Prologue

 

The Eunuch backed the van up to the customs shed at the Aeropuerto Internacional de Pekín situated some twenty miles northeast of the City of Beijing. He had all the necessary paperwork and his documentation was in order.

The customs official quickly shuffled through the stack of pages- he stamped and then signed. With a certain sense of relief, the official gave the order and the casket was rolled out.

The paperwork that had arrived with the consignment indicated the deceased was a Chinese National, female, eighty-six years of age. The customs official had her passport and a death certificate indicating that Mrs Li-Meng Yan had succumb to a stroke while visiting in America. The coffin had been x-rayed and its contents verified.

The customs official didn't have the stomach to lift the lid to confirm that Mrs Li-Meng Yan, was indeed, occupying the heavily lacquered box.

If he had realized the true contents of the casket, he might not have been so squeamish.

The coffin, officially cleared in, was wheeled to the van, bullied between the rear doors and once secured, the Eunuch started the engine and sped back to the Beijing Financial District.

Mrs Wong was waiting.

The coffin was placed on a stainless steel gurney and wheeled into Mrs Wong's dressing room where she sat sipping her breakfast tea. She was coy: "My, what do we have here?"

"From America." The Eunuch bowed from the waist. "I trust everything will be satisfactory."

Mrs Wong nodded. "Open it."

The Eunuch produced a key which he twisted in the lock. There was the snap of a well oiled latch and he lifted the lid. Mrs Wong leaned forward to see.

The teenage girl was a naked blonde with perky breasts and long slender legs. She was Caucasian- and perfect in every other detail as well.

"Oh my," Mrs Wong sighed. "She'll be worth a fortune."

The Eunuch plucked the tag from the girl's toe. "Welcome, Miss Cameron Rice. Welcome to China.

 

Chapter One

 

"So how's about showing me the goodie-box, doll?"

God. So this is what it has come down to...

Debbie had already stepped around the end of Holy-Joe Priestly's scarred metal desk so he could see her legs. Appraise them, is what he had called it. But looking down, she noticed he didn't seem inclined to cover up the erection that was sprouting below the belly-roll drooping from his belt. Nor was he shy about the dime-sized wet spot slowly spreading in the polyester weave at the front of his suit-trousers. If anything, he was proud. For Holy-Joe, Appraising, she had to assume, was a two-way street.

Debbie was aware of the heat rising in her chest and glanced away. The walls of his cramped back-alley office located in New York's Lower East Side, were adorned with the photos of other hopeful girls who had, presumably, let Holy-Joe have a look at their goodie-box. Might even have allowed him to have a bit of a feel around down there as well.

Holy-Joe exhaled noisily. "I got a photographer doin' a shoot tomorrow, doll. It's underwear stuff, yuh know, but he pays good. I could send your head-shots over this afternoon. I know he'd be interested."

Holy-Joe knew of a skin magazine up in the Bronx whose Editor would also be interested. The guy would pay a quick grand for a few nudies of the tall blonde who stood by Holy-Joe's knee. And once Holy-Joe and his photographer buddy got her down to her underwear, it would be a heartbeat-away before they got Debbie stripped the rest of the way down.

A drink or two would help, or maybe they'd snort a line together, whatever... A twenty-five dollar investment on his part would pay big dividends. He had done it tons of times before with other disparaging young chickies. And hell, a chance to see the skinny broad, bare-assed naked, was just icing on the cake, plus there'd be some photographs of her to pass around to his drinking buddies at The Zanzibar.

He looked up hopefully. "But I'll need you to sign an agent's contract, first," he concluded. "And a model's release."

Debbie felt the ridge of fabric under her slim fingers where the hemline of her dress crossed the skin of her thigh. After three unsuccessful weeks, job hunting in New York, Debbie needed cash and all she had to do was lift her dress and let him pull down her pants. But she wasn't fooled by his offer of an underwear photo-shoot.

