Chapter 4: The Client

(Author's note: The version of The Kingpin used in this chapter and the later appearance of Daredevil is movieverse. I'm only borrowing, not keeping, and will return all characters to Marvel when done, so don't sue! I have no money anyway!)

                Starlight was closed, the front door locked. Andover took Amy around to the back, yanking her long, ignoring the white cane that dragged uselessly behind her. He pulled her down the hallway to the girls' dressing room, taking her through it to the bathroom and pushing her into the shower. He reached out at random, snagged a bottle of shampoo and a bar of soap, and shoved them into the shower with her. "Take off your clothes," he snapped at her. Amy hesitated a moment, then obeyed. It didn't matter anymore.

If he was shocked at the appearance of the scar tissue running down the side of her body he didn't say anything. He took the clothes she handed him, then came the sound of the shower curtain rings sliding on their bar. Amy felt for the taps, turned the hot water on and waited for it to get warm, then turned on the cold tap and fiddled with the knobs a bit until the temperature was right. She worked the shampoo into her long black hair, enjoying the feel of warm water on her bare skin. Leaving the shampoo in (a lesson she had learned long ago in the prison; she shampooed, then washed the rest of her body, then rinsed her hair; the scent of shampoo would stay in longer, and if she was going to have to go and have sex with a stranger she wasn't going to go smelling like a homeless person.)

                When she finally turned the water off Andover shoved in a towel, which she used to dry herself off. Then he shoved what felt like a handful of elastic at her. She tried to figure out what it was.

                "Oh for God's sake.' Andover yanked it out of her hand. "You'd think you'd never seen a string bikini before."

                "But I haven't," Amy said. "How is this supposed to go on?"

                So he dressed her, and it felt weird to Amy, being dressed by someone else. Almost as bad was what he was putting on; a tiny triangle of fabric covering the front of her crotch, and strings going up the back and around the sides. The bra, too, was similarly skimpy; triangles of fabric over her breasts, with strings tying across her back and up behind her neck. Then a tight little shirt, and finally a miniskirt that left her feeling both clothed and unclothed at the same time. It was a most peculiar feeling. Then Andover brought a pair of shoes for her feet, and guided her feet into them. When he got them on, and Amy stood up, she found herself teetering on the top of five-inch stiletto heels. "I can't walk in these," she protested, but Andover was more worried about his money than in what she could or couldn't do. Amy took a couple of halting steps until she got used to the height and found her balance, then put on her sunglasses and picked up her cane. Andover pushed her down the hall and back out to the car, and she got in awkwardly, tugging at the back of the skirt in a vain attempt to keep it from riding up behind her. Andover slapped her hand away. "Stop it. The customer gave me these clothes for you because he wants you to wear them, and look like a slut. Leave it be." Stunned into silence, Amy sat back uncomfortably as the black Lincoln sped through the streets.

                The trip seemed to stretch on. Amy twisted her fingers nervously. What would she be expected to do? Open her legs for this stranger, certainly. Would he use her mouth, as the guards and inmates at the prison made her do? Would he make her sing for him, or was his interest only in her body? Would he be kind, or would he want to hurt her, make her cry and beg? She was terrified, and tried not to show it as the car went on through the streets to its destination.

                It finally stopped, and Amy almost refused to get out, so great was her terror. Andover sensed her hesitation, and grabbed her arm, dragging her out of the car. "Obey this client," he hissed. "Obey him, instantly and completely. He's roughed up one of the girls before, Rosalie, when she didn't obey him. Not bad, but he did hurt her some. You don't want it to happen to you, obey him completely. Let him do whatever he wants to do. If he's not happy with you, he won't pay the full amount, and it will come out of your share, not mine. I did what I was supposed to do; it's your turn. You do what you're supposed to do." And he pulled Amy up onto a doorstep she couldn't see and stumbled over, and rang the bell.

