The Millionaires' Death Club Read online

  The Millionaires’ Death Club

  by

  Mike Hockney

  Published by Hyperreality Books

  Copyright © Mike Hockney 2010

  The right of Mike Hockney to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

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  “The trouble with the rat-race is that even if you win, you’re still a rat.” -- Lily Tomlin

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  The Millionaires’ Death Club

  Chapter 1: The Invitation

  Chapter 2: Synchronised Drowning

  Chapter 3: Conning the Conmen

  Chapter 4: The Debit Side

  Chapter 5: Stick ‘Em Up

  Chapter 6: Finding the Devil

  Chapter 7: The Silent Treatment

  Chapter 8: Star Map

  Chapter 9: Bad Therapy

  Chapter 10: Das Hexenhaus

  Chapter 11: Death Wish

  Chapter 12: The Royal Enclosure

  Chapter 13: Sexual Politics

  Chapter 14: Droogs

  Chapter 15: Clues

  Chapter 16: Alphabet Love

  Chapter 17: Pictures

  Chapter 18: The Great Gatsby

  Chapter 19: Old Sport

  Chapter 20: The Toast

  Chapter 21: The Sermon of the Dead

  Chapter 22: Narcissus

  Chapter 23: Telling Tales

  Chapter 24: The Pov Parade

  Chapter 25: It’s a Riot

  Chapter 26: The Lake

  Chapter 27: Zero Night

  Chapter 28: Toga Party

  Chapter 29: Casanova

  Chapter 30: Soul Auction

  Chapter 31: Most Likely to Succeed

  Chapter 32: Follow your Heart

  Chapter 33: Apologies

  Chapter 34: Day of the Dead

  Chapter 35: Alone

  Chapter 36: The Hospital

  Chapter 37: The Bunker

  Chapter 38: The Cards

  Chapter 39: NexS

  Chapter 40: The Lazar House

  Chapter 41: Ice Heart

  Chapter 42: Belladonna

  Chapter 43: All the World’s a Globe

  Chapter 44: Secrets

  Chapter 45: Bridge of Sighs

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1: The Invitation

  In a few minutes, my middle-aged clients would arrive and I’d have to begin my performance. There was a time when I thought it was the greatest job on earth. Now everything about it depressed me. In fact, I was fed up with my whole life. It wasn’t how you were supposed to feel at 23.

  ‘Hey, Sophie, what do you think those weird guys are up to? I mean, they’re missing something, aren’t they? You know, that big powerful thing between their legs.’

  I was barely taking in what Jane was saying. Why had I decided to meet my clients in Trafalgar Square of all places? It was mayhem here. Tourists kept bumping into me, and one of them, a snake-haired woman in a blue cagoule, apparently thought I worked for the Tower of London.

  ‘The Crown Jewels are where?’ she asked in some indeterminate eastern European accent. When I didn’t reply, she squinted at my red military coat, black pillbox hat and knee-high black boots. ‘You not Beefeater?’

  Christ.

  Obviously the Slovenians, or whatever, didn’t appreciate high fashion.

  Style, darling – some of us have it and some of us shop at Euro-Matalan, I wanted to say in a glamorously dismissive way, but all I managed to mumble was, ‘I no speak English.’ Hey, wasn’t that supposed to be her line? I turned away fast.

  ‘Some weird guys haven’t got what between their legs?’ I blurted to Jane.

  ‘Motorbikes, dumbo.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You haven’t a clue, have you? You know, I could swear they’re all staring at you.’

  What was she blabbering about? A kid with a fat head who seemed determined to splash me with water from the fountain distracted me. Jane frowned and wandered off, saying she was getting an espresso from a street vendor.

  ‘You look funny,’ the kid grunted.

  Not as funny as you, fatso, I thought. The boy stuck his tongue out at me and I stupidly tried to stare him down. ‘Waaaant a photo, Mrs?’ he shouted with the devastating sarcasm only eight-year-olds can pull off.

