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Carl walked up the block, passing rundown bars, drunks trying to be his friend and hookers asking him for dates until he found a club that featured bondage acts, The Den of Iniquity. It seemed as good a place as any to start. He paid the fifteen-dollar cover charge and went inside. The Den was dark and loud, with just a few spotlights illuminating key areas. The rest of the club seemed bathed in a dim red light. A band shouted—not played—music from a small stage in one corner, but nobody paid them any attention. The action took place under the spotlights, where couples acted out bondage scenes.

Carl had heard of places like this, but never experienced them. Seeing people act like this in public made him a little ashamed of the way he had treated DeeDee. It was just an experiment, he told himself. We were exploring our dark sides. It didn’t make him feel any better.

On one small, round stage, a woman was bent over a padded sawhorse, her hands and feet tied down, a gag in her mouth. A thin black leather thong framed her nearly naked ass and the only other clothing she wore was a black leather bra, a size too small. Her breasts lunged out the top.

Her “master” stood behind her with a whip of some sort. Perhaps it would be called a cat o’nine tails. He reared back and struck her, but the whip didn’t seem to really hurt her—there were only faint marks on the round globes of her ass. Nevertheless, she screamed into her gag as if she was dying and the gawkers nodded appreciatively.

At another stage, a woman was being “tortured” with feathers. She, too, wore only a bra and a thong, and her mistress, by running the feathers over her exposed flesh, seemingly brought her to the brink of an orgasm again and again, stopping just in time. The girl writhed in comic agony. The crowd loved it.

To Carl, it all looked faked, but then, he guessed he’d rather have it that way than see women really being tortured. Did I torture DeeDee? Did I go too far? He couldn’t imagine ending up like these characters, yet they had seemed to be well on their way before he called a temporary halt to it. That was what was bugging him, Carl realized. When he told DeeDee he thought they should take a break so he could be with the “real her,” deep down, his id was planning the next conquest of his submissive little girl.

Shaking his head, Carl went to the bar and caught the attention of the bartender. When he came over, Carl shouted over the screaming guitar and pounding drums, “I’m looking for a man who calls himself Master Turk.” The bartender put his hand behind his ear, indicating he couldn’t hear.

“Master Turk,” Carl shouted, feeling like he was standing next to a jet engine. “Do you know him?”

He looked puzzled for a moment then held up one finger. Carl watched as he went down to the other end of the bar and talked into the ear of a raven-haired woman. She looked up sharply at Carl. He smiled, trying to look innocent.

She signaled him to follow her. As he did, he couldn’t help but notice how tall she was—nearly as tall as Carl himself. She also seemed quite well-built, with broad shoulders, although she still had a very feminine shape to her. She led him into a corridor, then into a back room. The band noise diminished significantly when she closed the door. Carl’s ears rang. She leaned back against it and folded her arms. Carl turned. Across the room, behind a desk sat a huge man, probably weighing close to three hundred pounds. His shiny bald head was dotted with sweat. On the desk, he’d been counting piles of dirty bills. Carl could see a lot of fifties and hundreds. The man lurched to his feet.

“What the fuck is this?”

Carl looked from him to the woman. Before he could speak, she said, “He’s looking for Turk.”

Baldy grunted. “Oh, yeah? What’s your name?”

“Carl.” He didn’t want to say more.

“What business you got with Turk?” He came over close, invading Carl’s space. He stood a good two inches taller. Carl tried not to shrink away.

He chose the “tough guy” route. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he told me to look him up when I was in town.”

“So you’re good buddies, are ya?”

“Not really. We do business together from time to time.”

“Oh, really?” He smiled an evil little grin, like he thought that was rich. “You guys do business, but you don’t even know which fuckin’ club he owns? You must think I’m a fuckin’ idiot.”

“All right, you got me. He did business with a friend of mine, who got himself killed last year.” Carl’s mind was racing, trying to come up with a plausible story. “I’m trying to take over his end of the business.”

“Yeah? And what business is that?”

“Training slaves,” he said without hesitation.

Baldy’s narrow eyes widened and he stepped back. “Well, if it’s a trainer you want, you couldn’t do any better than Mistress Gloria here,” he nodded his massive head toward the black-haired woman against the door. Carl turned and had to agree that she looked every bit the Dominatrix.

“Yes, well, I know about the deal my friend and Turk had, so I want to start there. If I don’t like the terms, however, I’ll come back and see what you might be able to do.” Carl tried to sound sincere.

“He’s bullshitting you, Hank,” Gloria spoke up behind him. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“Yeah, I know.” Hank smiled like a hangman with his hand on the lever. “You must think I’m some kind of fuckin’ chump. You’re not a trainer. Get out.” He waved at the door.

Carl shrugged, as if it made no difference to him. Yet his mind raced to try and figure out what he’d said wrong. Perhaps it was just his general naïveté. He was resigned to going from club to club until someone pointed him in the right direction.

Gloria followed him out. The noise rose in volume immediately, making Carl wince. When she closed the door behind her, she leaned over suddenly and whispered into his ear above the noise, “For a hundred bucks, I’ll tell you where to find Turk.”

Time was of the essence. Carl had to get to Turk before he heard someone was searching for him. It was well worth a hundred. He handed her five twenties. She looked around the corridor then tipped her head in the direction of the back door. Carl followed her outside. They were in an alley behind the club. It reeked of stale garbage and was littered with empty beer bottles. At least the noise had mercifully been reduced to a dull throb.

He stood while she checked around, as if afraid to be seen with him. She no longer looked like a dominatrix, more like a spy, fearful of getting caught. “You’re not going to kill him, are you?”

“No,” he said at once. “I won’t kill him.”

“Why do you really want him? I know you’re not a trainer.”

Carl hesitated. “He’s got some information I need.” He hoped that would satisfy her.

She studied him, as if trying to determine if he could be trusted. “Okay,” she finally said, coming close. Carl could smell cigarettes on her breath. “He lives in a mansion on Clairmont Street, right near the intersection with Haight. You can’t miss it—it’s got stone lions on either side of the gate.”

Carl nodded. “Thanks.” He started to leave.

“Don’t tell him where you got the information.” He nodded. She held his arm for another few seconds, her eyes boring into his, then let him go. Without another word, she turned and disappeared back inside. Briefly, the noise assaulted him once again. It’s a wonder they aren’t all deaf, working in there. He turned and headed up the alley.