SEAN PATRICK O MORDHA

Chapter 9
Hide Out

Traveling light, Philippe’s single backpack contained one change of clothes, toiletries, a book and tape recorder. His front pocket contained an American passport and wallet with cash, driver’s license and the credit cards all bearing the identity, Paul Elam. The man to whom he owed his life was good at such things. By traveling light passing customs was relatively simple, as was ducking out the main doors, flagging a taxi and disappearing into the menagerie of traffic. Whoever tried following would be quickly lost in the crowds by the unexpected speed of his departure.

Philippe’s caution was to the point of near paranoia, giving a familiar address, the business complex where he had disappeared years ago. There he took an elevator to the third floor retail center, over the bridge to the next tower, down and onto another street where he hired another taxi. This routine was repeated at a shopping center after which he finally felt comfortable. If anyone followed they had been sufficiently duped and lost. He was wrong. Passing through a less favorable part of the city on the way to charter boat services he noticed a dark blue sedan not far behind. How’d they do it?

Traffic suddenly became congested and slowed. He could walk faster. The cabbie muttered something about an accident ahead. Paranoia set in, again. Why was Philippe skeptical of that explanation? The sedan moved to within a half a block. All they had to do was jump out and catch him. He slipped the driver a bill large, enough for the fare and tip, popped the door and bailed.

Ducking into an alley Philippe turned on the speed. Long legs well conditioned to running and an extra burst of adrenalin-fortified speed left any pursuers far behind, but a foot race couldn’t continue forever. Bursting onto the next street he turned left and spotted a vacant building near the corner. Ducking inside Philippe disappeared as four oriental men puffed their way onto the street, two from the alley and two at the corner.

When Tangata helped him elude pursuers before Philippe learned the secret was to keep moving, so continued through scattered debris inside the derelict. Cautiously silent he went upward until gaining the roof to nimbly begin crossing one building after another until finding an open door to a building near the end facing the previous street. Glancing over the parapet he spotted the cab and sedan interfering with traffic. There was no accident ahead. Slipping inside Philippe entered a dark staircase, latched the door closed and worked himself toward the street level.

This was some kind of apartment building judging by the number of doors off a long hallway, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Quietly making his way to the first level he crept to the front, cut glass door, parted the lace curtain just enough to look outside. Several loads of suited men were exiting shiny, new cars and fanning out. Turning back into the house he saw double doors leading into a parlor. From behind came the soft sound of romantic music and the voices of several men and women. Unobtrusively peeking through the side crack of the door he gasped silently with surprise and silently stepped back. This was a bordello.

As one of the call girls began to lead a customer to more private quarters Philippe quickly removed his tennis shoes in preparation to heading quietly back upstairs. Just as he slipped the second one off he thought to detect movement at the end of this hallway, but it was dark. Staring for an instant he didn’t see anything, chalking it up to imagination.

Shoes in hand he ascended the wood stairs three at a time. Randomly picking a room near the middle left Philippe pressed an ear to the door and listened intently. From below echoed the voice of a man and woman arguing.

“Look upstairs,” the man ordered with a thunderous tone.

“How dare you barge in here and push us around,” a husky, woman’s voice responded loudly.

“Shut up and get out of the way.”

“Della, call the police.”

“You call no one, bitch.”

The argument continued as heavy footsteps climbed the stairs. Philippe tried the door latch. It yielded. Opening the door he quietly slipped in. The room was an average hotel-size with a bed, sofa and makeup table. More importantly it appeared vacant as he scanned around before completely entering. Closing the door he pressed an ear to wood again listening to other doors being opened. Quickly stepping to the window a peek outside was not encouraging. More men were taking positions along the street. The entire block was being sealed off.

“Well, Uncle’s men are still thorough,” he chided himself.

“You’ll find the scenery inside much more appealing,” a delicate voice said.

Spinning around Philippe was confronted by a girl about his own age attired in a thin, lavender night skirt.

She walked passed the boy and looked out the window.

“They looking for you?”

“Yes.”

“So many. What did you do?”

“It was a while ago.”

“I recognize a couple of them. They frequent this place though I haven’t entertained them personally.”

“My Uncle’s men.”

“Your Uncle?”

“It’s a long story. I better leave. If they find me here it wouldn’t go well for you.”

“I don’t like them. Sounds like they’re out in the hallway, too. You better hide. Come here,” she said walking to a curtain, pushing it aside. A closet.

“That’s the first place they’d look.”

“Yes, but not here,” she said, pulling a cardboard box aside. Bending down she opened a hidden panel in the side wall. “This place used to be raided a lot in the old days. Has all sorts of hiding places.”