                There was a whoosh of cool air, welcome in the searing heat of the New York summer, and Andover shoved her forward. "This is the girl Mr. Fisk asked for," he said, and Amy would have turned and run if she could. Mr. Fisk. She'd heard enough about him in the news to know that the thousand he was paying Andover was just chunk change. And she'd also heard he was, unofficially, the 'Kingpin' everyone feared.

                She was commanded to come forward by a cool voice, and she extended her cane out before her and stepped into the house. The door closed, and she reached out blindly, feeling for Mr. Andover. He was not there.

                "He is not here," came the cool voice again; a butler of some sort, she supposed. "Mr. Fisk asked that you be brought up alone. Come with me. You are blind?"

                "Yes," Amy managed through a dry mouth. "I don't wear my glasses during performances, because people like to see my eyes, Mr. Andover said."

                An arm was placed under hers, and she felt the texture of the sleeve. Good fabric, but a lot of starch. She was correct; he was a butler. The man steered her across a wide expanse of floor, then said, "There is a flight of steps in front of us. Can you find the first step?"

                With his help she got up the stairs. At the top he steered her down what seemed to be an unending hallway, before they turned right. Another unending hall. Amy tapped in front of her with the cane, until suddenly her cane encountered a closed door, and the butler leading her stopped. He rapped twice, sharply, on the door. "Mr. Fisk. The girl from the nightclub is here."

                Abruptly the blockage in front of her cane was gone, and Amy took a tentative step forward. The butler led her in a few steps, then a cold voice snapped out, "Stop." Shaking again, Amy stopped. The voice…dear God, that voice. Someone large, almost certainly; and someone who was not happy with her. What had she done? Was she going to be killed now?

                "What is that thing she is holding?" the cold voice came again.

Amy couldn't get a word out, so after a moment the butler spoke for her. "A cane, Sir. She is blind."

                "Blind?" And Amy shook harder, because the anger behind that voice was almost tangible.

                "I am blind, Sir," she found herself saying, in a much calmer tone than she thought she was capable of at the moment. "I am sorry Mr. Andover did not tell you. I don't wear my glasses during performances because he says the customers want to see my face."

                Fisk rose from the padded leather chair he was sitting in and took two swift steps to the girl. He yanked off her glasses, stared for a long time into the wide, unseeing violet eyes. "Pretty," he said. "But blind. Ah, there are always flaws, even in the most precious of jewels, are there not, Harold?"

                Amy heard a slight rustle beside her. The butler had bowed. "Unfortunately, Mr. Fisk."

                The cold voice spoke again. "What is your name, girl?"

                Amy swallowed. "Amethyst."

                "Not your stage name, girl, your given name!" he slapped her.

                Amy lost her balance on those impossible heels and fell to the floor, awakening the pain in her twisted ankle again. Her hand came up to cover the stinging cheek, and her voice shook. "That is my real name. I was born in February, and my eyes were violet, so that's what my parents named me. Everyone calls me Amy, though."

                "Ah." Fisk looked at Amy for a long moment. Amy rubbed her stinging cheek, and started to rise, only to be slapped back down by Fisk. "I didn't tell you to stand."

                Amy went to her knees before the huge man. All right. Now she knew what he wanted. Just like the guards at Mount Haven, he wanted her to grovel, scrape and crawl at his feet. Amy steadied her breathing. She could do that. She would have to. More than four hundred dollars was riding on this; Fisk could kill her in a moment, in a heartbeat. She would never see it coming, and no one would ever miss her except Mama Tali. Maybe. Her life depended on her obedience right now.

                "Harold."

                "Yes, Mr. Fisk?"

                "You may leave us now."

                "Very good, Sir." There was the sound of receding footsteps, and the door closed. Amy was alone with one of the most powerful men in New York City.

*                                                              *                                                              *

                He walked in a circle around the kneeling girl. Contrary to his tone, he was pleased. She had a nice face, a trim, slender figure, and nice eyes. And she appeared to know that her place was at his feet, which was better.

                The only drawback was that she was blind. Fisk loathed blind people, mostly because his worst enemy was one. Daredevil. The red demon was a constant thorn in his side.

