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  Bound by Debt

  Ruth Freund

  Copyright © 2020 Ruth Freund. All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

  Bound by Debt was recently (2018) published in Israel in Hebrew by “Mendele publishers”. The Hebrew manuscript was edited by Amnon Jackont who is currently editing Freund’s fourth book.

  Translation from Hebrew by: Tal Golan

  Edited by Julie MacKenzie - Free Range Editorial

  Contact: [email protected]

  Facebook: Ruth Tutla Freund

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 1

  It’s a murky New York evening, and I’m standing in front of the Eretz Yeshurun synagogue. I hold my breath for a long moment, unwilling to accept what I see. On the iron gate, nearly lost in a carpet of bulletins, I read the chilling notice once more.

  The saintly scholar Yeruham Mendel Dorfman, May the Lord Avenge his Death, dearest husband, beloved father, has met with an untimely death. Deeply mourned by his wife, Faige, and sons Shlomo, Aryeh, and Shmuel.

  In the grip of shock, I read the notice a third time, and only then do I pay attention to the phrase “May the Lord Avenge his Death.” My cousin Avishai was killed by terrorists in the Israeli settlement near Hebron where he lived. His death notice carried the same pledge after his name. It meant that someone would revenge his blood sooner or later.

  Dorfman didn’t die. He was murdered.

  Last night after the massage Dorfman left by the fire escape. How did I not pay attention to what was bothering him? Deep regret washes over me then sinks to settle at the bottom of my heart. Recalling his visit, I realize he had good reason to be worried. My mind swirls with understanding and in dismay. Is Yeruham Mendel Dorfman really no more? My Dorfi? But the answer is right there in front of me. There can be only one Yeruham Mendel Dorfman, father of Shlomo, Aryeh, and Shmuel. There’s no mistake. The funeral took place this afternoon. How did this happen? My lips move silently as I reread the obituary’s black letters and whisper his name.

  I move away. Trudging up the sidewalk as if in a trance, a wave of agony rises up my throat, my thoughts collide. Gulps of August haze invade my lungs. Heat. It is hot and stuffy in this city. I keep on walking.

  On a dreary street in Greenwich Village, not a long walk from the synagogue, I throw a wary glimpse over my shoulder then reach for the brass lion knocker on the front door of The Love Palace, my current work place. I knock in code, two rapid knocks, a brief pause, and then a short knock. I wait.

  Tony cautiously cracks open the door, gives me a hasty once-over, then swings the door wider. “Iris, darling.” Tony broadens his forced smile and quickly turns his back on me. “You’re early this evening. What happened? Did they close the mall?” He strides over to his seat behind the reception desk, leaving behind a trail of sweet shaving cream aroma.

  I slam the metal door behind me, still in shock. “Did you hear what happened to Dorfman?”

  “We heard. Of course we heard,” Tony says, unconcerned. “Those Jews would sell their mothers for a few dollars. They kill each other then go to pray in the synagogue. The man died, killed like a dog. His friends from the Jewish mafia of Forty-seventh Street vacuumed him up.”

  Dorfman was a sophisticated merchant connected to the diamond trade. Forty-seventh Street is the diamond center of New York, perhaps even the world, that much I know, but the mafia? I’ve never heard anything about the mafia. What’s with Dorfman and the mafia? An innocent Haredi, an ultra-Orthodox man like him? “May the Lord Avenge his Death”? I don’t think so. It seems the one to avenge his death is not going to be the good Lord of the Jews or the God of the gentiles, but someone from this same Jewish mafia that I am hearing about only now. A chill creeps up my spine.

  At the main lounge, the hustle is at its peak. In the center of the room, Jacqueline, the Palace’s high priestess, is leisurely reclining in the double love seat reserved exclusively for her. She crosses the delicate ankles of her never-ending legs sheathed in their lace stockings, and blows smoke rings. The snake tattooed on her left arm quivers when she taps her ashes into the ashtray balanced on her belly. Beside her on a low glass table, a vase of roses spreading their strong scent to mix with the cigarette smoke. Around Jacqueline, on couches arranged in a semicircle, are some dozen hostesses in various poses. A few are engaged in conversation with each other, while the rest chat up customers. Orange light shines from the floor lamps in the lounge corners. Crystal chandeliers suspended from the ceiling send shimmering golden firebirds into the air, filling the room with tender light. Soft music plays in the background interrupted periodically by shrieks of passion.

  Black Trina writhes on the lap of a bald young man, whispering sweetly in his ear. Angel Face sends me a sullen look as I pass by. Tiny Fanny, exposing her thighs by crossing one leg over the other, jiggles her platform shoes while examining her nails, indifferent to my existence. Eileen, a fleshy, well-endowed blonde in a tight miniskirt, inhales deeply from the cigarette dangling from her lips. Her eyes dart around as she whispers into Yvette’s ear. I move towards my usual place at the edge of the couch. From the broken snatches of conversation that crosses my ears, I realize it’s business as usual. Other than Tony, no one has heard about Dorfman’s death, or if they have, no one cares.

