There was a man

Back when I was younger and moved with passion and zeal for all things true and right, I struggled with that dark side of me which was far more comfortable with the expedient, irrespective of morality. In the light of the day the shadows shrank and I felt as though there was nothing that could tempt me; however, when the shadows became long and darkness increased its grip on the earth, my will slackened and bony black fingers reached for my heart.

It was then I was tasked with monitoring a man, a man who moved with the lithe and agile grace of a panther. He was quiet, but exuded not only charm, but sensuality. A paper trail alleged him to be a mover of the underworld in the manner of organized crime rather than the practice of my own voodoo. If I was able to confirm his identity, I was to mark him for death.

I watched him often and when he engaged with the vendors in the early morning mists of the fresh air markets I found it hard to believe there was anything evil about him. There may have been a hint of amorality, but nothing that led me to believe he was, indeed, evil.

Perhaps, it was my own sense of youth-driven invincibility or his charisma had charmed me from a distance, but in the steamy nights of that summer, I dreamed of breaking with my training and making myself available for contact with him. Thoughts of his eyes drinking me in, as well as lips and tongue exploring all that I was dominated the hours of my day and night. In my mind all I could think of was his expertly manicured hands pulling me roughly to him as I enveloped the evidence of his desire within me, again, again, and again.

While not classically beautiful in the way of a Grace Kelly, I was and am an attractive woman and many men have shared that I have an exotic air that enhances my appearance and appeal. Garnering male attention was never difficult whether I sought it or had it forced upon me. In addition to my raven hair and coal eyes, I knew even then what a heady elixir the recognition of my own desire and sexuality was for men. It is no secret I have always enjoyed the ways of the flesh.

On a Sunday morning in September I decided to wait no longer. It was still warm and particularly humid, so I folded my mud cloth sarong in half lengthwise before tying it about my waist so that it grazed my knees rather than tickled my ankles. The brown complimented my tan limbs and for contrast, I pulled nothing more than a white cotton halter over my bare breasts. Taking a lacquered pin which was actually one-half of a chopstick combination, I pulled my long hair loosely up and out of my face, as well as off my neck. As an afterthought, I grabbed a fresh hibiscus from a neighbor's hedge and absently tucked it into my hair as my sandal shod feet carried me to the stranger I knew I would bed.

It was particularly early and I sought fresh fruit to enjoy with my café au lait and beignets. In fact, I had just taken a bite of a succulent peach at a curbside table when I noticed the man was watching me. He was casually dressed in jeans, topsiders, and white t-shirt with some logo or another. His only adornments were a hefty watch on his left arm and wayfarers.

I knew he was attractive and my desire for him had burned for weeks, yet I was ill prepared for the wash of excitement that released me of my breath when I could see in his eyes he wanted me, too.

With my lips still covered with peach, I smiled and cast my eyes down ever so slightly to entice him to join me. Without hesitation, he walked over and pulled up another iron café chair. Instead of introducing himself, he merely reached over, grasped the hand which held the peach and brought it to his own lips. I sat enthralled as he slowly consumed the fruit and gently kissed, then licked the sticky wetness from each of my fingers as I trembled and squirmed in sheer delight and almost ecstasy.

Only after we enjoyed my breakfast did he smile and tell me his name, as well as ask for mine.

I met him often at different times on different days. My employer was soon made aware of the contact and it was then my days of deep cover began and I was encouraged to utilize all of my skills and assets to complete the task at hand.

I was not so young or unjaded to believe in love, but never before had a man completed me so. I wanted him every second of every day that I breathed. I gave of myself as I had never given to a man before and he carried me to heights I never knew existed. He lavished me with gifts and attention and together we dined and mingled with the elite; however, despite my sexual satisfaction, I eventually came to be certain the man had no soul.

With his mind and body he told me of his love and desire for me. He even presented me with an exquisite diamond flanked by opals when he asked me to become his, but it was at that moment I knew in my heart he was without a conscience. With words he explained the diamond was the hardest and most durable, as well as rarest of stones and represented his love for me. Then he said the opals were a special request he made of the jeweler because opals were more fragile and in their milkiness there were flecks of green and red. Red for the passion, green for the jealousy he felt whenever his mind envisioned me in the arms of another man, and red again for the anger and pain which cut through him at the mere thought.