  I retaliated by sliding my tongue out as far as it would go, trying to make it curl in the middle to add extra yuk factor. A gorgeous guy in a high-fashion pinstriped blue suit strolled past, giving me a sideways glance. Instantly, I tried to rearrange my tongue into a delightful come hither shape, but it refused to cooperate and lolled out as though I’d just emerged from a convention for astonished people.

  The hunk shuddered, scrunched up his face and hurried away.

  Jane, clutching her fresh espresso, rolled her eyes and tutted. ‘For God’s sake, Sophie, would you look around you.’ She started pointing and turning at the same time. ‘There, and there, and there…I’ve counted twenty so far.’

  Dotted all around the square were men and women in black leathers and gleaming black motorcycle helmets, their tinted visors pulled down. Not a motorbike in sight, and they had to be sweating like hell in this heat. If I’d had anything more than a black mini-dress under my coat, I’d be burning up.

  ‘Maybe it’s you they’re after,’ I said feebly.

  ‘Listen, babe, you’re the only celebrity around here.’

  ‘Ex-celebrity,’ I corrected wearily. Ex-everything, really. Fame, boyfriends, money, even my family. It was four years since my parents disowned me. I hadn’t planned to humiliate them but…God, Monarch of the Jungle – what possessed me? I knew all along it was the most lurid of the C-list celebrity TV shows, but that didn’t stop me. I ran towards disaster with open arms, and a silly grin.

  ‘Look, one of those crazies is coming this way,’ Jane said. ‘Just your type – tall, dark, and handsome. Well, it’s about time you found yourself a new boyfriend. How long has it been?’

  ‘That’s a woman,’ I replied. ‘Besides, blond hair and blue eyes are what I go for, as you know perfectly well.’

  As the motorcyclist approached, I didn’t really believe she was heading for me, but she kept coming. I couldn’t help thinking she had a good figure. Actually, breathtaking – slim, but not skinny, curvy but far from pneumatic, athletic yet highly sexual. That was exactly the sort of body I’d been trying to sculpt with my twice-weekly trips to the gym. OK, once a month. You know how it is.

  Lots of blokes were gawping at her in that ridiculous male way of theirs. I wanted to be able to walk like that. What was the word? – sashaying, gliding along as if she owned the place. I wondered if her face were as striking as the rest of her. Pug ugly, I decided to console myself.

  She stopped in front of me, and all I could see was my face reflected back in her gleaming visor. Reaching out, she placed a gold envelope in my hand. Without a word, she turned and left, male eyes still tracking her like the most sensitive radars ever invented. All around Trafalgar Square, the other motorcyclists turned and walked away. In seconds, they’d all disappeared.

  Jane made a face and shrugged. ‘A ridiculously early Christmas card?’ She gestured at the envelope. ‘Valentine’s? Maybe you have a mystery admirer.’ She gave up and implored me to get a move on with opening it.

 
; My guess was that the motorcyclist was a courier sent by one of my many creditors to give me more bad tidings of discomfort and killjoy, but I was puzzled that she hadn’t asked me to sign anything to confirm receipt. I held out the envelope in front of me and was amazed that it didn’t have my name on it. Instead, in embossed black gothic letters was a bizarre sentence: ‘How far will you go for ultimate pleasure?’

  ‘Wow, luxury, hand-delivered junk mail,’ Jane said. She slapped me on the back. ‘Maybe your magic bus has arrived.’

  I laughed with worrying enthusiasm at that. At school, I’d fantasised about a bus with special powers that appeared whenever I was in trouble and whisked me to safety. Unfortunately, it hadn’t turned up very often and never at the right time. I think its tyres were always flat.

  I peeled open the shining envelope. A small white card was wedged in the corner. ‘Sophie York – winner or loser?’ it said, the words printed in elegant gold lettering. ‘One-time opportunity. Tomorrow, 33rd floor, The Gherkin, 4 pm.’

  Jane snatched it from me. ‘Jeez, I’ve waited forever for one of these.’ Her face beamed. ‘An offer you can’t refuse.’