  Wrapped in my thoughts, I lean back in my seat beside Giselle.

  “Did you hear about Dorfman?” I ask, my lips close to her ear.

  “Who?”

  “Dorfman. You know, my regular Haredi Jewish customer who visits me three times a week,” I whisper, as if revealing a military secret.

  Giselle, a large woman in a floral silk dress that emphasizes her immense hips, looks up at me with flaring nostrils. “The one with the hat and the side-locks?”

  “Yes, him. On the way here, I saw a death notice with his name on the gate of the synagogue. I was with him yesterday, and today he is dead. What a loss. He was a g
ood man.” I scan Giselle’s profile to make sure she’s listening. “A real gentleman, not one of them brutal ones. We always used to talk. Sometimes, believe it or not, he wasn’t in the mood for screwing and was only interested in conversation. Sometimes he just wanted a massage. From time to time when he asked, I would go down on him; it was easy, he used to come very quickly. Unlike the rest of my customers, he didn’t leave immediately after ejaculating. He always stayed on for a talk.”

  “The Jewish guy with the beard who walks around in a long black coat in summer?” Giselle looks at me in astonishment.

  “Yes, him. Such a dear person. Always made sure we used every moment of our time together. Following sex, there was chitchat. He liked talking to me about life as a Jew in the gentile world. At times he would get some white stuff out of his wallet and let me sniff it. He was really interested in me and used to tell me all about himself, his job, and his family. What a pity he died. He always left me with a few hundred-dollar bills, saying, ‘Keep it for your daughter’s education.’” I sigh.

  “So he’s gone. There’ll be someone else,” Giselle says. Apparently bored with the topic, she extracts a compact from her leather purse, examines her reflection in the mirror, dips the little pad into the powder, and dabs it lightly onto her nose.

  “Tony says Dorfman was connected with some Jewish mafia, and his friends in the diamond district wiped him out. I don’t buy that. Dorfman was a decent man and wasn’t part of any mafia” I keep on sharing my thoughts close to her ear.

  “Tell me, Iris.” Giselle flutters her eyelashes. “How long have you been working here? Don’t you get who Tony is? He’s one of them. A mafioso from the day he popped out of his mother’s pussy. Him and all them gorillas watching over us at the entrance. Fucking mafia bastards, one and all.”

  “But Tony is Italian. The Jews don’t have a mafia, especially not Haredi Jews!”

  “Is that so? Who do you think finances all the Israelis who bring in drugs? Who do you think moves their money around all over the world? I once had a Haredi Jewish customer who collected money for synagogues in Jerusalem. Everyone knew you could give him money in New York for a note worth eighty percent of that sum to be cashed in any synagogue in the world. A gang of Italians robbed him and murdered him so he wouldn’t identify them. The Jews have a mafia just like the Italians, but the Jews are clever, they make sure not to get their hands dirty. The Israelis do their dirty work for them.” Giselle’s dangling earrings bump against her neck as she talks.

  Deep in thought, I cross one leg over the other, aware of my miniskirt riding up to expose my thighs. “Yesterday, after the massage, Dorfman didn’t want sex. I knew something was bothering him. He didn’t even want me to go down on him, and then he left by the fire escape,” I whisper irritably into Giselle’s ear.

  Giselle is not listening anymore. I pick at my nails and sigh in frustration.

  Chapter 2

  An elderly man approaches the high priestess with a bouquet of tulips, a hopeful grin spread across his face. A whisper, a nod, a false grin, and Jacqueline’s index finger points at Trina, indicating she should rise. Within minutes, the elderly man and the black hostess proceed towards the dark corridor. Trina’s thong is clearly visible through her transparent leopard-spotted skirt as she moves.

  Two middle-aged gentlemen enter. One wears a black suit, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses looking like two black patches. The younger has his hands stuffed into jeans so tight they threaten to explode with every breath. They stand in the doorway suspiciously examining the array of women seated in the lounge. The two exchange brief sentences then turn around and approach Tony’s counter to pay. Across from me, two senior hostesses sit on the lap of a portly client, caressing his face and giggling. Their bracelets jangle on their fleshy arms as they move. At the bar, a slant-eyed customer gulps down his beer. Already a little drunk, he tips the glass too far, and the golden liquid spills down his open shirt. Kim, in a leotard with a deep V that reaches down to her belly button grabs a paper napkin and rushes to wipe his chest.

  Outside, night has not yet fallen. Following a quick glance at the clock, I realize that Tony was right. I was early this evening. It’s only six, however the lounge is already busy.

  Trying to sort out the turmoil in my mind, I collect pieces of information that might explain the demise of my loving and most generous client. I open my purse, pull out a small mirror, and examine my face. With a swipe of a finger I correct lipstick marks. I rub my lower lip against the upper and notice my hands are trembling. What’s going on with me? Fear grips my throat as I tighten my fingers around the mirror in an attempt to stabilize it.