His words were beautiful and I desperately wanted to believe, but however intense, they rang hollow in my heart, lacked conviction, and were devoid of any real emotion. For all his charm, I knew he did not possess any of those intense feelings because I had seen with my own eyes of all that he was capable. Without even a flicker of regret or remorse for his crimes, I had the proof which matched him to his dossier.

Taking the ring by allowing him to place it on my finger, I asked him to meet me at a special place for a romantic dinner later in the evening to celebrate. He agreed.

Kissing him gently I searched his eyes yet again for some sign, but found none.

I left him with the promise of a night to remember and did not turn back. My employer was informed of the rendezvous and I was instructed to leave town for a while.

I did not.

At the appointed hour and place, I appeared as promised. As he stepped toward me a faint thud greeted me as I watched in slow motion his right hand grab his chest as he crumpled at my feet. I tried to reach for him as he struck the ground, but before I could even cradle his head, he was gone.

Despite my blatant infraction of the "rules" I was rewarded for my "dedication" and my training was stepped up. In me they found an unusually gifted tool. While that man had no soul, it was then I turned mine over to the darkness.

For many years now, I have often wondered which of us was the better for it.



POWER

Sex is different things to different people.

To me it is an expression of sensuality and affection, as well as a transfer of power.

As my experience has grown, I have been more selective in my choice of lovers and the seduction of each. While there is always a physical component, I find I am drawn to men of fierce intelligence, humor, and innate self-confidence. It is a strength of conviction and character that I find irresistible, as well as a sense of being and purpose.

Coincidentally, but not unexpectedly, these men typically have fiery tempers and extremely passionate hearts. Theirs have been wandering souls who answer to no man and, certainly, to no woman. Our couplings are usually intense and may last for months on end, though I have yet to mate for life.

Mine is a guarded heart which maintains a tight reign on the passions which flame within my soul and course through my body. I remain vigilant not to singe not only myself, but the object of my desire. Experience and time have taught me well how best to forever brand the psyche of my intended to ensure in the long nights of the years after me, he will still yearn for all that I am.

When darkness falls and he closes his eyes a familiar longing will stir deep within him. Whether he beds alone or with another there will remain a deep part of him that will be satisfied by no other. It is not love, but a much stronger and far more base emotion. It is need, a primal requirement to couple with one who takes as wholly and completely as she gives.

Once I have encountered a man capable of challenging my mind, as well as tempting my body, I let him know he stirs me so with subtle glances, almost accidental contact, and that rare glimpse into the passions to be found within. If he is worthy, he then seeks to seduce through methods of his own. The dance will continue over days and nights until I know his thoughts are consumed with me, as mine are of him.

When I feel the time is ripe, I usually appear and catch him rather unaware. Neither the time nor the place is that carefully orchestrated because, above all, I am human and when desire consumes, it pays little heed to convention. Besides, I enjoy life lived precariously and if one is so fortunate to catch a voyeuristic glance of the hunt and rapturous capture, it will be yet another mark I have left on man.

There are several components to this dance and each one beats to a slightly different vibe, but when rhythm is achieved, the result is exhilarating and intoxicatingly heady, indeed.

It has long been observed that men are visual creatures and easily aroused by what appears before them. What little has been explored are the vivid images captured well within the mind's eye of many men that are triggered to fantastical display when he has been temporarily blinded, his hands rendered momentarily lame, and his primary source of sensory input is reduced to tactile.

If one is without imagination at this point, allow me to paint a picture.

Several years ago I had the pleasure of dining al fresco at an intimate club on a secluded bay in Ranguana, Belize. It was the end of my first week in country and throughout my days I had experienced the sensation of being observed. As I swam in the Caribbean, lounged on the beach or walked through the sleepy village there were moments when I felt some stranger's glance on me, almost as a caress, and my body responded by a tightening of my breasts, a tickle along the nape of my neck, and a stirring between my legs.

