything on him. If
he was offended, he always, sooner or later, found a way to take his
revenge. As he was not at all interested in the well being of others, he
didn't feel the need to hold back his radical tendency for violence in cool
blood. This disco, his investigative agency and the three gay bars he owned
in different parts of the city, earned him good money. But his aim was not
gathering money, but to obtain total control of his associates. The purpose
of this club gave him a stage where he could watch the actors, that is the
employees and clients, perform under his direction.

In the wide, mahogany panel covered room on the third floor, where
Firestone was waiting for Fort, he sat relaxing in a white wicker armchair,
a stereo softly playing a baroque melody of lutes. Near him were two empty
armchairs. On a small low table among the three armchairs there was an
ebony backgammon box closed with heavy metallic hinges. Firestone was
sipping a hot coffee and smoking a Lucky Strike, engrossed in the
observation of his dog eating a bowl of minced meat and eggs. The dog,
called Oscar in honor of Oscar Wilde, was a black Labrador with only three
legs. A large animal with an intelligent appearance, that Firestone bought
the day after he dismissed from the police. Oscar was a sociable dog,
wanting to be liked by everybody.

Firestone and Fort had to talk about money -- in spite of his impressive
earnings, Firestone had a desperate need for money, as almost all he earned
was used for the incredible medical expenses for his lover, a forty year
old French psychologist, Jacques Roux, who had leukemia. For a year now,
Jacques was more in bed than up, and what was more expensive were the three
professional nurses assisting him in turn night and day, and the plasma for
the transfusion that Dan bought privately fearing that that given for free
by the National Assistance could be infected with the AIDS virus. The love
that the ex policeman had for Jacques was near being fanatical.

At the actual moment the bank reserve of Firestone was just around two
thousand dollars. He drove an eight year old Honda Civic, had only two
suits in his wardrobe, he lived frugally. He didn't have difficulties in
living in such a Spartan way, he could continue so for the rest of his
life. But his deep love for Jacques forced Dan to earn all the money he
could to lengthen a little more the life of the French man. Dan had always
been a man full of resources, but when the illness that was undermining
Jacques was discovered, he became aware that there were also things he
could not do and that even money could not guarantee -- with all the money
in the world he could only make Jacques live a little longer, but could not
cure him.

The PB was a good business, as Dan Firestone followed Jacques advise -- in
that period the richest Asiatic men, be they residents or tourists, were
the Japanese and they were among the biggest spenders among the New York
night life addicts. So part of the hired personnel consisted of bilingual
Japanese and also a Japanese cook to prepare appetizers for the bars. It
had been a real success, the Japanese clients passed the word to each
other, and came in great number and left their dollars in large amounts.
All the personnel, boys and girls, be them Japanese or not, were all
available to the requests of the wealthy clients, even to the most
intimate. But always and only in the appropriate "private relax lounges"
inside the PB, that a well known client, previously authorized by Dan,
could rent and where he could ask a certain waiter or waitress to bring a
drink and to stop there to keep him company. The clients were always happy
for the careful service and for the skilled and willing extra services of
the waiters.

In the VIP lounge, Oscar raised his eyes from the bowl, glancing at the
stereo. Firestone threw out a smoke ring towards the ceiling, recalling how
Jacques introduced him to the baroque music explaining to him that it had
been composed in a really civilized era, and that had nothing to share with
the filth composed in the modern times.

Oscar resumed his meal to stop eating a few moments later to turn his big
black head toward the door. While the dog was looking to the door, somebody
on the other side tried to open it.

"What's up? It doesn't open! Dan, are you there? They told me you were
here..."

Dan left his armchair, went to the door, throwing a glance at the small
monitor of the external video camera, saw that Russell was alone and opened
the door, making a gesture to enter.

They shook hands then Dan said with a smile: "Welcome." and pointed him to
one of the armchairs.