  From the corner of my eye I notice the German accountant, red-faced and ugly, standing in the doorway. He peers around carefully, his gaze wandering back and forth over the girls. The German, a repulsive regular customer who usually asks for me, is notorious amongst us prostitutes for imposing perverse requests appreciated by very stingy tips. Yes, it is definite now, the weirdo is looking for me. I am the merchandise. I curl up in my corner hoping he won’t notice me, but to no avail. He spots me in a second and whispers something in Jacqueline’s ear. The high priestess nonchalantly nods, her double chin vibrating over her enormous bosom. The deal is closed. After payment at the front desk, the obese German heaves his vast body back to the lounge. He grabs my arm in a vulgar gesture, lifts me up and leads me to the love rooms. Abiding by Jacqueline’s room allocation, we enter room 11.

  “What the fuck are you waiting for? Bed linens do not know they need to jump alone and be covering the bed,” my disgusting customer grumbles in poor English with a horrible squeaky German accent.

  I shrug, stifling my response. Something prickly spirals up my throat as I remember my vow to myself not to obey orders that are issued in such a condescending manner, and certainly not from the mouth of a German. I hesitate for a moment and weigh my options. On the one hand, I loathe the idea of spending another moment with this foul creature. On the other, I need the money. Greed wins.

  I plaster on a smile but cannot resist a parting shot. “This isn’t the Gestapo here, you know.” I yank my arm free from his rough embrace.

  His Nazi eyes, flaming with contempt, terrify me, while his mouth twists into an ugly sneer. ‘“Making the bed is included in the fee. You should thank me very much for not taking a shower and asking you to wipe me, and thank me more for not asking you to clean up. That is also included in the fee, but I’ll pass on that because I only have twenty minutes to waste for you.”

  I bite back my retort and remain in control, suppressing my anger to avoid what would become a loud argument, I command myself: Release, Iris, just let go. The German monkey with the Prussian temper is simply looking for an excuse to butt heads. They are all Nazi sons of bitches. Ignore the debate, finish with him quickly, and stash the payment in your wallet.

  Try as I might, I can’t resist a comment.

  “On the contrary. If you want to talk about cleanliness, I shower after each customer and would be grateful if you would also take the time to get yourself cleaned up before we do the business.”

  “Even street prostitutes are more hospitable than you.” His blood flashed face contorts as his anger rises.

  “The last thing I want is to fight with you.” I give in, pull the velvet bedspread back, and focus on the sheets, smoothing and tightening them around the mattress, constantly aware of his piercing eyes.

  “I’d like to explore your body,” he mutters. Standing naked in his socks on the orange carpet, he pats my back then grabs my buttocks. “A real investigation. Every centimeter, every corner, every cell in your body. You and the body are puzzle to me, I have to solve the puzzle,” he declares, stupefied with lust, unaware of the repulsive saliva gathering in the corners of his mouth.

  I pull myself aggressively from his grip, trying to postpone the act. “Let’s not get carried away!” I
say, revolted by his devouring lust. I retreat further.

  Beads of perspiration form on his upper lip. He pulls me to him, searching out my lips.

  I cover my mouth. “What’s the matter with you?” I ask, jerking back my head. “We hostesses, as you may remember, are very strict about the two golden rules! No mouth kissing, and no fucking without a condom.”

  The German, who knows the rules as well as I do, moves his attention from my lips and focuses on my neck, taking his time in a long, irritating, wet kiss. Then, overwhelmed with desire, he tugs me towards the bed, and we collapse on the spongy mattress.

  “Tie me up!” he commands, reaching for the pink fur handcuffs attached to the bed frame.

  I move to obey his request, handcuffing his rough hands to the iron bar. Taking a closer look at his face, I am repelled by his big, almost crimson nose threaded with bluish veins, looming like a potato that has sprouted in the middle of a dusty field. His withered flesh reminds me of shed snakeskin. His chest heaves as I attend to his penis, the cries that issue from his mouth alternate between pleasure and suffering.

  “Harder. Not with teeth, with a lot of saliva,” he begs like a bleeding ox that has just been stabbed in the ribs.

  His erect penis is thin, slightly bent, and sticking up sideways. Keep it up, I urge myself, he’ll be done in minute. Go on, once and again. Suck and rest, and again two, three, four, suck, up and down, I try to maintain a constant rhythm, gripping his prick as I would hold a hose.

  “Now let go,” he orders, trying to delay ejaculation.

  “Yes, sir.” I rush to undo his bindings.

  He pulls my hair with his free hand. His pink body gyrates with ardor as he tries to roll over. The smell of sweat fills the air. His aggression repulses me, and I find it hard to cooperate. If he only had a bit of manners like my Jewish clients... My thoughts drift to Dorfman. How did I not notice the fear in his eyes? Why wasn’t I alarmed when he asked to leave by the fire escape? Dorfman was a believer. Could he have had a dark attraction to sin? Jewish mafia? I’ve never heard of such an organization. My thoughts swirl as the German’s red eyes stare at me.