My admirer finally made his presence formally known by approaching my table and asking to join me. When I looked at him, I realized I knew his eyes because they had visited me in my sleep and reflected a longing I knew well. As we feasted on wine, seafood, and fresh fruits, we spoke as old acquaintances, though our paths had not before crossed.

As the sun set and a breeze began to blow in earnest, he took my hand and led me to a desolate, but surprisingly torch-lit beach where a lonely bonfire crackled and danced in the wind. He knew as well as I our destiny lay in limbs intertwined and he was comfortable and confident to allow me the pleasure of the lead.

His way was that of a watcher, an observer for all time. He engaged when and with whom he chose to engage. Instinctively I knew any attempt to push or prod him to an action outside his will would force him to retreat deep within himself.

His power was to make himself felt by the touch of his gaze.

His power was no threat to me, so I allowed myself to become a willing accomplice to his machinations. The challenge was to shake him from within and compel him to act through primal urges rather than solid directive of the mind.

Turning to him in both firelight and reflected moonbeams off the water, I kissed him lightly and stepped from him. As he continued to watch intently, I slowly shed each of my garments until nothing remained but my long hair whipping wildly and partially obscuring my face. Taking my skirt in my hand I ripped not one, but two long thin pieces of fabric. Tying both strips loosely around my neck, I abandoned the remainder to the wind.

Smiling coyly, I placed my hands firmly on his chest and lightly kneaded the muscles beneath. Slowly and without taking my eyes from his, I began to unbutton his shirt. I then divested him of his shoes, undid his belt, and unfastened his pants. Whenever he attempted to touch me, I stopped and purposefully pushed his hands away.

When he became more insistent, I took one of the strips of fabric and stepped behind him. Taking first one of his hands, then the other, I tied them together loosely behind his back. As he continued to watch, I could see in his eyes uncertainty had encroached. His confidence was ebbing, even as his desire grew.

Standing full in front of him, I pressed my flesh against him and kissed him deeply to further incite the passions of his desire. Alternately tasting, kissing, and biting him slightly from his lips, along his neck and to his nipples, I stoked him. As the next deep gaze revealed the uncertainty had abated, I took the final strip, doubled it, and fashioned a blindfold, then continued to completely disrobe him.

As he quivered in desire-filled anticipation tinged by fear, I asked him to speak to me and tell me how much he wanted me. I asked him to say my name and describe for me what he wanted.

Standing on the beach I covered him with my hands, my mouth, and my body. With no effort or voluntary exertion from him, I brought him to the height of passion and lead him crashing over the breaks of ecstasy. All he knew was me, my touch, my feel, and my name. He was mine. His soul was seared with me.

Only after he was spent did I remove his binds and allow him to explore all that I am.

For my remaining week in Belize we spent our time trying to match the intensity of that first night with only varying degrees of success. An attentive lover, he was most willing to please but failed to grasp the concept of power in our couplings. I wanted from him what I continue to seek from he who will be my mate: I want him to exert the emotional and sexual power over me that I have wielded over the men who have come before. I want to be taken and consumed so I can experience the rebirth and unbridled intensity I so willingly provide.

There is one out there who I feel has the power and strength to complete me.

I fear him, as much as I want him.

God help me.

As usual, the air was rife with smoke and ceaseless conversation as Joe continued his finger dance along the ivories. Joe didn't much like to sing, but he knew how to get the bar patrons to tip and every third song or so played one to which his baritone would compliment and encourage the revelers to join.

Like Joe, I much preferred when he just played, not because I did not like the sound of his voice, I did. It was when he played unencumbered by words and lyrics he poured his heart into the piece and brought the static notes and movements to life. It was then the smoke even swayed and danced for him. It was then I chose to believe he played only for me.

Tap, tap, tap

Those were the sounds when Joe hit the high notes at the far right of the piano to shake me from my reflections. He knew not to let me drift too far into my thoughts and the blackness which surrounded them.

Of all the men I had known, both in passing, as well as the carnal sense, Joe was one of my buddies. One of the damned few or one of the few damned, I know not which.

