Mistress of the Game

“You don’t have the balls to run that company.”

“Mother, I do. I-”

“What exactly was today’s meeting about?”

Max told Eve about his proposal to siphon more money into the Internet division, and Lexi’s objections. Eve sat silently for a few moments.

“All right,” she said at last, pushing aside her plate. “This is what we do.”

Harry Wilder was on his third glass of claret at the golf club bar when the steward tapped him on the shoulder.

“Telephone call for you, sir.”

“For me?”

He wasn’t expecting any business calls. It was Saturday. His wife, Kiki, was shopping with friends and besides, she never rang the club. Perhaps something terrible had happened? One of the grandchildren?

“You can take it in the library.”

Harry Wilder hurried into the deserted, oak-paneled room trying not to let his imagination get the better of him. Kiki was always telling him not to be such a worrywart. Professor Panic, that was her pet name for him.

“Hello?”

“I know about Lionel.”

The voice was unfamiliar. Harry wasn’t even certain if it was male or female.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lionel Jakes. I know.”

Harry Wilder felt his mouth go dry. His tongue began to swell.

“Who is this?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, Harry? Lovely Lionel? The way his cock felt in your mouth? The taste of his cum?”

“Jesus.” Harry spluttered. “How do you…? We were children, for God’s sake. Little boys. It was fifty years ago. I’m a happily married man.”

Laughter. “Your wife knows about Lionel, does she? And Mark Gannon?”

Harry Wilder felt a painful tightening in his chest. Who was this person? How could they possibly know about Mark? He’d been dead for twenty years.

“What do you want?”

When the voice told him, Harry was incredulous.

“That’s it? That’s all? You don’t want money?”

But the line had already gone dead.

Staring down at his empty bowl, he felt the familiar ache of hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

“Mi piang por.” It’s not enough.

His four cell mates began rattling their spoons against their bowls in protest. Their normal ration of rice-one full bowl at breakfast and another in the afternoon-had been cut by two-thirds with no explanation for the second day running.

“Gla’p maa!” Get back! the Thai guard barked, and the men cowered back like dogs, their teeth bared but their backs arched in submission.

They were all white, all five of them. Samut Prakan Prison was full of child sex offenders, but the white men received the roughest treatment and had to be segregated from the other prisoners. This was good, because it meant they were five to a cell and not eight or ten like the Thais, who stank. Revolting animals . On the other hand, he suspected the whites were last in the food line. Getting the poorer-quality stew was bearable. Being starved of rice was not.

He closed his eyes and thought about America. Happier days. At other times, when he’d been fed, he allowed his mind to wander back to the Blackwell twins. Sweet Eve and uptight Alexandra. How perfect they’d been as young girls. How smooth, how tiny. He thought about the girl Lexi, Alex’s daughter. Thanks to Federico, that wetback pussy, he never got to rape her. Not fully. Of course, there’d been hundreds of little girls since then: Thais, Burmese, Singaporian, all adorable, squealing virgins. But he still felt robbed.

I wanted that girl. She was promised to me. Three million dollars, and little Lexi with her thighs spread wide. And what did I get? Second-degree burns and the FBI up my ass.

Now, though, all he could think about was food. Like the pink elephants in Fantasia, the images danced through his brain: cheeseburgers dripping with ketchup and fat, chili, fried onions, marshmallows dipped in chocolate and peanut butter…

“Effing nips. They’re trying to bloody kill us.”

Barry, the most cadaverous of his cell mates, had deep sunken brown eyes and skin like paper hanging from his caved-in cheekbones. Barry was British, and referred to all Asians indiscriminately as “nips.”

“I can’t take much more of this. GIVE US OUR FUCKING RICE, YOU BASTARDS!”

Barry ran his spoon along the bars of the cell, shrieking and yelling like a madman.

Stupid fool. He’s going to earn us all a beating.

The guard returned. He winced and covered his head, waiting for the inevitable blows to rain down. But instead, to his astonishment, a cauldron of broth was wheeled into the cell. The guards withdrew, leaving it there.

For a second, all five men stood frozen, staring at the steaming food as if it were a mirage. Dumplings bobbed on the surface amid a thin smattering of noodles. It smelled faintly of chicken, more strongly of cabbage. Then they moved as one toward the pot.

Someone called, “Don’t spill it!” Then ten hands plunged into the boiling liquid. He fought like an animal for his share, cramming noodles and thin wisps of meat past his shriveled lips, reveling in the salty broth that scalded his tongue and fingers. When nothing but liquid was left, he grabbed his bowl and the others followed suit, gulping down every last drop into their distended, rice-deprived bellies.

In less than a minute, it was all gone. He crawled back to his corner, exhausted and, for a short, blissful moment, sated.

At first, he thought it was just cramps. He often got pains after a meal here, especially if rations had been scarce. But then he felt a stab so violent it made him cry out, as if someone were grinding razor blades into his appendix.