That evening Russell, a tall lean man, was wearing a purple velvet overall
with metallic studs, sporting a gold ear ring and white snake boots. Softly
hanging on his shoulders was a light overcoat of white vicuna and he was
wearing so much gold you'd think he just plundered a Mexican church. His
eyes were hidden by amber color Ray-bans, and his carefully shaved head
shone. He had a slight Caribbean accent in his talk, memory of the first
sixteen years of his life spent in a suburb of Kingston.

Dan noticed the drink that Russell had in his hand. It seemed it took him
twenty minutes to go from the entrance to the third floor -- for sure he
had put the liqueur on Dan's account. Dan asked himself with how many women
he stopped before getting there. Dan knew the weak points of the
Afro-American man -- he was a slave to pleasure, and above all to gambling
and women. His life was completely tuned to immediate gratification. He
would not have been able to wait just one hour to satisfy a desire he felt,
and that made him easily maneuverable by people like Dan.

Russell whirled his overcoat onto one of the armchairs and sat in the
other. He winked at Dan who was also sitting, as to make a toast.

"I bet that you fell in love again, on your way here..." Dan said him in a
snide whisper.

Russell sipped his scotch whiskey. "I didn't come to hunt, friend. But,
fucking shit, I'm always ready for a morsel of raw flesh. I danced with a
little Japanese girl, not bad at all, a young thing about eighteen, and I
was tempted to show her my two inches..."

"Two inches?"

"Two inches from the floor, yes, friend! It is that long, when it
awakens... Anyway along came a Japanese man with oily hair who took her
away. I was ready to smash his flat face, but then I thought I couldn't do
such a rudeness to you in your club, so I withdrew."

"You seem born to make your own life difficult."

"I can't fuck all the little pussies that turn me on, but I can always try.
Anyway I would have liked to kick on the balls the mannequin who
interrupted us. That girl was already brushing against my boa snake... Oh,
I see that you have your cur with you..."

"Today is Oscar's birthday. Four years old."

"Four years and three legs... vice versa would have been better, I don't
know if you see what I mean." Russell said laughing for his quip.

Dan nodded, lit another cigarette and puffed the smoke up to the ceiling. A
vein was pulsating on his left temple. Christ, if only Russell had less
cock and more brains! He looked at him for some seconds in silence then
sighed. Dan's smile was glacial. If Russell looked at him more carefully he
could have guessed the danger, but behind his Ray-bans his eyes were closed
so he lost any alarm signal.

Russell had some debts to pay, or else he wouldn't have been in the same
room, alone, with that cold blooded faggot, who didn't know the meaning of
the word kindness. Somebody said that it was impossible to kill Dan, as he
was already dead.

Opening his eyes, Russell looked towards the stereo: "Christ, Dan, what's
this Shit? We're in a disco, put on something more right. Real music is to
be done as loud as possible as we blacks do. Come on, be good, put on
something decent. It's deadly dull, this drag..." he said standing up and
going towards the stereo.

Dan also stood up, smashed his cigarette into the ashtray and followed his
guest. At the same moment when Russell was going to switch off the stereo,
Dan lifted up the heavy backgammon box over his head and knocked it down
edgewise on Russell's left forearm. With a scream the man fell to his knees
holding his forearm. Dan lifted the box up again and hit Russell again on
his head, this time flatwise.

Russell was lying on the floor, clasping to the table and begged for help
-- he had never been hit so strongly. He was feeling pain all over, he felt
like if his eyes were near bursting out. He fought to continue to breath
while his brain asked a desperate question -- what did he do to provoke Dan
so much?

While he was still looking for an answer, Dan put away the box and was now
kicking him. After a while he stopped and went to sit on his armchair,
looking at Russell who, in a fetal position, was panting and coughing,
trembling all over. Oscar was looking towards Russell waving his tail and
seemed to ask himself if the black man wanted to play with him.

"If I didn't need you, I'll have killed you, here and now. Sit down, now, I
don't like talking with somebody turning me his back." Dan said lighting
another cigarette.