Philippe dropped to his knees and crawled inside as the girl closed the door and slid the box back into place just as heard the hall door forced. She let out a slight scream.

Reaching into his backpack Philippe quietly removed what looked like a tape recorder. Opening the battery compartment he removed the power cells and pressed another latch. A small, automatic pistol slid into the palm of his hand. Small, but lethal. A gift from his benefactor during a mysterious side trip one summer . A number of lessons while on the island and practice in the Laramie mountains had helped Philippe become a good marksman. He had never used this pistol other than on stationary and moving targets, but wasn’t about to fall into his Uncle’s hands again. That was certain death.

“Get out of the way,” a man’s voice growled.

There was a small ventilation grill giving a view of the bed. He heard the closet curtain pushed brusquely aside and clothes moved around, then saw a man’s legs stomp past the grill. He looked under the bed and into the bathroom. Apparently satisfied he left, but not without touching the girl’s breast and making a crude remark.

The hunter was gone, but the girl didn’t come to get the boy, instead sat at a vanity to apply makeup. Suddenly the door sprang open again. The girl turned abruptly and threw something at the intruder who slammed the door closed. They were good. If she had come to Philippe that sudden reappearance would have been deadly.

Standing, the girl walked toward the closet as if to get something and whispered, “Stay where you are. It will be a while.” She continued out of sight and into the bathroom.

After a time noise of the search disappeared followed by a light rap on the door. “Christie,” a feminine voice called out as it opened.

“What’s going on Chelsea?” the girl answered, her bare legs and bottom of a towel coming into view from the bathroom.

“They’re looking for a boy,” the new arrival said.

“A boy! In here? Don’t they know to pick them up on the street, not in a place like this?” “Oh, you’re being silly, Christie.”

“What’d he do?”

“I don’t know, but they want him awfully bad. They’ve left, but the street’s full of the brutes.”

Just then came the sound of a chime.

“Customer,” Chelsea announced and hurried out.

When the door closed Christie walked to the dresser to slip on a tight, low-cut dress and high heel shoes.

“Better stay where you’re at for awhile,” she whispered and left.

After a time the girl returned accompanied by a man. Once inside she began to disrobe him as they embraced. Naked, they crawled into bed and began their sexual play. An hour later he dressed and left. She got up, slipped on the near transparent, lavender gown and combed her hair. When the bell sounded again the girl called Christie put on a red dress and left.

Five times the routine was played out as she addressed the needs and desires of men of various ages. Philippe was left to doze occasionally and stare in disbelief at the activity on the bed in front of his portal. Only once before had he seen any such things, then only briefly - on the beach where he had been a child. Now Philippe found himself on the front row of a full-length, live porno flick. When the fifth man left the girl again showered, but this time dressed in a flannel night gown.

“That’s the last one,” she whispered, opening the closet curtain, moving the box and sliding the secret panel open. Philippe crawled out stiffly.

“I’m sorry you had to be in there so long, but they’re not giving up. That last was one of those barbarians, though he was pretty gentle in bed.”

Philippe’s stomach growled.

“When’d you eat last?”

“On the plane,” he cast a quick glance at his watch. “14 hours ago.”

“Oh, you poor dear. We’re locked up for the night, or rather the day. It’s morning. If you’d like to take a shower, I’ll slip down and get something from the kitchen.”

“Will it be safe?”

“Oh, yes. They’re tearing other buildings apart. They won’t be back. Besides, if they do I’ll ring the bell twice. That’s the warning code. You can hide.”

The door latch lock clicked as she left. Another safety precaution. Anyone forcing their way into the room would make a lot of noise and probably break a shoulder. It was a stout door.

Downstairs, the girl made a couple of sandwich plates and started to leave when a heavyset woman in her fifties entered the kitchen.

“You worked up an appetite tonight,” the husky-throated woman remarked.

“Yes.”

“Enough for two.”

The girl flushed.

“I wondered where he went. I saw the boy run upstairs just before those bastards forced their way in. You put him in the hiding place?”

“Yes,” the girl replied weakly.

“It’s alright, dear. He looked to be a growing lad. Let’s take up a little more. I’ll help. Besides, I want to meet this person who is so important.”

Philippe had just stepped from the shower when he heard the door latch snap open. Hastily wrapping a towel around his waist he flipped off the light and palmed the pistol.

The door closed and re-locked.

“It’s me,” the girl’s voice called out softly. “I’ve got food.”

Philippe held the pistol behind his back as he slipped around the door frame. He was surprised to see an older woman at the girl’s side. Both had their hands full of food.

