Mangled Meat by Edward Lee

I’m on the fifth.”
    Her breasts tremored when she bent to pick up a can of Comet. “Well, yes, but theese is forf floor, sir.”
    “Yes, yes, I just realized that. Have good day,” and then he offered a covering smile and walked for the elevator.
    Jesus, what an idiot! But he wasn’t even to the elevator cove when heard the door open.
    He stepped up his pace. Fuck! But what was he anxious about? Leon Kingston had never seen Flood before, and there’s no way he or his cohort could know what he’d witnessed last night.
    Flood wisely didn’t turn when his ears picked up the voice he’d already heard: “Maria, good afternoon!”
    “Good afternoon to chew too, Meester Kingston.”
    “And how are you today? Muy buena, I hope.”
    A blushing chuckle. “Very muy buena, sir.”
    Flood turned into the cove, hit the down button. In dread he could almost hear what she might say: Strange gringo man was standink in-frunna chore door, but then he relaxed at her real words after obviously accepting a tip. “Muchas gracias, sir!”
    Hurry, hurry, he shot the though at the elevator. The carpeted hallway would betray no footsteps. He still didn’t know what he was afraid of, though; to Leon Kingston the Pimp, Flood was just another pale-skinned tourist. The elevator hadn’t opened yet when two figures came around the corner.
    Flood nodded, smiled.
    “Good afternoon, sir,” came Leon’s upbeat greeting. He looked better than Flood’s stereotypes imagined. Ring-like Billy-Dee-Williams hair, sharp conservative dark slacks and a fine heather-gray silk shirt, open at the neck but no gaudy gold pimp chains. Class, not flash. “I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Rosamilia.”
    “I-I am,” Flood said, off guard. “Very much. It’s a gorgeous hotel.” The weirdest impulse, then, just another curiosity, a test to elicit a response. “I take it you’re one of the managers here?”
    “No, no, sir. But it’s my favorite hotel on the beach. I always stay here during convention weeks.”
    “Oh, really? The CES convention? That’s where I’m at.”
    “All of them, sir. Leon Kingston. Very pleased to meet you.”
    Flood shook the firm, long-fingered black hand. Wow, he ducked that one well, but what did I expect him to say? I’m a pimp? “Jake Flood. If you’re looking for the best wireless peripherals, stop by my booth across the street.”
    “I just might do that, sir, I just might. Mr. Flood, please meet my good friend—”
    Only at that moment did Flood notice Leon’s companion: elegant-physique’d, slender yet well-curved, hair radiant and black as ink cut straight as a bezel edge at the collarbone line—
    “—Jinny,” Leon finished.
    Flood surprisingly didn’t falter. He shook the cool soft hand, and said “Hello, Jinny,” then noted her fine, high-cheek-boned face and runway-model poise. The paprika-red wrap-dress clung to her curves as if she’d just been fitted by a pro fashion consultant. Flood’s earlier presumption was clarified; she was not a tacky convention whore, but an upper-end call-girl.
    “Hello,” she said, smiling meekly. Then she seemed to restrain an uncomfortable flinch. “It’s nice to meet you.”
    “First time on St. Pete Beach, Mr. Flood?”
    The image of the girl stunned him once he compared it to the image he remembered last night: sperm all over her, face stamped into a mask of pain as she lay doubled-over on the bed, trim belly darkening with fresh bruises. “I-uh, yes, it is. Really nice beach town, nothing at all like Lauderdale and South Beach.” He tried to sound conversational, if only for an excuse to pay more visual attention to Jinny, a truly beautiful woman. “At my age, I like things a little laid back, a little less rowdy.”
    “ Your age?” Leon interjected. “I’m forty-five, Mr. Flood, and I know you’re younger than me.”
    A pimp being ingratiating, Flood suspected, but he did know that he still looked good for the Big Five Oh. Before he