Subject:      NEW Wages of Sin pt 1 (m/f, nc, revenge)
From:         evil@bay.com (Marlissa)
Date:         1996/11/24
Message-Id:   <579pql$vj6@decius.ultra.net>

Wages of Sin

by Marlissa

Greer peeked in and enjoyed the view.  Van Kamp was being lambasted by
the Gallery's owner, flanked by several police detectives.  His
soon-to-be former boss was in the process of an interrogation she
could never had imagined herself being a party to.  Perspiration had
left her usually sleek blonde helmet in disarray, her pale mien
flushed.

"I tell you I had no idea they were forgeries when I bought them for
the Gallery, Mr. Hotchkiss!"  The voice, so sure of itself when
casually cutting him to bits in his last job review, wavered.

The older man cut through the air, knocking aside the invisible
arguments she was making.  "The correspondence found on your PC
clearly indicate you'd been working with Ertigan's group.  It was an
inside scheme clearly coordinated by you!"

The detectives nodded their basic agreement with this assessment.
"There will be charges Ms. Van Kamp," she was informed by the
Inspector.

But Hotchkiss, normally unflappable, shook his head nervously.  "No--
absolutely NOT!  It would ruin me-- the value of every other piece
here would be placed in doubt!  No-- Justine will make restitution
instead to settle this affair. Of course she'll be terminated at
once!"

Justine Van Kamp shook her head in disbelief.  "You must be joking
Harold!  I've NEVER done anything illegal in my entire--"

"You'll pay it back-- forty thousand for that forged LaTrec you bought
from your partners with MY money-- or you'll go to jail.  And that's
the end of the discussion-- I'll listen to nothing else you have to
say!"  The patrician gallery owner wiped his face with a monogrammed
handkerchief, eager to be done with it.

The Inspector glanced at the Gallery proprietor and, shrugged.  "In a
sensitive case such as this, I suppose that prosecution would do more
harm to the victim than good.  If you're prepared to pay the money
back to Mr. Hotchkiss here, I'll request that the DA's office forgo
prosecution.  Of course, it would help your case enormously if you
lead us to your accomplice, Ertigan."  His stern glance at Justine
indicated that she should be grateful to have escaped with such
lenient treatment.

"I have no idea who or what Ertigan is Inspector!"

The police officer had heard this before from countless other
suspects.  "The name was on at least six pieces of e-mail found on
your pc-your password-protected pc, Ms. Van Kamp.  We assume he's left
the country by now, but your cooperation would help us look for a
trail.  Right now there's nothing."

She stood up, akwardly throwing her arms out to her former boss.
"Look Harold, there's more to this than it appears.  If we could
investigate this more closely--"

But Hotchkiss would have none of it.  "Greer has already investigated
the matter and done the right thing by informing me of the situation.
You and I have no further need for discussion, Ms. Van Kamp.  From
this point on, you'll deal with Greer.  Greer?!?!!"

The young man waited for an additional second to pass, then responded,
walking into the room alertly.  "Yes Sir?"  He looked at the police,
then Justine with melancholy.

"As you know, Ms. Van Kamp has violated the trust of this
establishment...and myself.  Luckily-- for her-- she has agreed to
make good on her sins.  I'll leave it to you to handle her repayment
of the amount she stole from this gallery.  Naturally I'd like you to
assume her position, if on a temporary basis initially.  I'm only
sorry such a wonderful career opportunity must come on the heels of
such a distasteful episode."

But Greer wasn't sorry in the least.  Why should he be?  He was the
one who had helped orchestrated the downfall of his bitchy boss in
such a painfully methodical way that it would be impossible for her to
ever untangle the web surrounding her.  And it was only beginning, he
reminded himself.  Only just beginning.

"Uh, how do I suggest this?"

"Yes Greer-go on," demanded Hotchkiss.

Almost apologetically he turned to the Inspector.  "If I'm to work out
a settlement with Ms. Van Kamp, I'll need to know she's in town and..."

The Inspector snatched up the train of thought and turned to address
Justine, an iron glare.  "Oh, we'll be keeping an eye on Ms. Van Kamp,
don't you worry.  If she so much as thinks about leaving the area,
she'll be remanded to custody immediately."

Justine's normal cadet-like posture slumped.  Her head bobbed
doll-like.  This wasn't happening.  It just couldn't be!