“Well, I see you’ve taken off more than your shoes,” the older woman said with a canvassing smile.

Philippe stood silently.

“I own this place. Name’s Evelien. The boys call me Eve. I saw you earlier when you ran upstairs. Just before they arrived,” she continued, nodding toward the curtained window. “So, what’s your name?”

“Paul. Paul Elam.”

“Elam?” she said while ruminating over the name while setting the food on the vanity. “You look very familiar.”

“I don’t believe we’ve ever met. I’m from America.”

“I never forget a face. We’ve met, I’m sure . . . You look exactly like . . . Oh, my, yes! Charles. Charles Bennét.”

Philippe startled and went totally pale. How could a prostitute know his father so well?

“But, no. Charles is dead, God rest his soul, and you are too young.”

“He was my father,” Philippe said solemnly.

“Of course! Little Philippe!” Eve threw her arms around Philippe in a crushing hug. “Oh, my dear boy, I am so sorry,” she moaned in his ear before holding him at arm’s length. “Your mother was a close friend. We grew up and attended school together. I was her bride’s maid on their wedding day. She was so pretty, so very, very pretty. I visited their island paradise many times. They had wonderful parties. The last time I saw you . . . You look so like your father, but there is a lot of your mother there, too.”

Philippe thought age had offered change, but hadn’t considered how much he might resemble his father. One seldom stands before a mirror to compare. His father was a well-known businessman in this part of the world. No wonder recognition was so quick. Sliding the pistol’s safety on Philippe slipped it in the waistband of his towel.

“Here, sit down and eat. My, but you are so much like your father,” the older woman continued to croon, her painted, brown eyes watering.
“I’m sorry, madam. I don’t remember you.”

“Probably not. You were young and so full of energy, constantly running here and there, always the delight of your dear momma and papa and the guests. I’m sure the parties were a bore.”

“Yes. But momma and papa loved them. Wait a minute. I remember an elegant lady in bright dresses who came often. I called her Aunty. She was always so kind. Would bring me presents. Once she came in a particularly striking blue dress. Gave me a lava-lava of the same material. I love blue. I wore it for years even when it became frayed. I was wearing it the day my parents . . .”

“I still have that dress, yes, though it doesn’t fit quite as well any more. Age has a tendency to change one’s figure here and there.”

Unbridled, Philippe threw his arms around the woman and hugged her close as he had whenever she came to the island resort. She still wore the same perfume. Some time passed as they clung to one another until slowly, reluctantly separating.

“Well, that does explain why they want you so badly. You really have caused a lot of trouble for your Uncle. He just got out of jail, on a technicality,” she said sourly. “He wants your popa’s, well, it’s yours - he wants your property very badly. It is worth millions and the only way for him to gain control is for you to be dead. Although there might be more to it.”

“He killed my parents. I’m not done with him, either. The day will come when he will be broken, completely broken and no technicality will come to his aid,” Philippe spat bitterly.

“To accomplish your end and not his you’ll have to stay here a while longer. They don’t give up easily. They know you’re in one of the buildings on this block. You’re safest right here. If they show up I’ll ring the bell twice. In the meantime, I couldn’t think of a better person to tend to your needs than Christie.”

The heavy set woman took Philippe by both hands and kissed his cheek, just as she had so many years ago, then spinning gracefully about, left. Finishing his meal Philippe looked around the room.

“If you have a blanket I’ll lay on the sofa.”

You’ll do no such thing,” Christie replied while stripping the bed and spreading fresh linen. “You will sleep right here.”

“But ... where will you ...?”

“Next to you, of course.”

Stiffening he didn't move.

“How old are you?” Christie asked while tucking the sheet corners.

“Twenty-two.”

“You’ve never been naked in the presence of a woman before?”

Philippe gulped, “Yes. My parents owned a nudist resort, but never like this.”

“You’re a virgin?”

Philippe stammered feeling the heat rise to his face before admitting, “Yes, but . . .?”

“If it’s not your wish, don’t worry. I am quite tired as you must be. We’ll have a sheet between us,” she said lightly, a sincerity in her soft, green eyes.

They lay upon the bed, he beneath the sheet, she on top, the comforter over both. Philippe had no idea how he would be able to sleep, but it was late afternoon when a movement brought him awake.

“Hello,” Christie said softly, looking at him through the vanity mirror while combing her hair.

“Hi,” Philippe replied sleepily.

“Eve brought up food,” she said, pointing to a tray near the window.

Philippe stood, took up a piece of toast and peeked around the edge of the blackout shade. There were men still roaming the street.