While we had had more than one opportunity to fuck, neither of us seemed interested in tainting the friendship, such as it was. It simply was.

Tap, tap, tap

Joe hit those damn keys again.

Taking a drag from my Marlboro I cut him a glance through the haze of the room.

With a broad smile he launched into his pet song for me: "Brown-eyed Girl!"

Then the drunken frivolity ensued as he encouraged one of the drunk asses seated at his baby grand to dance with me.

Fucking ass tourists.

I knew they were the lifeline for the city, but more obnoxious cock suckers I had never seen.

One of the more brawny ones followed Joe's nod, wink, and smile and stumbled over to my corner.

I knew the game well.

It wasn't enough I had my own fucking job to do, it was a slow night and now I had to help Joe inject some mother fucking life into the place. I was in no goddamn mood and he knew it, the jackass.

The big guy ambled over and all but tripped on the table and landed in my fucking lap. With a belch of ethanol he gave me his best line: "Hey gorgeous, do you have a boyfriend."

At my cold silence he continued: "Would you like one?"

Original. Fucking original.

I methodically took another drag then tossed back the remains of my bourbon and coke.

No games for me that night. I was worn out and used up. It was time to go home.

When I stood the drunken ass grabbed my arm and used me as leverage to gain his feet. Squeezing that arm he implored "Come on, baby, dance with me."

Dropping the butt of my cigarette into his open drink, I relied on my day job training and slammed my heel into the arch of his foot. When he bent over and howled in pain I grabbed his right arm with my left hand and pulled him to me. With the free hand I gripped the back of his head and slammed his forehead into the table. He let out a grunt and down to the floor he slumped, dazed and drunk.

Fucker.

A quick glance at Joe found him slowly shaking his head. With sharp eyes I sent a silent, but no less lethal "Fuck you, too, asshole."

Stepping over the the beefy tourist, I made my way out the side door and down the street as I berated myself in my mind:

Girlfriend, what is your fucking problem?

What the fuck were you thinking?

Calm, woman, stay calm, keep your head and stay fucking alive.
Stopping short I pulled at my bag, lit another fucking cigarette, then leaned my shoulder against a dimly glowing lamp to collect my thoughts, as well as my nerves.

I was fucking falling apart.

When I needed my wits about me the most, I fucking lost them.

I started to take another long drag when a hairy arm grabbed me from behind and pushed a cold blade against the side of my neck. I could feel it press against my flesh and knew he had sliced me, just a bit, as a sticky trickle made its way down my neck and ultimately between my sweaty breasts.

"Honey," he said, "you need to learn to play nice. I'd a thought girls like you woulda learned that by now."

I was scared. I was so scared I could taste not only the bile rising in my stomach, but the blood seeping down my front. I had let my guard down and it was gonna goddamn cost me.

As his grip tightened around me and my breath left me, I heard another distinctly male voice from behind us both: "Mon ami, surely the whore is not worth your life?"

Swearing, the fucker eased his grip, turned me around, and in a flash of the night brought the butt of the blade crashing against my temple.

Shit
.
It was my turn to go down and there wasn't a fucking thing I could do about it.

I heard the scuffle and the grunts, but for the life of me could not catch a breath or clear my head well enough to look, much less stand and help or even run.

I don't know how long it lasted, but I suddenly felt a hand on my arm pulling me to my feet and that distinctive male voice tell me: "On your feet, woman, we have to get out of here."

As I leaned heavily on him my gaze traveled to the limp body of my attacker humped over on the street to the steel blue eyes of my savior.

"Can you walk?" He said.

I wanted to ask if he killed him, but realized suddenly, I did not want to know.

"Woman, we have to go. My hotel is a couple blocks from here."

"No," I struggled, "no hotel...cameras."

"Fuck, fuck."

Steadying me with both hands now, he insisted: "We have to go. Now."

Nodding, my thoughts were slowly becoming more coherent. "My place is a few blocks to the east."

Half dragging, half carrying me, we finally reached my small island of peace, the one place I had adamantly refused to allow any man. Standing at the door, I hesitated.