****************

It had been the longest week of her life.  Even the divorce from her
ex-husband Phil Evans hadn't been this miserable.  At least she had
walked away from that nastiness with something-the settlement that had
paid for grad school.  That had led her...where?  Because everywhere she
had turned in the last few crazed days, there were closed door.  As if
everyone in town knew somehow about her disgraceful expulsion from the
Gallery.  First the discovery of the forgery ring she was supposedly
involved in, then the abrupt termination, and finally the bank's
notification that it was calling the loan on her co-op.  Which meant
bankruptcy.  Which meant she was reduced to crawling to this
establishment, a place that hadn't entered her consciousness till an
ad from the newspaper, one she had been looking at for help wanted
ads, leapt off the page at her.  It was desperate, but with the
criminal charges against her, it was realistically the only kind of
position she now had a chance to obtain.  Reluctantly, Justine Van
Kamp knocked on the door she had been told was the Manager's office.

"Yeah?"  The voice was gruff, impolite.

"Mr. Allegro, I was wondering if you could give me a moment."  It was
hard but she kept her voice level.  When there was no response, she
added "It's about the ad."  The attempt to hold on to a normal tone
was somewhat successful, though her heart was beating a million times
a minute.

The door swung open to reveal a burrow of an office, walls papered
over with old newspaper ads for Club Vixen, centerfolds, autographed
photos from pornstars and visiting dancers.  Allegro sat hunched over
a calculator and stacks of grimy bills-ten and twenties that Justine
guessed constituted the afternoon take thus far.  He looked up, a
bored expression on the sallow face that looked older than its owner.

"Yeah?  What about it?"  His narrow brown eyes casually examined her.
"If you're from cityhall or one of those damn women's rights groups-"

Justine shook her head rapidly.  "No, no!  Nothing like that!  I'm
here because your ad." She pulled the newspaper clipping from the
pocket of her Evan Picone jacket, "said that you were looking for
help."

The manager of Club Vixen re-examined her now, curiousity replacing
hostility.  "Yeah, we're always looking.  You, ah represent some
talent?  The owner isn't in right now and he handles the big booking--
but if you could leave a card or number--"

Justine shook her head again.  "I, uh, no-you see, I--..."  It was
suddenly difficult to look Allegro in the eye because of the dirty
leer that was creeping into his hard, cynical eyes, but she forced the
words out.  "uh, I wanted to apply for one of the positions.  Myself."

"As a dancer?"  He was amused, but still dubious.

Justine nodded.

"You're a cop, lady.  Beat it."  Allegro looked back at his
bookkeeping.

"No, no!  Really, I'm here because I need a job."  She bit her lower
lip.  "I really need a job, mister.  Please."

It was the desperation in her voice that convinced him she might be on
the level.  "Sorry, you just don't look like one of our usual
applicants.  Why don't you fill this out," he pushed a clipboard with
a form and pen at her across the desk, "and we'll talk."  He rose,
promising to be back in a minute.  She thought he was chuckling to
himself as he left the office but she couldn't be sure.

Justine concentrated on the application form. It was simple enough and
she filled it out within minutes.  Allegro picked it up on his return
and began scanning it.  With every line he read, his eyes grew wider
and wider.

"Princeton?"  His husky cigarette voice was disbelieving.

She nodded, then clarified "Undergraduate.  My master's is from
Columbia."

He bowed his head in mock salute.  "And your last job was at this
fancy downtown art gallery?"

"Uh, yes.  I was the head buyer for the last three years.  Til I left
a month ago."

Allegro grinned.  "Left?  Or can I assume you were fired?"  He didn't
know any woman who left a fancy job to strip because she wanted to.
He had seen his share of college girls trying to pay tuitions-most
ended up as high priced hookers or 'girlfriends' of some of the
wealthier customers of Club Vixens.  A few single moms trying to pick
up the pieces.  But career women?  This was a first.

She didn't immediately respond, but when he tapped the desk with his
pen insistently, she broke down.  "Yes.  I was...dismissed."

Satisfied, he continued to read the application.  Finally he looked up
with a malicious grin.  "Sorry.  I'm afraid we haven't got anything
for you."

At first, Justine looked at him as if there was more.  Justine Van
Kamp had been one of the most influential leaders in the gallery
community.  Ivy League, six figures and Carribean-vacationed every six
months.  She wasn't being turned down for an exotic dancer job.  That
was insane.  But his earthy eyes held steady above the evil grin.