“Cute underwear,” she teased, referring to his silk cartoon boxers.

The boy laughed softly. “A joke. I never wore clothes growing up except a lava-lava when working in the dinning room. During parties or going off island I had to wear more formal stuff. I never wore underwear after leaving diapers. When I went to America that changed. My foster father buys these as a joke.”

“And you wear them?”

“I love him as if he were my real father. It may sound strange, but like this necklace and watch remind me of my real parents, these silly things remind me of him.”

“It may be a few days before you can safely leave.”

“If at all,” Philippe said dismally. “They’re like vultures waiting for something to die. I was foolish for coming.”

“Well, I for one am not sorry you came.”

The little bell sounded. Philippe flashed a panicked look at the girl.

“That’s only one. It means a customer has arrived, asking for me. Take the tray,” she said while opening the hidden door.

Philippe slipped in. The space was large enough to sit while eating as Christie entertained a customer. So the night proceeded, a seemingly endless procession of lusting men. There was a lull around midnight when the two shared a meal, then her work resumed until early morning when he could come out, shower and sleep, a bit more restlessly this time.

There were fewer of his uncle’s men, but like a cat with a cornered mouse some still lurked about the street, patiently watching. Eve said she was working on a plan that would be in place by the next day. Philippe wasn’t sure he could take another night. After the first he didn’t watch, but it was hard as the sounds crept through the vent, circled his head and burrowed through burning ears into his mind.

“This is my night off,” Christie said, then replied to his concern, “We could sleep beneath the same cover.”

Philippe did not reply.

“You can have private time, if you like.”

“No,” he almost snapped, then calmed. “I don’t do that.” Subconsciously he still blamed himself for having done that once and that cost the life of his parents and a friend. Intellectually Philippe understood such was not the reason, but the prohibitions against such acts had been so burned into his young mind by the priests it was impossible to overcome.

Christie looked at him with longing, truly wanting to help.

“Oh,” she suddenly said. “You are gay?”

“Huh?” Philippe replied, shaken by the question, then understood how she might come by that impression from his responses. “No. Men don’t hold any sensual appeal,” he thought then to tried to explain. “I was raised in a very free environment. My parents’ resort was very first class. I understand it still is. I own it, but have no interest in its operation. My foster father has arranged for others do that. Guests do not wear clothes unless they desire to. Growing up I seldom did. I was accustomed to living among people who were naked.

“Papa was very strict. If guests wanted to have intercourse it must be in the privacy of their cabins. Never in public. Such things are a very private matter. Occasionally a guest, male guest, would become aroused. At such times they were expected to cover themselves until gaining control. Actually, that happened very infrequently.

“To me the naked body is a thing of beauty. Growing up it was natural to see it and not be aroused. That is not say I don’t have natural urges. Seeing and listening to your employment has been exceedingly difficult, but somewhere in my past the seeds of celibacy were sown. I received an injury to my head when my boat was thrown upon a reef during a violent storm. There are still things I do not remember. If there are other reasons why I shun sexual activity that apparently is one of those lost memories. It is a feeling very difficult to overcome.”

“Do you think you will ever marry?”

“I think so. I hope it will happen, then perhaps I shall feel free,” Philippe said, then paused a moment before continuing with a smile, “and make up for lost time.” They both giggled.

With the shades drawn the room was quite dark permitting sleep, but it did not come to Philippe as he tossed repeatedly. With death lingering on the street below waiting for its victim to appear, being physically excited by the environment, and knowing a woman lay a sheet’s breadth away, sleep was impossible.

Rolling onto his side Philippe felt Christie get up. He was sorry for having disturbed her rest. She went to the lavatory then returned. He determined not to move so much. She returned to the bed. He felt her move about, settling back in. Then her hand crossed over his shoulder, resting on his chest, as she snuggled close, beneath the sheet.

Philippe opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling, blinking. Turning his head to the right he looked into Christie’s face.

“Rest well?” she asked as the hands of the clock approached six p.m.

“Yes,” he answered with a sigh.

“Upset?”

“No.”

“Well, you two, it’s time to rise,” Eve said, bounding into the room and opening the curtains to flood the room with light. “It’s all set. You’ll be able to leave in a hour. Go shower. I took the liberty to launder your clothes.”

“Thank you, Aunty Eve,” Philippe said, sliding his feet to the floor and sitting on the edge of the bed a moment before walking to the bath.

Eve sighed, picking up cartoon boxers from the floor and laying them on the bed. “My, my, my. Little Philippe’s all grown up.”

“He certainly has,” Christie said, still laying beneath the sheet.