The Zero Hour

Another woman, this one with jet-black hair, gave the tour. She was stout and even more buxom than the receptionist, dressed entirely in black stretch fabric, and had a hooked nose. She introduced herself as Eva and gave an introductory spiel.

The Brimstone Club was one of New York’s most exclusive houses of D &S, or dominance and submission. Its clientele, she explained, included some of the city’s wealthiest and most powerful men and women. They ranged from corporate lawyers to music executives, from Wall Street tycoons to world-famous academics. No one from the lower or even middle echelons of society. A number of prominent public figures, a few extremely well known, came here regularly.

“Most of our members are men,” Eva explained, “mostly submissives, though not all. Largely heterosexual, but not entirely. We have a staff of fourteen, including two men and twelve exalted mistresses.”

Eva led Sarah down a low-ceilinged, acoustically tiled corridor. “We charge two hundred fifty dollars an hour, two-hour minimum. No sex or drugs allowed, and we’re strict about that.”

“So to speak.”

She smiled. “So to speak. No intercourse or oral sex. No blood sports. Absolutely no hand releases. That’s the law.”

“How much of that five hundred do I get?”

“Forty percent of the hourly fee,” Eva said.

“How many clients a day can I reasonably expect?”

“Look,” Eva said, “there’s always a surplus of mistresses.”

“So how much time am I going to sit, waiting for someone who doesn’t have a favorite?”

“If you’re good, you can do maybe a thousand a day for the house, which means four hundred for yourself.”

“You guys have an arrangement with any of the kinky clothing stores in the city? Any employee discounts or whatever? That stuff’s expensive.”

“Oh, sure. No nice clothes, no clients, simple as that. Yeah, we’ve got arrangements.” She opened a door marked REST ROOM. A man in a maid’s uniform was on his knees, furtively cleaning the tiled floor with a toothbrush and a pail of Lysol. Sarah noticed he was wearing a wedding band.

“That’s not clean enough, Matilda,” she barked. “Do it again!” She closed the door. “Anyway, that’s the rest room. Unisex. His real name is Matthew. Matilda, when he’s in the role. He’s a sissy slave.”

“Good help is hard to find, isn’t it?” Sarah said.

“Not here. All right, now, there are five dungeons, all fully equipped.” She pulled open a heavy steel door labeled DUNGEON TWO. Except that its walls were painted black, it could have been a doctor’s examination room. Its equipment, however, would not have been found in most hospitals. There was a rotating wooden bondage table, a stretch rack, a cross outfitted with leather manacles. Against one wall was a long rack of whips and crops and other equipment Sarah didn’t recognize. Against another wall was a black leather gym horse.

“That’s Two. They’re all pretty similar, with minor variations-suspension equipment, a pin chair, that sort of thing.”

“Can I see the others?”

“Dungeon Three is in use, but I can show you the others if you want. Believe me, it’s all pretty much the same thing.”

“Forget it, that’s all right.”

“Our dominas typically wear leather, patent leather, latex, PVC, or English riding attire. We perform bondage, spanking, flagellation, and humiliation, all mild to severe. Puppy training, infantilism, genital chastisement, nipple torment, foot worship. All the usual.”

When they had returned to the waiting room and Sarah had been handed a three-page form to fill out, she asked to use the rest room.

“Sure,” Eva said, “go ahead. You remember where it is?”

“Yeah.”

“If you want Matilda out of there, just order him out. He’d love it.”

Unescorted, she followed the corridor to the rest room, passed by it, and found the steel door marked Dungeon Three, the one that was occupied. This had to be where she’d find him. She swung it open.

A beautiful redheaded woman in black PVC stretch pants, bra, gloves, and thigh-high black patent-leather boots with long spike heels was wielding a crop on a naked middle-aged man wearing only a black leather hood.

She turned toward the open door and said huffily, “Excuse me.”

“Excuse me,” Sarah said. “Mr. Elkind?”

A muffled, confused voice emerged from the hood: “Yes, mistress?”

“Mr. Elkind, it’s Special Agent Sarah Cahill. I’m awfully sorry to disturb you, but I thought we might have a little talk.”

***

The corporate headquarters of the Manhattan Bank were housed in a spectacular modernistic building designed by Cesar Pelli and located on Fifty-second Street near Lexington, very close to the headquarters of its leading competitor, Citicorp.

The executive offices were on the twenty-seventh floor, where Warren Elkind’s suite of offices occupied a large corner of the floor, the area of a small law firm. The floors were covered with Persian carpets; antiques of burled walnut and fruitwood lined the corridors.