One Way or Another(35)

Mehitabel had not set out in life with that job in mind, though the seamy side had always attracted her by its very nature, with its secrecy, its insider status, its readiness for violence.

She had started out the usual way any attractive woman from her lowly station in life might, by posing nude for magazines, moving easily on to porn, though she preferred selling other women than selling herself. If the truth were known, which it most certainly was not, Mehitabel did not enjoy sex. In fact, she despised it. No matter how she looked at it, sex gave a man control, he was the one who entered, the woman merely received. Even in play-games of sadomasochism, dressing up in fishnet tights and heels and wielding a whip, it was all only playacting, until the one time it wasn’t and she had brought that whip down too hard, though he’d begged for mercy, a quality she found she did not possess. She had killed him. He was her first and she’d enjoyed it.

The act had taken place on a private island off the coast of Greece, a place where the rich and sometimes famous played games for high stakes, sometimes even life or death. Mehitabel had seen a lot but had kept her own counsel, not because she was afraid of what might happen, but because of what would happen—if she talked, went to the media or the police. Which was how she became a woman these men knew they could trust. And how she happened to become Ahmet Ghulbian’s right-hand woman. Keeper of his secrets. Executioner supreme.

She had no fear about getting caught, or of Ahmet betraying her. How could he? He was up to his eyes in the whole business. Ahmet was as much a deviate and a killer as she herself. They were both evil and they suited each other. If she had cared, Mehitabel could have tallied up the count on how many young women—some so young they were still “girls” in the real sense of the word—had passed through the Ghulbian portals, departing, as he’d say with a laugh, for “the other side.” Mehitabel wasn’t sure if there was another side but if so she hoped she would never meet them there, and if she did that they would not recognize her.

Looking in the mirror, she contemplated cutting off her signature Medusa hair, maybe trying a long, sleek black wig, or even a short blond bob, a chic fashionista approach that would match her style. But when she pulled back her hair, held it away from her sharp-boned face, her narrow green eyes stared back as though they hated her.

She was in top shape, of course, thanks to the gym and the jogging track that encircled the Lady Marina’s deck, and which she used several times a day. Eight miles total. Plus the weights that gave her the long, sleek muscles and the strength of a man twice her size. And of course she had perfect control over what she ate; every morsel, every sip, was logged in her memory every day and she never, ever, went beyond the calorie count stipulated by her London trainer. Champagne, though, was her downfall. She wasn’t quite sure why she was addicted to it and would not even admit she was, but she wanted it, craved it, and, thank God, with Ghulbian, could always have it. Sometimes that turned out to be convenient when you happened to have a bottle in hand with which to take out a red-haired woman who, God knows how, had managed to return from the dead. Not once, but twice.

But no more. Angie would soon take her final walk, and Mehitabel needed to celebrate with another bottle of that excellent French champagne; no particular brand, but it must always be French. She had visited Rheims several times, in the very heart of Champagne country, where she had sampled every vintage, down to the smallest vineyard that produced a mere couple hundred bottles, mostly kept for special customers. Of which, of course, by dropping the name Ghulbian, she had immediately become an honored member. This particular champagne was now exclusively served by the billionaire and the vintner felt fortunate to be so honored, and to get such a good and steady price for his wine.

Mehitabel didn’t really give a shit about the vineyard or the winemaker. To her he was just another of the men who served her, kowtowed to her, did their best to please her. In her view, men should always be in that position.

Of course she had learned this the hard way. Sometimes, after a bottle of the bubbly, alone in her room, Mehitabel wondered if all women didn’t learn about life the hard way. Even that poor little bitch Angie. God, if any woman needed to learn, it was surely Angie, too dumb to even know what was going on and try to take advantage instead of becoming the victim.

Mehitabel had never been the victim. She had never sold herself, only sold others. She sometimes wondered if “evil” began with those transactions, the first time she had led a girl from school into the woods, delivered her to the man waiting there, watched what happened, hands over her ears so she would not hear the screams, then run off with a few dollars in her pocket, money to buy drugs that she would not use herself, but sell at a profit, after which she would scrape up the poor idiot girl she had sold the dope to from the floor and deliver her to any man who wanted her.

This happened three times, each in a different town, a different county. Mehitabel was a foster child with no family of her own. When these events took place she would complain to the authorities of abuse and, tears streaming, would be moved on to a fresh family, a new area, a new start. When she was eighteen, she moved on, and out, for good, the possessor of a minimal and mediocre wardrobe and a couple hundred dollars.

Now, she glanced round her spacious room with its walls of gold French brocade, its canopy bed draped with the finest silk and the gilded finials depicting lions’ heads; at the rich antique carpets flung casually one across the other like her own personal magic carpet ride. Her closet was full of designer clothes made especially for her, fitted to her body so there was never even a crease. Her shoes were not handmade, because she loved shoe shopping and preferred to buy the best in Rome, in Florence, in Paris. A special closet held her handbags, predictably Hermès, the very symbol of the nouveau-riche woman. Only Hermès, in every color and type of skin, from python to alligator to calf. Her jewelry was minimal but expensive, her large diamond studs and her platinum Rolex Oyster her favorites.