Russell slipped to his armchair with effort and sat again, looking with
bewildered eyes at Dan: "What did I fucking do to..."

"When I need you, you have to be here, understood? You risked screwing up
the game, a great business, between me and Mister Fox."

Mister Fox was the pseudonym of Firestone's partner, and English man who
could be defined as the exploiter; talented, at the top of the class in the
history of boys' sex market. He was living in London, and he had a real
brain for business and absolutely no scruples. His only flaw was greed --
if he ever decided to commit suicide, he would for sure have hanged himself
to the ceiling with one hand while strangling himself with the other to
save the price of the rope.

"I always explained you that Mister Fox and I reserved Terry Dos Santos for
the Clown. And I will get from that deal, twenty five thousand dollars just
in one stroke. You know I need the money!"

Russell nodded. Dan lit another cigarette.

"But my men saw you wandering around the Dos Santos house... what for? Have
you by chance in you head to go to take the reward his father promised,
have you?"

"Fucking Shit, I swear I would have said nothing to the Dos Santos -- I
wanted only cheat on them..."

"So putting all the police on your tail and therefore on mine too? With
what are you thinking, with your balls or with your ass? You are a complete
idiot. Don't you know that for Black it is a personal matter, that he is
rising hell to find the boy? No, if you are still alive it is only because
Terry is worth twenty five thousand dollars and we still need the
information that your Miss Pussy can give us, my dear Mister America Two
Inches!"

"But, fucking hell, Susan told me about Terry and that Black went to see
her and told her he was looking for the kid, and then there was that reward
in the newspapers, everybody knows his father offered it, and I needed that
money for a debt that..."

"Stop with this bullshit! I don't want to hear any more about this subject.
Terry is my and Mister Fox business and you have to forgot he exists,
understood? I helped you with Paulie Pescia, and you put yourself again in
a mess with some turd! Who is he, this time?"

"Ruby Spindler..."

"Ruby Spindler. loan-shark, illegal bookmaker and extortionist. He works
with the Lo Casio family of Brooklyn."

"Spindler works for the Lo Casio?"

"Once upon the time you were a cop, do you still remember? Don't you know
that those prick heads with their hair slicked down with brilliantine
control all the gambling in this area? Spindler couldn't work if he didn't
have an agreement with the Italians. Now, listen carefully. How much do you
owe to Spindler?"

"A ten."

"Ten thousand. Well. I'll give you the ten and you'll pay off Spindler at
once. Just try to gamble with this money and I'll make you regret being
born. I'll not kill you, but I'll make it so that you'll beg me to do it.
Understood?"

Russell nodded in assent.

"Wonderful. And as in this world nobody gives out nothing for nothing, you
will pay me back. I have another job for you. Do me this small pleasure and
we can consider this accident closed. Do you have some problem?"

"No no, no problem."

"Good. First of all you will go to Mexico to control a group of boys which
have to be sent to Asia. The Clown needs them badly, but I don't trust the
Mexicans, so you'll go to check that they are first rate goods. You leave
tomorrow evening. Usual routine you follow when you go to control a batch
of goods. And be back with the detailed lists."

"Good God, this arm hurts like hell. I need to see a doctor..."

"I'm not through yet. Take that bitch with you, she has to be sure you
madly love her. Susan has to give you all the copies of all Black's
reports, it is important."

"I'll tell you at once, friend, Susan will never do it. She is scared to
death. She knows that Black asked for all the reports of Danny to find out
who flunked him. She didn't know that those two boys would have been
killed. Now she doesn't want to give me anything more."

"It's impossible to put back tooth paste in its tube. Tell her balls, tell
her that you too didn't know anything about they were to be killed, that
her information had nothing to do with that, that they were killed for
other reasons. Make her get crazy with pleasure, but persuade her."

"Susan will pass me no fucking information, I tell you."

"Really?" Dan's voice became softer.

