If It Flies (Market Garden, #3)(2)

Spencer swallowed. Where’s that drink? “I’ve heard things about those places. Human trafficking and—”

“Don’t worry about that shit.” Percy waved the concern away. “Trust me, I checked their background, foreground, underground, whatever. Probably the cleanest whorehouse in the city.”

Drink? Please? Now?

“That’s not saying much, you know.”

Percy laughed. “Look, it’s not a bunch of underage kids working against their will. Most of them are jaded university students.”

Spencer blinked. “What?” Last thing he wanted was to walk into one of them as an intern in a year or so.

“Yeah. Crazy, isn’t it?” Percy picked up his own cocktail and took a drink, making Spencer’s mouth water. “Apparently, some of them start stripping between studying, and go on from there.”

Spencer couldn’t argue with that; it only made economic sense, sordid as it was.

“It’s ironic, you know?” Percy mused. “If the economy were better, we’d probably be working with these guys instead of f*cking them.”

Spencer bit back the observation that he, as yet, hadn’t encountered a Jamaican lawyer—but who was he to judge?

The banks were getting more “colourful,” even though the odd Indian or Pakistani were still assumed to be quantitative analysts rather than movers and shakers, and he himself still raised a few eyebrows as the one black corporate lawyer in the firm. Never mind he had the Oxbridge accent to prove that he belonged.

4

“Top talent always gets a place,” he muttered, trying to move the conversation elsewhere.

“I imagine it’s easier than working eighty-hour weeks to get onto the career ladder.” Percy was clearly enjoying himself way too much.

Thank God Spencer’s drink arrived.

He sipped the ginger-flavoured cocktail while Percy talked about whoring being the true equal-opportunity sector out there, though, in Percy’s typical way, even this romantic notion was distorted by a jaded lens. He cleared his throat.

“Okay.”

“I’ll introduce you,” Percy said.

“Can’t I just go alone?”

“Na-ah.” Percy grinned at him. “I’d suggest getting a membership. It is quite classy—certainly a good variety, if you know what I mean. They even have a pair of shemales.”

Good God, this was not something he needed to learn during lunch.

“I’ll . . . have the usual configuration.”

“What about after work today?” That gleam in Percy’s eyes was equal parts unnerving and intriguing. “I’ll introduce you, you get a membership, and after that you’re on your own, stud.”

This was getting too familiar way too fast. Kicked along by the Mule, no doubt. Their relationship was friendly enough, but Spencer still felt a bit weird. As ex-head of sales in an investment bank, Percy likely knew every high-class prostitute in the City, and had very likely covered the partying under “expenses” when he “entertained clients,” so his experience on that front could clearly be trusted. Spencer had just never expected to find himself at the receiving end of Percy’s magnanimity.

5

“So.” Percy set his drink down sharply, emphatically, like he’d just closed a deal. “What do you say we meet at the Market Garden tonight? Say, nine-thirty?”

Uh, no, mate. No way. I’m not . . . there’s no . . .

But the Mule spoke before Spencer could: “I’ll be there.”

6





Chapter


twO


here was only one problem with a liquid lunch. Well, Tokay, besides the fact that it meant Spencer’s mouth had moved before his brain did and he’d wound up walking into a place like Market Garden at nine-thirty, hanging back behind Percy like that somehow made him safer. Yeah, right. Percy was enough of a troublemaker for both of them.

Nobody was safe with that guy.

No, the problem was that after three drinks at lunch, Spencer was already a little hung-over when he followed Percy into the club. His temples throbbed, a clear reminder why drinking with Percy during the day was a bad idea. But what was done was done, and now they were here.

God, Market Garden really didn’t go to any great lengths to mask its purpose, did it? Signs warning against cameras.

Disco lights flickering off the polished bald heads of the massive—and numerous—bouncers standing around to make sure no one got too frisky with the merchandise. Not without paying for it, anyway.

Obviously Percy wasn’t the only man who “entertained clients” here. There was no shortage of patrons in suits pawing at scantily clad women.

“Thought you said this place catered to guys like us,” he said to Percy.

The man glanced at him, eyes narrow and sly. “They do.

But when you want top shelf, you have to ask for it.”

Spencer just followed Percy deeper into the club. They stopped at the bar, which was staffed by half a dozen men, 7

any one of which Spencer would have emptied his wallet to— Slow down.

He shook his head. Apparently he was getting used to this idea faster than he’d thought.

Percy leaned over the bar and exchanged a few brief, hushed words with one of the bartenders. Then came the nod, the head tilt, and when Spencer followed the trajectory of the tilt, he saw a door tucked into the shadows at one end of the bar. It had windows, but they’d been blacked out, and a couple of the bouncers loitered nearby.