While I had known my share of men, I much preferred to love 'em and leave 'em on their own turf or at neutral locations. It was always safer that way.

As if he sensed my thoughts and inner turmoil, the man with steel eyes leaned his back against the wall adjacent to the door with a heavy sigh and simply said: "Your call."

It was then I first noticed the front of his blue button-down was wet and dark. Pulling the ripped shirt aside, I realized it was his blood, not that of the attacker or me.

"Shit, man, why didn't you tell me you were hurt."

Scrambling to open the door and get him inside, I shed all my reservations. With renewed energy, I grabbed him and pulled him inside my private domain. We only got as far as the couch before his own energy abated.

Feeling the panic and near hysteria rise within me, I disentangled my limbs from his and went in search of alcohol, peroxide, and whatever the hell else I could find to begin patching us back up.

My search led me to the bathroom and when I flipped the switch there was a moment or two of flickering light before the fluorescent bulb kicked in to shed its eerie glow.

Catching a reflection of myself as I opened the medicine cabinet, I had to shut it and look closer at the image staring back at me.

The tissue around my left eye was swollen and angry. The eye itself was red with tiny little burst veins. Down my neck was a cut an inch, inch and a half long, but fortunately not deep.

I was covered in blood and my head beat with drums of rage. My wounds could wait, I wasn't sure if the man's could.

Grabbing cotton balls, band-aids, alcohol, scissors, tape, and wet hand towel, I returned to the living room. The steel eyes were closed, but I could tell he was listening and still with me.

I propped him up as well as I could and removed his shirt entirely. I saw despite the heat and humidity of my home city, he wore an undershirt, too. That knowledge brought a brief smile to my face. I liked that he wore the undershirt, torn and stained as it was.

I cut it off him.

Using the damp hand towel first, I blotted most of the spent blood to get a better view of the damage. I was rewarded with a flow of fresh red and a groan or two.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God.

"I'm sorry, man, I'm so not a fucking nurse. Do you hear me? I'm not a fucking nurse!"

"It's okay, baby, do what you fucking have to do." Came the labored reply.

"You need a goddamn doctor."

"No, doctor..."

And, that was it.

He was out.

I continued to blot until I could see a three inch jagged tear along his lower left abdomen, just above the pelvic bone. I didn't think there was a major organ right there and while long, it didn't appear to be too deep, even though it bled like a mother.

At first, I tried to daub the area with alcohol soaked cotton balls, but quickly found that was futile. In desperation, I dumped half the bottle on it and vowed just to burn the goddamn couch when all was over and done. He stirred and groaned when the cleansing liquid hit him, but barely moved.

The next decision was whether to attempt to sew him up as I had seen my grandmother darn socks or use the tape.
The thought of pushing a needle through his torn and bleeding flesh was too much for me to bear and my left eye was fully closed.

Lacking a clear head, as well as depth perception, I opted for the tape. Before, I packed the wound in gauze, I vaguely wondered if I needed to leave a weep hole or something for it drain.

I opted for drainage and left a space.


What the fuck did I know?

Then I checked him for further damage and found none.

After pulling his feet onto the couch and making him appear, at least to me, to be as comfortable as possible, I covered him with a light blanket and sought refuge in my shower.

I turned it on as hot as I could possibly get it. Despite my fatigue, I felt the need to be clean. I washed my long, dark hair, then scrubbed myself from head to toe.

Long after the last of the suds fled through the drain, I stood with my sore eye and temple pressed lightly against the cool of the shower tile. The hot water turned to warm, then eventually became merely tepid. Still, I just stood allowing the water to run over me and wishing I would just melt away.

Eventually, I shut it down and pulled out a fresh towel. Rubbing myself dry, I realized I was bleeding again and needed to don that nurse's hat one more time before the night was through.

Instead of wrapping my still throbbing head under the weight of wet hair and a towel, I opted to merely blot it. Grabbing a sarong from the hook behind the door, I wrapped it loosely around me and returned to the living room and the remnants of the medicinal supplies.