She was still a teenager but had been approached enough times to know: Students from the photography department at the local college offering free head-shots in return for some private time in the studio. Or the guy in the suit assailing her under the false pretense of working for an ad agency and telling her she was the hottest property since Josephine Skriver walked the runway for Victoria's Secret. Even a couple of her dad's friends had asked if she would like to earn some extra money. But in the end, the men all wanted the same thing- to wangle her out of her under-panties. And for some reason, they figured because she had her sites set on a modeling career, she'd be a cushy target- could easily be persuaded.

So Debbie knew exactly what an underwear shoot would lead to, and what Holy-Joe planned to do with the photographs afterward. Her only reward? To have her photo join the others on his bragging-wall and, if she was so lucky, maybe a check for a couple of hundred bucks would find its way into her wallet at the end of the day.

She thought of the money she owed on the flee-bitten dive she had been sharing with Mattie.

"Look doll," he droned on, still flipping over her sample photographs one by one, "I'll be honest with yuh. Photographs are mundane; I can't make any cash selling your damned still shots. And runway work is in short supply- practically fuckin' nonexistent, especially for a beginner. If you want to break into the business, porn flicks is where it's at these days. Vids for the internet. You're kinda skinny but some guys like that shit. I could probably get you a grand for a movie gig. A couple of grand if you do anal. Take about half a day to shoot and you'd get cash into your fist before you walk out the door. What'dyah say to that, doll?"

He was throwing out the bait but Debbie hesitated. Anal...

The fat man licked his lips. "You need the money, huh?"

Debbie nodded.

"Yeah, I see it all the time. Good looking gals like you, they come to the City, thinking they're sumpting special: sumpting hot! Think it will be easy. And end up here. Sellin' the goodie-box. You wearin' panties, doll..."

Debbie nodded her head, yes. "Does it matter?"

He tossed her photos back into the portfolio case. "Guess not. Just most of the girls that come by here don't bother, that's all."

Debbie felt a stir in her gut. She really did needed the money. "A movie? What kind of movie, Mr Priestly?" she asked, her voice ringing innocent in the stark office space.

"Joe. Call me Holy-Joe." And he rocked back in his office chair and tried to imagine how she would look standing next to his desk, without her clothes on. Debbie stood close to six-feet, was railroad-skinny, but she was pretty- a short-haired blonde with eyes as large as silver dollars. Her tits would be conical points, he decided, with small raspberries for nipples. And her pussy would be a tight nut- an innocent curlicue, hardly worked in at all. Or maybe not at all...

His anus pinched.

"I gotta script right here," he said smoothly, lifting a thin bundle of papers held together with a staple. "You can have a look if you want, but lift your dress up first, would yuh? I need to see a little skin."

Debbie tried to steady herself. After sending her sample photographs to every modeling agency in New York City and speaking with any talent coordinator that would spare her the time, she had come up broke and unemployed and spent her last few dollars on subway fare. It had been a dismal three weeks, crushing to her spirit and to her ego, but crying into a pillow at night wasn't helping any. She need airfare back to Nebraska. She just wanted to be home.

"My legs?"

"Sure doll. You shy or sumpting?"

Debbie thought of waking up in the morning in her own bed with the sound of her mother bustling in the kitchen. Her heart ached. Maybe making a movie wouldn't be so bad, she thought hopefully. Could be it was something artistic, maybe, where she would just have to pose to the sound of soft classical music. Pose in the nude?

Her face tightened. Debbie set her bag on the corner of the man's desk and took a step back. Her fingers began to tremble as she curled them into the hemline. "L-like this?" she stammered, and searching for something that resembled control in her voice, Debbie lifted the front of her tiny sun dress.

The guy greedily leaned forward, his double chins moving. "C'mon. Higher. Let me see the spot where your panties are bunched into your pussy-rolls for christ-sake. What are yuh- an amateur?"

Debbie fought down the lump throbbing in her throat and lifted her dress a little further, until the hem was even with her hips and he could see where her bikini briefs narrowed. "P-please..."