  ‘Don’t even start,’ I said. ‘I swear, the last place on earth where you’ll find me tomorrow is The Gherkin.’

  ‘Loser!’ Jane hissed.

  We stood, arms folded, staring at each other, knowing exactly what the other was thinking. The Gherkin might well be one of the architectural marvels of London, but there was something supremely comical about it thanks to its many nicknames. Take your pick: ‘the Erotic Gherkin’, ‘the Crystal Phallus’, ‘the Towering Innuendo’, ‘the Dog’s Dick.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re turning up your nose at a trip to The Gherkin,’ Jane said. ‘I mean, when it comes to glass towers shaped like penises it’s the, er…dog’s bollocks.’

  We both cackled. I caught the cagoule woman staring at me, muttering to her husband then making some queer hand gesture at me. A Balkan curse, I decided. As if I didn’t have enough trouble already.

  I’d recently written to my bank to ask for a bigger overdraft or an additional loan and I was waiting for the reply. The odd thing was that they’d sent me several letters in the last month and I hadn’t actually looked at any of them. I stuck them all in a drawer and hoped they’d vanish, taking all my financial woes with them. It frightened me how many unopened letters lay in that drawer. Maybe my whole life had unravelled and it was only because I hadn’t read my mail that I didn’t know.

  The letter that had dropped on my doormat that morning was one I couldn’t ignore. ‘Urgent,’ it declared. ‘Immediate Attention Required.’ The last couple had said that too, of course, but there was something different about this one. It included two additional words: Final Notice.

  ‘But how did that motorcycle girl know who I was?’ I asked. ‘How did she know where to find me? Doesn’t that spook you out?’

  ‘Anyone who has an office in The Gherkin is rich,’ Jane pointed out. ‘They could easily afford private investigators. I think you have a wealthy admirer who’s a bit shy. Maybe it’s a potential new client with confidentiality issues.’

  It was true I’d had my fair share of eccentric clients, but this was taking things to a new level. ‘Or a stalker,’ I said, futilely looking for a bin. I stuffed the card and envelope into my pocket.

  A white stretch limo pulled up at the edge of the square: my clients. ‘Wish me luck,’ I said.

  Jane gave me a hug.

  ‘These guys are hotshots from Wall Street,’ I mumbled. ‘And they’re all opera buffs. The only thing I know about opera is…’

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ Jane interrupted. ‘I must have heard that dreadful anecdote of yours a hundred times.’ She pulled away and wagged her finger at me. ‘And it doesn’t improve with the telling, I can assure you.’

  ‘Well, these guys won’t be hearing it, that’s for certain. Can you imagine their faces? They’d think I was some kind of…’

  ‘Anyway, what’s the plan?’ Jane cut me off. ‘Champagne bar, swish restaurant, West End show and then off to Ballum-Rancum?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Ballum-Rancum was old New York slang for a grand ball where all the honoured guests were thieves and prostitutes. I couldn’t imagine a more fitting name for the seedy nightclub where I’d spent so many nights with fat cats leching after attractive girls. Strangely, my clients always loved it when I explained the name to them. It had become part of my routine.

  ‘I bet you’re praying these Yanks like the British Olympic synchronised swimming team as much as everyone else.’

  I nodded. The swimmers’ most famous routine was Waving Not Drowning, involving elaborate, orchestrated hand gestures. It was always a showstopper. Worryingly, I hadn’t managed to get through to Cathy on her mobile phone. If she and the others weren’t there tonight, forget the waving part of the deal…just scream for the lifeguard.

  Chapter 2: Synchronised Drowning

  OK, where was I? Oh yeah, the operatic sex anecdote. God, how did it happen? One second I was talking about Nelson’s Column. The next…I only had a single glass of champagne. It was just the one, wasn’t it?

  ‘I’m serious,’ I heard myself saying. ‘Yes, the Mario Lanza, the great opera singer.’