"I don't understand," she mumbled looking down at her Ferragamo shoes.

"32A."

Justine's face burned hot.  Her bra size.

"Who wants to see some flat-chested stripper?  Your body's o.k., but
you don't have much up top, honey.  Not a surprise to you, I'm sure."

After an eternity that the club manager seemed to enjoy, she shrugged
weakly.  "I would work very hard, Mister Allegro.  I-"

"You're kind of plain, honey.  Let's face it-I'm not saying you're
ugly, 'cause you're not.  But you're a five, maybe a six tops if you
tricked yourself out.  With big cans, that's not so important.  But..."
Allegro let it drift and cocked his head, waiting.

God, he sounded like Phil.  Flat-chested.  Toward the end, that's what
Phil used in screaming matches in their horror-show marraige.  Her
ambition to be the best at what she did, her talent, her
intelligence-it was all knocked aside when he started to rant on that
subject.  It was what had ripped the marraige apart-sex, sex, sex.
And when she refused to give him what he wanted, it only added fuel to
the fire.  He would put even more pressure on her and she would give
even him even less satisfaction in that area.  Driving him even
crazier, till he began getting really strange with his requests.
Dropping hints about how he was getting satisfaction from other
sources, about places he was going to get them "taken care of."  And
how he had had it with his "flat chested tight-assed bitch of a wife."
Well, she had filed for divorce, eager to get on with her schooling.
Ironically Phil had never seen any use for her Fine Arts graduate work
and refused to pay for it.  Of course he did end up paying for it-with
the large settlement she had received from the sympathetic female
judge after sharing some of Phil's little rants with the court.  He
had disappeared after that-but it was clear his sentiments about her
body weren't his alone.  She felt her nails dig angrily, frustratedly,
into the palm of her hands.

She wanted to roll up in a corner.  Now she was experiencing feelings
she hadn't had since back in high school , when she had waited out the
long Saturday nights with her books and homework.  The nerd girl
cursing the too-thin body and angular features she had inherited from
her Dutch ancestors.   The short helmet like cornsilk blonde hair and
icy blue Nordic eyes that warned off lesser mortals, the high
aristocratic cheek bones, the pointy defiant chin-all of it too much
for the boys.   All she had wanted to be then was pretty-not some big
shot art buyer, just pretty enough for the boys that didn't call.

And now eight years of college and five years of a successful career
were reduced to that pathetic desire again.  The desire to be pretty
enough to get this job of nude dancing for the pleasure and amusement
of Mister Allegro's clientele.

Because she needed this job.  Desperately.

"A seven."

"Huh?"  Allegro craned forward.

"I could be a seven.  I could make myself up to be a seven, Mister
Allegro.  Really I could," she insisted to the doubtful strip club
manager.  "And I could wear things that might help me with my size
problem too, like, push-up bras."  She had always despised them and
didn't own a single one, but if it helped...

Allegro laughed out loud.  "You'd need a lot of pushin' honey!" he
cruelly pointed out.

It was hard to keep from crying now, but to her credit she did just
that.  "Please.  Just...please, Mister Allegro."   Her blue eyes were
moist now.

It was a small, pitiful plea from a woman he normally wouldn't have
given a second look.  For one thing, she was thirty-four...not exactly
fresh off the farm.  None of the other girls were over the age of
thirty.  And she wasn't a knock-out by any standard.  She was too
prissy, too skinny and too flat.  More a plain Kate Moss than anyone
else he could think of.  But the way she was acting made it clear that
this was hard for her, probably the hardest thing she had ever had to
do.  This was humiliating-- she was begging him for the opportunity to
strip for strange men.  There was none of the sassiness he was
accustom to from the savvier girls or even the wide-eyed innocence of
the teenagers.  No, Justine was desperate and would do what ever it
took to get this position.  He liked the thought of her trying to earn
those elusive dollar bills, coaxing them out of the tight hands of his
regulars with bumps and grinds with her tight little body.

"O.k.  I'll give you a chance to audition.  If the customers like you,
you get a shot.  You get ten minutes to earn three dollars.  You do
that, and we'll talk about a regular thing."

Her thin lips curled into a grateful smile.  "Thanks Mister Allegro!
Thank you!"  She DID have a nice smile and her blue eyes were pretty,
if aloof.  Well, if she earned the gig, THAT would change in a hurry.