Finding a spot on the floor between the coffee table and the sofa, I leaned back and took several of the cotton balls. After dousing them in alcohol I pressed them securely against the side of my neck.

Fuck.

The burning was intense and brought an involuntary moan from my lips.

I felt the man stir behind me and with a gentle hand he pushed mine away and mumbled: "Let me look at that."
With deft hands he finished cleaning the cut and taped me up. Thinking back on my freshman efforts at first aid, I had the distinct feeling this man knew what he was doing.

I did not ask.

Feeling suddenly vulnerable, I started to get up or at least turn to face him. Gently, but firmly his hands commanded I remain as I was. I could feel his breath on my neck as distinctly as I could the sharp edge of desire rising within me.
"Watching you at Lafitte's, I wondered if you were tan all over."

I did not trust myself to speak and did not think a reply necessary.

His voice became slightly deeper while one hand rubbed the base of my neck and the other pulled my heavy and long hair to one side. I could feel his lips move against the skin of my shoulder as he asked: "Are you Creole?"
Finding my voice I turned my face to his and whispered: "As far as you know."

It would be three days before he left my city and we said goodbye. Three days a lifetime ago.

Our paths have crossed on occasions here and there when his business brought him back to New Orleans, but our lives have remained separate and distinct.

Over the years I have thought of him often, particularly when my eyes check my reflection and come to rest on the now faint scar along my neck.

The man, bastard that he is, did me a damn good turn once.

Now, I'm here to do him a damn bad one.

Life has worn me down a bit. My home is no longer my home and while I have managed to squirrel away a bit to start over somewhere, I am not sure what next I must do or will do.

My old life and career beckon me, but answering to the big boss man no longer holds any appeal. For the moment, I need to fade from the scene and this is where I shall do it.

I don't know if I'll make my way back to the Quarter, while at the same time, I can hardly imagine being anywhere else.

Yabu, man, know this, I'm not the kind of woman you or anyone else can trust; however, I pay my debts.
I bid you "Good night" with a word of warning:

Keep one of those eyes open, man, just to be sure.

Child of Darkness

Just before dawn on December 3, 1967, on Yabu’s birthday, I made my appearance in this world at the University Hospital Heidelberg to an unusual pair.

Originally from Louisiana, my father was a white man of brownish hair and brown eyes. His people were English and German on his father’s side and Acadian on his mother’s. Chevalier was her maiden name.

My mother was a slight woman who was Chinese on her mother’s side and Vietnamese on her father’s
.
Growing up in Louisiana, my Asian heritage, combined with the Acadian, was often mistaken for Creole or high yella.

Not surprisingly, with my father’s influence I am more fair than my mother; however, my eyes and hair are both coal black.

Momma was an interesting creature. She moved with the grace and airiness of late afternoon light through the uneven panes of hand-blown and seeded glass windows. Her motions were deliberate, but delicate and fluid. She was also a quiet one who spoke primarily through her eyes and ever so slight changes in expression. When she did speak, her voice had a soft, but husky quality and her words were laced and adorned with the sing-song speech of her ancestry. Portraits of her all reflect a woman of feminine refinement; however, her outward placid serenity belied the dark tempests within her heart.

It was at five I believe I first began to live, for it was then my father sought out my paternal grandmother and I started to gain some understanding of who and what I really am.

At age five Celeste (my grandmother) introduced me to the world of darkness and first time I knew what it was to belong.

Voodoo or “vous deux", you two, you too, is as ancient as man. It far surpasses the common Christianity practiced by many.

It has been said many times: “We are not separate, we all serve as parts of One. So, in essence, what you do unto another, you do unto you, because you ARE the other. Voo doo. View you. We are mirrors of each others souls.�
I share my soul with Yabu. He has not my heritage, but he knows and understands. He is my anchor in the white man’s world, but speaks to that part of me which is Creole.

The Real Story

When Yabu and I first really “met,� I was working undercover for the NOPD. There is a long and varied story behind how I came to choose that path that I may or may not one day share.

