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So, Escobar has either considered my text to be a sloppy typo... or the jumble over Renee vs. Robert is to be continued for the benefit of his cohorts... ala los hombres grandes sitting next to me.
For me this is about money... has been from day one. Escobar has it... I want it. So I listen to his frustration then go to work... continuing the gender ruse as it seems Escobar would desire.
“Kidnapping her will be treacherous and cost you money and muscle. You don’t need more heat, Mr. Escobar... neither from the FBI nor politicians using your antics as a catalyst for more drug enforcement and border patrol. She will be missed. People just don’t disappear with no one noticing... not in this country,” my reasoning seeming to calm the venting of frustration.
A pause. Escobar thinks. He must know that I am aware of Renee vs. Robert. Yet with his cohorts he explicitly uses the female gender. Yes I am missing something... and it is most likely worth more than my $150,000 total stipend. I will test.
“For the agreed upon $100,000, I will offer all the information needed for you to snatch her. But then what? Lots of time... lots of risk... lots of money getting her out of the country. Suppose... for an additional $200,000... I deliver her to the place of your choice... peacefully... lawfully... without harm to anyone.”
I am fishing... and gambling... probably somewhat overstating my influence and my ability to produce.
Still, Escobar does not need this conversation extended. He risks the disclosure of Renee vs. Robert. I am heartened when he bites.
“$200,000 even.”
“No... an additional $200,000... added to the $100,000 agreed upon for finding him... rather her.”
The gender slip is intentional and it works. He hastily agrees.
“There is a chain of islands off the Colombia coast near Cartagena... Islas Rosario. They are well patrolled... but by Coast Guard on my payroll. Here are instructions and the coordinates,” Escobar handing me a sealed envelope.
“You deliver the girl,” added emphasis for my benefit, a hissed subtle warning... no more gender flubs.
I nod. I will miss the steady income provided by Renee’s purse string muscles... mouth and sphincter... but my potential client list dwindles. Some vomit... i.e. tire... more quickly than others. The novelty of the ‘prepubescent’ tube topped Renee will wear. At that time a quick $300,000 will be welcomed.
The command comes for the driver to pull over. I exit the limo finding myself on Amsterdam Avenue and 70th Street. It is late and a long way from my apartment. Renee’s abode beckons... and I have a key.
***
New York, New York
Renee/Robert Warren
It is ironic that I rush through the park... where formerly I leisurely trolled for ‘admirers’. I curse my chimes. I do not want to be noticed. I fear the brutes who snared Sergeant Kelly... Miss Kelly... will want me as well. But with every hurried step, my earrings and my penis clasp announce my presence. People stare. I am attracting the eyeballs I normally desire. But not tonight. I am too frightened and scamper like a scared kitten.
Knowing the territory, knowing that there are few places where the ominous limousine can cruise the park, I negotiate the many winding paths, offering even more seclusion and cover in the darkness then when I exchanged fellatio for a few Hamilton’s.
Finally I reach Central Park West, taking the path on which many weeks ago I was led naked and under arrest. Traffic moderately busy, I observe from the bushes. No limousine. I cross and hurry down the dimly lit 63rd Street puffing to reach number 105. As always, with no pockets, Sergeant Kelly not permitting anything more than heels, tube top and tube bottom, I have left my keys in the mail box.
Looking over my shoulder with concern, I enter the safety of my building, satisfied that no one has followed.
To the elevator, calming, sighing in safety, the full perception of
my cowardice begins to dawn. A woman was in plight... and I scooted like a skittish sparrow. I could not run and hide fast enough! I am so shamed!
What to do? I enter my apartment, strip and jump into my bed... quivering under the covers. I cannot muster any mettle. Such has been plucked away by a woman’s hand. And now Sergeant Kelly is gone!.. she who protects... she who provides... she who nurtures this thing of mine.
***
I hear noises at my door. I have not the courage to arise. Have the brutes taken my keys from Sergeant Kelly? Am I next?
The cowardice resumes. There is no inclination to confront whoever enters. Instead I push my head under the pillow and pull the covers over. Given appropriate tools I would dig and dig in order to hide. I am an ostrich... a ‘possum. But will anyone truly think I am dead? Yet I don’t know what else to do!
Someone enters the bedroom. I listen for the click of a gun, the unsheathing of a knife. Perhaps I am to be silently garroted. I shake more. Then I hear the rustle of clothing. There comes a quiet laugh and the mattress moves.
“You’re making the whole bed shake, little girl.”
I am heartened to hear the voice of Sergeant Kelly, sitting on the bed and speaking softly, as if not to awaken anyone.