He stood up, smiled to Oscar and scratched his head. Then, going near the
fake fireplace, he took a poker, grasped it by its end and, suddenly
turning, with its handle made of a double spiral of wrought iron, he drew a
big stroke on Russell's back and the man fell to his knees screaming.

Dan jumped on top of him, held him fast on the floor with a merciless hold,
violently tore open the back of his trousers and underpants and forced the
handle between his buttocks, pushing on his clenched hole: "You like
modern, shouting music, right? So then, what about singing it for me, now?
Possibly with this iron two inches rummaging in your black ass until it
comes out from your mouth? What do you think of that, piece of Shit? You
boast you never lost your cherry? Let's see if later you can again say
so?!"

Russell uselessly tried to escape Dan's hold: "No... no..."

Dan pushed stronger against the tightly shut hole, but didn't enter it. "So
then, may I count on the fact that you'll persuade Susan to continue to
sing for me?"

"I'll persuade her, I swear..." Russell moaned wet with an icy sweat.

"It will be better, or I'll catch you and, I too swear, I'll fuck your
precious ass with this poker until you'll beg me to let you die! A real
cock would be too good for you!" Dan left him and put back the poker in its
place. Then approached again the black man who was sitting on the floor,
completely shocked. "I sell information. I sell it to traffickers who want
to know who can buy their stuff and from whom to stay far away. I sell it
to husbands wanting to know if their wives spend fine afternoons as bottoms
to their aerobics' instructors. I sell it to girls wanting to know if their
fiancees are penniless men with mental problems or really are rich
offsprings. I sell information to rich men who want to take away their
boy-slaves safely, without being stopped by the police... But, you see,
before selling all this information, I must gather it. Buying and selling
information is a fascinating activity, a reliable business. When I was a
policeman I worked with the information service, and I also did jobs with
the CIA and the FBI. There is a lot of technology in this business, do you
know? At times I personally play with the computers to get them. But
nothing can take the place of the human factor. Nothing."

Russell had his face wet with pain, frustration, fear and tears.

Dan smiled to him: "Human factor -- you discover something and tell me. No
computer, no microchip, no satellite, no space-lab. Just two human being.
And it's here where you and Susan enter into the scene. It is so I can do
business, my friend! I tell to people like the Clown or Mister Fox all they
want to know and they pay me for that, and handsomely. Therefore I need
your help. Or else I would have erased you a long time ago, never forget
it. You can't afford that." Dan comfortably sat in his armchair looking at
Russell with a smile: "So start moving. I have to go take care of my disco.
You have to show that arm of yours to a doctor, you have to be in perfect
shape."

"If they pinch Susan, I'm done... They will send me to Atlanta or to
Leavenworth, two fucking places. In there people kills each other for
bullshit and then it's filled with..." he was about saying 'faggots' but
stopped just in time.

Dan smiled: "I know everything about the federal prisons. I'll personally
take care of Kevin Black. You just see to make your bitch sing, and not
only throwing your cock in her mouth or ass or in her slit. God, how the
girl trills while you fuck her -- she seems like Cinderella singing at the
well. Fuck me, my little chocolate, fuck me harder, go on, fuck me with
your ebony clapper!" Firestone sneered.

Russell, who was already near the door, turned back widening his eyes: "How
can you know that?"

"I never lose sight of you, stallion. No, don't worry, no video, just
sound. It's enough and some times too much. But you too make nice moans of
pleasure, while you keep her happy, I prefer a husky man's voice over her
whines. Anyway... you really are skilled in acting your part, or the little
bitch knows how to turn you on... But be careful it will not be you to
taste her emotion, but with the tool I used a while earlier on your virgin
hole. I don't think in that case you will whine with pleasure, no..."

-----------------------------

CONTINUES IN CHAPTER FIFTH

-----------------------------

In my home page I've put some of my stories. If someone wants to read them,
the URL is

http://andrejkoymasky.com

If you want to send me feed-back, please e-mail at

andrej@andrejkoymasky.com

PLEASE NOTE THE NEW URL AND E-MAIL ADDRESS

---------------------------