Through a series of events orchestrated by all that is vile and corrupt in Louisiana, particularly New Orleans, my cover was ultimately compromised. Rather than adopt a uniform and hit the beat, I opted to take my skills for weaponry and language, natural talent for blending into a multitude of cultures (a blessing of multiracial ethnicity), and experience and free-lance.

Though our contact over time was few and infrequent, Yabu eventually came to know of my status and revealed to me his position of a purveyor of information and antiquities.

Yabu is and has always been well-connected. He has the means to lead a comfortable life, but chooses the life of a nomad and adventurer. I simply think he is insane.

As dear as he is to me on occasion, his eternal optimism has placed him and, more importantly, me in more than one compromising situation. As a result, I have had to think long and carefully whether I would not be better off slitting his throat first, then attending to my enemies. Fortunately for him, his pocketbook and connections equal his incorrigible charm and I still find I have use of him, despite my proclivity and penchant for solo travel.

When discussing our circumstances in Spain, Yabu failed to mention why we were stranded, running, and in a bind.

While concluding a transaction in Morocco, Yabu got word to me he required something of a plant to touch a guy in Spain who had something he dearly wanted.

Apparently, Yabu had been bested in a deal for some ancient piece of six-inch Japanese steel that he was obsessed about possessing. While the request was somewhat unusual, even for Yabu, I knew he would not rest until he had it and without sane assistance, probably would do something crazed and demented.

The good news was the mark lived on a small island off the coast of mainland Spain where security was non-existent, there were several options of ingress and egress without the necessity of formalities, and the only sign of governmental authority was a farmer acting as justice of the peace. The bad news was he lived in a compound atop steep and rocky cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. There was only one road to the house and it was heavily guarded by men, dogs, and at least three check points, although my guess was there were probably more.

If we had tried to climb the sheer wall of stone on the seaside, it would have taken us the better part of a night to scale it and leave us with very little stamina to complete our objective. That would have been a fool's errand.
Yabu does have his moments and his wily charm and deep pockets were able to learn our mark had an appetite for ladies and gambling. Outfitting me handsomely before assuming the role of my driver and guard, Yabu ensured I was dressed to kill and had a seat at the high stakes table at one of the private casinos on the mainland.
It required several nights and several hundred thousand pesetas (this was years before the adoption of the Euro) before our man finally appeared.

There had been a couple of times in my career when a mark’s picture wholly failed to convey the individual’s appearance. While he looked very much like the photos I had seen, I was a bit on tilt and ill-prepared for the man’s sheer presence.

There was little room for role-playing at the table that night because our chemistry sparked like stone on flint. By the twelfth bell of the witching hour the man was busily trying to persuade me to return to his hotel with him. As tempted as I was, I feigned modesty and explained I had an ancient husband who indulged my gambling and travel but would not tolerate allegations of infidelity in his own back yard.

It worked.

I was then extended a weekend invitation to his island compound for me and my valet.
Everything moved along swimmingly well. More of Yabu’s money was spent to outfit me in glorious silks and baubles, and I was actually looking forward to “playing the game� with such a worthy and virile opponent.
What I failed to anticipate was Yabu’s reaction to my response to the mark. This was one of those incidents where Yabu was damned lucky I did not slice him first!

Once at the villa and only after we dined on a sumptuous meal with free flowing wine, did we begin to enjoy one another and the moonlight on a balcony overlooking the sea. My plan was to slip him a Versed-like cocktail, put him to bed, strip him, ruffle his hair and the sheets, and leave him with a note on a pillow and a pair of my panties discreetly tucked under him. The drug would have rendered him awake and pliable, but with no memory of what did or did not occur.

It was then I was going to question him regarding the location of the blade, collect it and Yabu, and be gone, as in leave in the manner in which we came.

Yabu, damn him had other plans.

Before I had the opportunity to administer the mickey, Yabu appeared to confront him and while they were exchanging blows I had no choice but to bean the guy with the butt of my pistola for fear their ruckus would alert servants and guards alike.