  I couldn’t believe it. I swore it wouldn’t happen, but when I’m nervous I just sort of lose it. The strange case of Sophie’s runaway mouth my father called it, in the days when he was still talking to me.

  My clients were staring at me with either sympathy or contempt. It was hard to tell given their odd, unblinking eyes. Obviously, being from Wall Street, they were loaded. Since they were each paying me a thousand pounds per day, plus expenses, they had to be. For that, I’d promised them the night of their lives. The trouble was they were ugly, with paunches, ill-fitting suits, crap haircuts and, God save us, brown shoes. They worked for some high-powered merchant bank and whenever they tried to explain what they actually did, my memory went all goldfish on me. Thankfully, their names were easy to remember: Ted, Bill, Chuck and Greg. I smiled constantly to reassure them of how attractive they were, but my fake smiles were now sliding off the side of my face like rats overly acquainted with sinking ships.

  If I continued with this anecdote, I was finished. I mean, I told it all the time to anyone willing to listen, but only to people who’d never heard of Mario Lanza. These guys unquestionably had and they might throw me out of the limo on the spot. I didn’t even know if the damned story was true, or when I first heard it. At least Mr Lanza was long dead and couldn’t sue. Even though the anecdote was spectacularly obscene, I hoped it was legit because then he’d be so cool.

  My four distinguished international financiers had practically been ignoring me until now. They had begun to exchange glances. You know, those glances – who is this stupid girl and why are we paying her so much? A night never to be forgotten; wasn’t that what she promised us?

  Sure, I’d be thinking it myself if I were in their shoes. But now that my mention of Mario Lanza was sinking in, they were starting to give me their full attention. There’s no cocktail more powerful than sex and celebrity gossip and that’s exactly what I was going to deliver. Jesus, maybe I could pull this off.

  ‘More champagne, gentlemen?’

  ‘Yes, please!’

  We’d been to dinner in Tmolos, one of London’s most exclusive restaurants, and now we were on our way to an equally exclusive nightclub. I’d been using the mini-bar to serve as much alcohol as possible and I’d noticed that the men had begun to look at me in a certain way. They knew I was an ‘entertainment consultant’ but, as their alcohol consumption rose, they apparently had difficulty separating that from ‘high-class hooker’. I hoped that meant they thought I was classy, beautiful and knew a good few sex tricks. Of course, as an entertainment consultant charging extortionate prices, it was my aim to be classy, beautiful and to imply I knew a good few sex tricks. You can see the problem. Was I a fake entertainment consultant or a fa
ke high-class hooker?

  I could get high on the power I felt at times like these. You know, when you’ve gambled and it’s actually paid off. I was a bit like the Incredible Hulk, without all the going green and sprouting improbable muscles, of course.

  ‘So, as I was saying, Lanza liked to stand naked in front of a pair of beautiful blonde models and ask them to remove their expensive designer high heels and place them in a neat row in front of him.’ I paused for dramatic effect and all that. ‘Then he’d urinate into their thousand dollar shoes.’ Shock flickered over the men’s faces before giving way to seedy smirks. ‘No, I’m just making that bit up.’ I laughed uproariously. They gawped at me and I liked to imagine they wanted to worship me in some vague way.

  ‘So, no shoe pissing,’ I said sternly, dominatrix-style. I’ve found that, for some reason, rich men really get off on the idea of being submissive; always fantasising about their stocking-clad young secretaries spanking them.

  ‘No, what Lanza actually did was ask the blondes to strip naked, get on all fours and crouch over him on his bed.’ I was gesticulating wildly, really bringing this thing to life. My clients were mesmerised. ‘Then he’d push his hands through the models’ legs and, with a vagina in each hand, place his fingers over their labia. While his buddies watched, he’d manipulate his companions’, er, lips, while singing one of his top operatic numbers. His pals swore it was as if the vaginas themselves were doing the singing. Apparently, when Lanza hit the top notes, his beautiful blondes had simultaneous orgasms of the most sublime and multiple type.’