 

Chapter Two

 

Ever since a much younger Debbie Langford had cracked a copy of Glamour Magazine, there had been no doubt in her mind what she wanted out of life. She was mesmerized by the photos of the tall, thin women moving like sailing ships. The clothes, the shoes, the popping flash bulbs, the magazine journalists and looks of envy from those in the audience. And Debbie relished the internet videos of the stunning supermodels from Paris and Milan.

While other girls her age read romance novels, Debbie was engrossed in the biographies of Naomi Campbell, Cindy Crawford, Linda Evangelista and Christy Turlington. And tapping Google Maps, Debbie even knew where she would live in Milan when the time came.

When she was old enough, her mother had helped by paying a photographer who took the head and figure-shots that went into the portfolio book that Debbie lovingly arranged and rearranged while sitting cross-legged on her bed.

Debbie shared her dreams of working for a large fashion agency in New York with Mattie, her lifelong school-friend. Mattie had the same aspirations and when she talked about traveling to the City, Debbie had been enthralled.

Apart from time in school, Debbie started working every spare hour at the corner Seven-Eleven until she could pay for a one-way bus ticket. There was never any doubt in either of the girls' minds that they would immediately be picked up by one of the major agencies and returning to Nebraska would be relegated to Thanksgiving Weekends and Christmastime. And that the Greyhound bus would be replaced by a Boeing, first class flight.

 

"But I had an appointment," Debbie complained to the woman behind the desk at the William Morris Agency when the Talent Coordinator didn't even show up for her interview.

The woman had looked down a long narrow nose where half-rimmed glasses were perched, anchored on either side be a glimmering silver chain. "Well she's very busy," the woman said without apology. "I can perhaps slot you in for next Thursday, four-thirty, but you'll have to be quick. She leaves the office promptly at five o'clock- Sharp, you understand." The silver chain shimmered.

Debbie didn't do much better at her next interview.

All her life Debbie had been called Giraffe, Big Bird, Dandy-Long-Legs, or Stretch and at five-foot ten, the nicknames seemed justified. But the talent coordinator at the Fenton Agency took one look at Debbie and declared, "You're too damned short!"

Debbie was flabbergasted. "W-what?"

"You've wasted my time," the woman wagged a finger in Debbie's face "You didn't read our Agency's Acceptance Policy. We don't even consider new recruits that stand less than six-foot in their stocking feet."

Debbie was incredulous. "I'm two inches too short?"

"My- my," the woman rocked back on her heels, "maybe you could apply for a job in the accounting department."

Debbie retreated to the reception area, dropped her portfolio case to the floor and, slumping into a chair, she pulled a tissue from her bag. Her sniffling attracted the attention of a glamorous receptionist and by the look of disdain on the girl's face, Debbie knew she wasn't the first hopeful to break down in tears after being refused, hands down, for a try-out. Debbie quickly turned her face away and wiped her nose.

"My. Who do we have here? A mistress in distress?"

Debbie tried furiously to blink away the tears but it was a hopeless proposition and she resigned herself to looking up, the tissue pressed to a corner of an eye.

"Oh sugar, whatever is the matter?" And he dropped a huge shoulder bag to the floor and slipped into the seat beside her's.

"I- I didn't get even get a chance at the job..." And the tears started again, welling up and coursing down her cheeks.

"Sugar, there'll be other jobs. Trust me. And frankly, you don't want to work for these people anyway."

Debbie choked back a sob. "Anyway..." She tried to study his face, clouded as it was in a misty veil. He was cute. Blond, soft waves of corn-silk. A coy smile. Sculpted features. And so terribly gay. But despite herself, she had to return his smile. He had such kind eyes.

He nodded. "Not the nicest people in town." He shot a dirty look at the receptionist.

"But you work here?"

"Only on assignment. That's different."

Debbie looked down at his large shoulder bag with questions in her eyes.