Too late, the alarm was sounded and we had to flee and the only available option was the cliff.
As destiny’s fortune would have it, we found the hang glider; however, I suspect Yabu may had had more to do with that than he has admitted. I have always known Yabu to be a Plan B and C guy. For his personality, mutliple optional plans are not just bonuses, but requirements.

While he would cast me as a handmaiden of death, I assert death is only a resort of last means. The Captain was not likely to give us his boat willingly, thus the last option was the only one. Witnessing his fate, the crew members were more easily persuaded to take their chances swimming to the island than staying aboard with me. Fair enough.

It was only after our borrowed boat made it to Morocco did Yabu reveal the blade was his. A few more contacts were made and wallets lined and we left there to enter the city of ancient Byzantium to regroup and allow me to engage my next client.
Impatient as always, Yabu wanted to leave immediately for Bavaria.

Not a woman to be rushed, I introduced him to a seraglio and offered him the opportunity to slake his pleasure there.

Reading the Signs

Whether by physical association prompted by lust and desire or mere proximity due to circumstances alone, there have been occasions in my experience where I have been forced to rely on the presence of one or more men to make a point, complete an assignment or simply save my hide.

While I am very much a woman and, in my own right, an assertive individual, elsewhere in the world my gender alone has tended to preclude all perceptions other than that of weak. There are many cultures and societies in the world where women have no value or status outside of their role as brood mare, nanny, maid or concubine of some man. In those places Western women are rarely regarded as an individual of substance, much less value.

It has been in those places where I have had to rely on the mere presence of a man to sell my cover and aide my ability to move without ripple or suspicion. In those instances, Yabu has been invaluable.

Curiously, Yabu does not blend, despite physical attributes that could lend themselves to different ethnicities. He does not blend in the States because he carries a sense of ageless mysticism that makes white bread Americans uncomfortable. Yet, he most assuredly does not blend outside the States because he carries himself with an unmistakably American swagger of good intention and naiveté.

I have long believed he has been able to go unnoticed because he retains a pure heart that prompts no alarm or suspicion in others, irrespective of how nefarious they may be. Deception has never been his way. While he it may be difficult to read the guile behind his shuttered focus, there is no con within Yabu. A part of me remains amazed he still walks among us, but karma has always smiled favorably on him.

Words are actually the least reliable method of gaining information. Much can be conveyed on a multitude of levels by not only watching someone, but by observing how others respond to that individual.

Each of us has a certain innate and unconscious axis of attention. Some are attuned to sexual impulses while others look for social cues revolving around popularity or acceptance from others.

In my business, the most dangerous to me are those who vigilantly scan their surroundings out of a primary desire for self-preservation. They operate from a position of natural paranoia and require a certain dominion and control over themselves and their surroundings. They are also most likely to perform reconnaissance on an area prior to attending a social event, business meeting or even a romantic rendezvous with a long-time lover. Not surprisiningly, these individuals have difficulty maintaining eye contact with another when speaking due to their constant visual scanning.

One might think this last group of individuals would be easily groomed for my line of work; however, they are ill-suited because the ordinary world naturally presents such a scary place for them, any real or imminent danger renders them unable to function in any semblance of a normal manner. In most situations, it is usually these individuals on whom I must concentrate first. It is only after they are secured, that I can be effective.

Notwithstanding, this group has routinely comprised my unwitting tools. Over the years I have learned to rely on their well-honed skills to ferret out the unusual. Any real sense of alarm from one or more around me alerts me to heighten my own caution and attention.

Channeling another's axis of attention is the soundest form of persuasion because relating to someone on their own frequency is comforting and reassuring to him. When it occurs without thought or design, it is serendipitous and gives both parties the feeling of deja vu, comforting familiarity, and a sense of connection.

By design, it is this intuitive, yet conscious ability that allows one to transform into someone or something other than what he or she is. It is far more effective than any physical disguise or well-rehearsed charlatan. The practice makes a skilled practitioner into something akin to a psychic chameleon.

We all have talents
.
Some are just more apparent than others.

You can drop her off anywhere.

Bwahahahahahah!!!

Consider your ass dropped off.

You can kiss the north end of a duck flying south for all I care.