Chapter 1

The girls were quite happy that a seemingly crazy old izungo (foreigner) brought them a bag of sandwiches and a basket of fruit. He motioned for them to eat, then stared as the hungry crowd devoured his gifts. In the backward poverty a two-hour drive from Congo, kindness from strangers was a rare thing, especially at the dingy den of depravity.

Two of the dusty old chandelier’s light bulbs flickered a few times. Electricity could be quite unreliable in the Third World. The four other bulbs hadn’t been replaced after burning out. The rusty but formerly elegant ceiling fan groaned like a dying animal, the blades barely stirring the warm humid air of the brothel’s dimly lit parlor. Thankfully, it was almost comfortable after dark, instead of afternoon’s steamy tropical heat. In cooler climates he ordered it neat, but that night ice rapidly cooled his glass of whiskey.

Vincent was gray-haired, tall, and in reasonable shape for fifty-five. His few American friends called him “Vinny,” which he liked, but the uptight Brits usually favored “Vincent.” He wore an off-white button-down shirt, as he did nearly every day. Dark gray trousers, comfortable sneakers, and a watch his grandfather had worn in World War Two completed his outfit. The antique aviator’s watch was outdated, with cell phones being ubiquitous, but sentiment attached it to his wrist like a magnet. He was born in New York but lived and worked in the UK ten years, until his recent retirement.

His blue eyes scanned the lineup. He gazed in detached evaluation, like a rancher inspecting cattle. They stood in a row, bare feet pressed into the worn rug, their bodies so slight they seemed to disappear into the shadows if he blinked too long. All ten or so girls were slender, slim, so skinny! They were obviously eager for more food, or money to buy some.

That was what he craved, the delicate curve of a waist he could nearly circle with his big hands, the fragile jut of hipbones beneath his fingers. That, and a slender young girl desperate for anything he might give her, grateful for even a snack or pocket change.

The gold-toothed madam gestured to the first. “She Liseba. Smallest youngest here, just eighteen year. Pay for sex with under eighteen, go jail. She make happy, much happy.” The overly thin teen she pointed at looked ashamed, but hopeful. The grandmotherly pimp thought a moment and offered, “Half hour cost twenty cedi.”

The numbers seemed suspicious, the stated age slightly high and the price extremely low. Twenty cedi was only six pounds sterling, equal to four bottles of the desperately poor country’s semi-noxious beer. London tarts her age charged at least twenty times that, and most were near twice Liseba’s weight!

The short, cute, and overly thin young lady showed an ID declaring she was born eighteen years earlier. The photo resembled her but didn’t match. Was it her older sister’s? He wasn’t going to ask.

Liseba smiled despite his years, near triple hers. She understood he was wealthy and might tip her if she did well.

Vincent’s gaze dragged over her. She had skin like polished ebony. The shape of her ribcage was faintly visible beneath the thin shift she wore. The top of the malnourished girl’s head was only the height of his armpits. She couldn’t have weighed more than thirty-five kilos, eighty pounds. His throat went dry as he stared at the pretty but emaciated Black girl.

She met his stare for several seconds before lowering her eyes. He caught a flicker of defiance in them. Good. He liked females with a spark.

“Turn around,” he ordered, voice low.

She did slowly, letting him take in the narrow slope of her back and the way her spine dipped inward just above the swell of her ass. He gently squeezed her unusually small buttocks. Perfect! As he set his glass down, the ice made a quiet “clink.”

“Okay. Her.”

Liseba said nothing, but her breath hitched when his fingers grazed the back of her neck, tracing the delicate tendons there.