Page 4 of Cruel Malady: A Necrosis of the Mind

On Ericson’s list, I have: Name (he gets a check mark for that alone). He keeps a separate apartment his wife doesn’t know about. More than one mistress (he never sleeps with the same woman twice, and I have counted five conquests in the past three weeks that I’ve been stalking him). Then last week, as I waited outside his secret apartment building, I tracked down one of the sex workers who—for a hefty fee—told me he doesn’t use protection. Ericson has no concern for transmitting a disease to his wife of over a decade.

This makes him a top-ranking douche.

Which would be enough, but there’s also his deviant nature, the greedy bully inside him that needs to control and destroy. This, of course, is why he goes outside his marriage. To prey on women who won’t report him, women who need the money. And why he associates himself with a man like Brewster—a man with the seediest of ties.

I’ve kept this information from Lenora. Not because it will cause her pain. I don’t want to shield her; I feel no empathy for her suffering. Nor do I have close relationships with clients. The fact is, Lenora is already on edge with her husband. What would she do if she discovered what kind of fiend she really married?

Call the police? Report him?

In my experience, it’s never a good idea to involve authorities. As if the police could do anything, anyway. Men like Ericson are never convicted. There’s no tangible crime, is there? If a man attacks and beats a sex worker, who will be judged: the man or the whore?

In a world ruled by men, I know what most people would think, as they judge from the comfort of their middle-class home, their steady workplace.A sex worker asks for it when she puts herself in a dangerous situation. It’s rather easy to judge from a secure position, with food in your belly and prescription drugs swimming in your veins. Hell, if some of those hypocrites couldn’t get their Starbucks, they’d be out there sucking cock for a caffeine fix, I’m pretty damn sure.

I sigh into the phone. I’ve lost my train of thought. “I didn’t see him with anyone last night,” I finally confirm. “But he didn’t leave The Plaza until this morning.”

“Maybe he was just…” She trails off. “Never mind.”

“Lenora, are you having second thoughts?” I emit a grain of sympathy into my tone. I practiced this by recording my voice on my phone, then comparing it to sound bites of movies. Actors are great teachers.

The thing is, I don’t force anyone into this. They find me through word of mouth. It’s not like I advertise my services. After they contact me, I vet them. Thoroughly. Make sure I give them enough time to let the “heat of the moment” pass. Most of the time, people back out. Once their emotions have simmered, they typically decide one of two things: a) marriage counseling, or b) divorce. Then I refer them to a top-dog divorce attorney.

That referral goes both ways. Jeffrey Lomax also sends his select, irreconcilable clients to me.

“No,” Lenora says, her voice suddenly brave. “I’m not having second thoughts. Just a moment of weakness. I’m ready. He deserves some of his own medicine.”

Attagirl. I wait a few seconds for her to change her mind, then say, “All right. Deposit the second draw into the account, and I’ll initiate the next stage.” I end the call.

I open my banking app and refresh the screen a few times before the amount goes up. Five thousand. Not enough to retire in Costa Rica, but not chump change, either.

I price each job based on the client. Whether they’re financially sound is important. They don’t have to be rich—but well off enough to afford my services without going into debt.

I do this because it’s a long-term best business practice, and also, because I have very expensive taste. I like nice things: clothes, electronics, my loft in Manhattan.

I’m a shameless hedonist. Maybe partly due to the nurture aspect; my mother is a hedonist who raised me with nice things. Maybe partly due to the nature aspect; I have a thick shroud blanketing my feelings. Fine textures and comfortable, striking clothes feel good. I like feeling good. If I want something, I get it. I don’t understand why anyone would deny him-or-herself something that gives them pleasure.

I’m not controlled by my id—the brain’s pleasure principle—but I rarely tell it no, either. So my clients need to be able to afford my expensive taste, and to keep a secret.

The secret part is extremely important.

During the vetting stage, I make sure to dig up some juicy tidbit on each one. That’s another requirement. Each client needs at least one dirty secret I can hold against them should they suddenly have a bout of conscience and want to make our arrangement public.

As for Lenora, she may very well be a wronged wife, but she’s no innocent doormat. She’s been siphoning off her husband’s personal account. Little increments that she sends to a woman in Denver.

This woman adopted a baby boy twelve years ago in a private adoption.

Neither Lenora’s husband, nor her socialite friends, know of this child’s existence.

Then I factor in the target—or intended victim—the difficultly of access to them, and the measure of revenge the client wants to exact. This equation gives me a rough baseline, which is typically between fifteen and thirty thousand.

I make a decent living. I don’thaveto work at my day job, but it’s wise to have a way to fudge my tax statements if the IRS comes knocking.

Truthfully, I probably should’ve turned Lenora away. During our first meeting at a hole-in-the-wall Starbucks, she presented as weak, broken. Desperate. The anger I usually see in clients wasn’t present in her. Instead, shebeggedme to help her. Her vulnerability didn’t move me. There was something else that motivated me to take on her plight.

Protectiveness?

Validation, maybe?

Honestly, I doubt I pitied her story or position any more than any other client, and yet there was still something about Lenora that burrowed underneath my skin.

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