                Maybe he would rough this girl up. Leave her as a message for his adversary. He envisioned dumping her bruised, battered body in the middle of Hell's Kitchen as a message for Daredevil. An example. Yes, that would do nicely. But first he would take advantage of this delectable morsel kneeling in front of him. She didn't want to be here, that much was evident in her body language and face. Obviously her employer knew who Mr. Fisk was, and knew the kind of power he held. So he provided a gift meant to appease the big man.

                Fisk stopped pacing and walked in front of her. Her hair hung long down her back; he grabbed a handful of it, breathed the fragrance of roses in its strands, then pulled her up from where she had been sitting on her heels. "Get over here in the corner," and he dragged her into the far corner of his office. She knelt again once he had her where he wanted her without being told to.

                He was satisfied, and sat back down in his chair. Picking up a piece of paperwork, he said to her, "Sit back on your heels." He knew her legs were going to be cramping badly in that position, and her knees must be hurting, ground into the hard, unyielding black marble of the floor in his office, but he didn't care. She obeyed, despite the pain she must be in. "Sing for me. Anything you like." She was quiet for a moment, but as he was about to go over and slap her, she opened her mouth and began to sing. He listened absently as he resumed what he was doing. She had a good voice, though it was untrained. She sang on-key, her voice sweet and low. He tuned her out while he finished his business.

                When he looked back up at her an hour later, she was still singing, though her voice shook a little more than before. He glanced idly at the wall clock; she had been singing almost an hour; her throat was surely going hoarse. He smiled inwardly; he would not allow her to stop until her voice was completely gone, then he would punish her.

                It took another half-hour before her voice broke the first time. It broke again ten minutes later; her throat was raw, and the pain in her cramped legs would distract her more. At the end of the second hour her voice gave out.

                He looked up as she stopped. Her eyes looked sightlessly back at him. They were wide with panic; her throat was working, but no sound was coming out. Fisk grinned. At the club she sang for fifteen minutes and then had a five-minute break to drink and refresh her parched throat. He had given her no such break. Not even the best opera singer would have been able to do much better.

                "I did not tell you to stop." His voice rolled through the large room, full of soft thunder.

                Amy was terrified. She couldn't help it; she tried to tell him that, but her vocal cords refused to produce any more sound, and her words died in her throat. She could only shake, terrified, as she heard him get up from his desk and walk over to where she was kneeling on legs gone numb long ago.

                He grabbed her hair and hauled her up. Circulation began to return to her cramped legs, and the pain made her squeak.

                "So. You can still make a noise. But you make it for yourself, and not for me. Let me see if I can make you provide me with more music. The music of your pain." He dragged her upright, to stand on legs tingling with returning circulation, and slapped her hard. She crumpled, and he grabbed her hair, hauled her up, and slapped her again. She struggled back to her feet, shaking, and presented her cheek for the next blow. Up, slap, down. Up, slap, down. He knew her face was going to bruise terribly, and didn't care.

                He dropped her finally, and she went to her knees in front of his desk again, tears streaming down her face. He hadn't managed to get any sound out of her, though he had struck her as brutally as he could. He looked at her, crying silently, and yanked her head back until her mouth opened.

                When he was done with her he stepped back and looked at her. Her hands gripped the top of the desk, the knuckles white. Her back was to him, the muscles under her skin rippling as she tried to control her pain.

                Fisk grabbed the thin shirt and started to yank on it. It was almost torn before she managed to wiggle out of the rest of it. He tossed it carelessly aside, then ripped off the little string bikini top, leaving her back bare. Her hands started to come up to cover her exposed chest, but Fisk grabbed her wrist and slapped them back to the upper edge of the desk. "Keep them there, or else," he snarled. The threat was sufficient, and the thin fingers grabbed the edge of the desk. She couldn't see him, of course; it was a pity, since he would have like to see a terrified look in her eyes as he pulled the long belt out of his pants.