His lips parted and she noticed how beautiful his teeth were. "Makeup," he said. "I'm a freelance makeup artist and work where ever they'll have me."

Debbie looked at the mascara smudges on her tissue. "I think I could use your services."

He laughed then and Debbie was so glad it wasn't a giggle.

He reached for her hand and suddenly things didn't seem so bad. "I'm Ricky. Ricky Valentine."

Debbie couldn't help herself. She smirked.

He faked shock. "Why, whatever is the matter with Ricky?"

Debbie gave him a pained look. "I'm Debbie, from Nebraska. And so, who should I work for- the nice people, I mean?"

"Oh. There are no nice people in New York City, sugar. Only some aren't as awful as the others. I prefer the movie folks myself. They're fun to be around. And live stage as well. I work over at Parson's from time to time, doing up the dancers."

"Parson's?"

"Mmm. Parson's Academy for the Arts. You must have heard of Parson's."

"Oh my God. I know someone who works at Parson's, or at least I think she does. She was a friend of my mother's, years ago."

His eyes lifted. "Who?"

"Her name is Jill Spencer. And she was a dancer."

"Miss Spencer? You kiddin' me?" And he let go of her hand to clasp the side of his face. "Jill Spencer is not a dancer, sugar. She's the queen bee."

"So she works there then? You know her?"

"Oh yeah, well I mean I've met her- on occasion. And she doesn't work for Parson's. Not in the traditional sense. She has her own dance studio down in Washington. And only the crème de la crème of Broadway are granted admittance to the queen bee's nest."

"She teaches?"

"Oh no, no, no- an instructor, sugar. Miss Spencer is a Dance Instructor and comes to New York a couple of times a year to audition the best dancers Parson's has on its roster. And those dancers are the best in the world. She picks a handful and flies them to Washington for private, one-on-one instruction. Having the privilege of nesting under Jill Spencer's wing is the fast track to a Broadway center stage. I know girls who would kill to have Tutelage at the Spencer Academy on their card. Want me to touch you up?"

"W- what?"

"Not you. Your make-up, dopey. You're not my type, if you hadn't noticed."

Debbie wasn't sure if she should feel disappointed. "Oh. How bad is it?"

"About five minutes worth." And he reached to open his bag.

Debbie closed her eyes and, while he wiped her eyelids and cheeks with a moisture pad, she tried to recall her mother's best friend.

Jill Spencer couldn't help with her modeling career, Debbie understood that, but having a solid contact in New York City, someone active and respected in the entertainment business would be enviable, if not useful. Maybe Jill Spencer knew people; maybe she could pull a few strings. Anyway it was an opportunity that had landed in her lap and Debbie was determined to take advantage of it.

Ricky was working with an eyebrow pencil. "How long you been in New York, sugar?"

"Me and Mattie arrived about three weeks ago. Been pounding the pavement ever since."

"Mattie?"

"Yeah. My best friend, Mattie. She's a knockout and I figured she'd get signed-up right away. But it hasn't happened, not yet."

Ricky switched to eye shadow. "She's pretty? Prettier than you, even?"

"She's dark and sultry somehow, and always attracts more attention than me." Debbie shifted in her chair and tilted her chin up.

"E-mail me your head-shots if you want. I can show them around. You never know, right?"

"You'd do that?"

"Why not..."

"Can I ask a really big favor?"

"Try me."

"If I wanted to reach Jill Spencer, you know, just to be remembered to her. Do you have a number I can call?"

"Oh God," he finished up with a make-up brush on her cheek, "that's an easy one. I got a Parson's business card right here in my bag. Just ask for the Dance Department." He thought a moment. "You wanna hangout sometime?"

She felt his gaze on her face. "But you're..."

"Hey, I might be queer but that doesn't mean I can't appreciate a pretty girl. And besides, I like you."

Debbie had to smile. "You know? I like you too. Call me sometime and you can show me around town."

He laughed. "I'll show you off, around town, sugar."