*                                                              *                                                              *

                Amy didn't know how long she held onto the edge of that desk while the…strap? belt?…pounded the tight, straining muscles of her back and shoulders. She wanted so much to scream, to beg, but her raw throat would not produce any sound but squeaks as livid black, red, purple, and yellow bruises rose on her pale skin. She only found comfort in the fact that the blows that fell on the pale scar tissue on the side of her body didn't hurt as much; probably because the nerves were covered with the layer of scar tissue. He didn't remark on the scar tissue until the blows stopped coming.

                "Put your hands down," came the command, and Amy dropped her hands. It wasn't as bad as the worst beatings she'd received in prison, but it was bad enough to a body that had forgotten what those beatings felt like. She curled up in a ball on the floor, sobbing silently, hugging herself as her back stung and burned. It took a long moment before she realized he'd just asked her a question.

                Something cold and wet splashed into her face, and she turned her head toward it as the cold water trickled into her mouth. She gulped it thirstily, feeling the coolness ease the raw burning of her throat, and thanked God silently that he was pouring it slowly enough that she could drink. He even paused in his pouring to allow her to swallow.

                When the pitcher was empty he put it down carelessly on a small table off to the side of his office and returned to her where she crouched by his desk, gasping. He waited for a good ten minutes until she had regained her voice before he asked her the question she had not been able to hear or answer.

                "What happened to you?"

                Amy took a deep breath. "A car accident, a long time ago, sir," she said carefully, trying to steady her voice. "My grandfather died. I was trapped in the flaming car long enough for the fire to burn me."

                A finger touched the edge of the large scar on her back, and she bit back a scream as it hit a particularly bad bruise. "Please," the word slipped out before she could stop it.

                Fisk had heard a lot of people begging him over the years, usually right before he killed them. He ignored all of them, as a matter of course. But for some reason this soft, half-articulated plea for mercy stopped him, and he withdrew his finger.

                He stood looking at the crumpled figure in front of his desk. He'd never had a girl like this before in this office. Most of the girls brought in here were either groveling abjectly at his feet by now (something that irritated him no end; he usually killed them just because of that) or were still defiant after the beating (he would kill them for that, too.) But this one accepted her position at his feet yet still kept her dignity. As if, somehow, she knew he could hurt her body but he couldn't touch her soul. It intrigued him.

                He changed his plans. She had no one, according to his sources. No one would care about her. He could do whatever he liked to her. Her employer, desperate to stay on Fisk's good side, would, for a suitable fee, save her for him alone. He would make the arrangements. And when he finally tired of her and broke her down to the abject, groveling creature he knew lurked somewhere at the other side of a broken spirit, he would kill her then, and enjoy it.

                But not today. He would let her go today. He picked up her shirt and threw it at her. "Put your clothes back on." She pulled the shirt back on, tugging it carefully over her welted, bruised shoulders, and waited for other instructions.

                Fisk rang for Harold, and the man appeared several seconds later. "Escort this girl out," he said. "There is no need to eliminate her; she has nobody. No one will care about her. I shall make arrangements with Mr. Andover to have her reserved for my private use. Show her to the front gate."

                "Very good, shall I call a cab?" the man's voice lifted at the end, and though Amy couldn't see it, he was picking up her dark glasses and cane.

                "She can find her way home. It will be better for her to learn how to get here on her own from wherever she lives, because I will require her presence here often." Fisk turned his back on Amy and Harold, facing the window in an obvious dismissal. Harold took Amy's arm and pushed her glasses and cane into her hand, then guided her out of the office and out to the front door.

                The heat hit her like a wave as she was pushed unceremoniously out the front door. Harold strode to the end of the drive, opened the gate, and pushed her out of it, then closed the gate and hurried back to the air-conditioned house without a backward glance.

                Amy was sweating before she had gotten even a short way down the walk. The sweat stung the welts on her back, and she was so tired it was a struggle to continue. The water she had been made to drink had begun to make its way through her body, and she was desperate to find a bathroom. With her cane tapping, she made her way down the walk, listening for the sound of voices. Maybe someone could tell her how to get back to Starlight. Once she was there she could find her way home. She was thankful that this was her night off, though; she couldn't perform with her body in as much pain as it was in now.