I'm on lot nine when the doors open and we're ushered into the theater.
The room has been transformed.
Red velvet seats in neat rows.
Stage lights.
A podium at center stage.
It looks like the opera.
Smells like money and expensive cologne.
I take a seat in the center section.
Not too close to the stage—that would seem eager.
Not too far back—that would seem disinterested.
Ten rows back. Perfect positioning.
The auctioneer takes the stage.
A woman in her fifties, severe suit, pulled-back hair.
She explains the rules. The bidding process. The payment verification procedure.
Then the auction begins.
Lot eight is first. Red dress. Confident walk despite the fear in her eyes.
She sells for three hundred and twenty thousand to Geoffrey Morrison, who collects women like some men collect cars.
I watch with detached interest.
The mechanics fascinate me.
The way they present each woman.
The way the bidding reveals who wants what.
The older men go for the younger ones.
The sadists—and there are several here—prefer the ones who look most afraid.
Lot nine. Lot ten. Lot eleven.
I'm not bidding. Just observing. Calculating.
Trying to determine which one will require the least maintenance.
Maybe the brunette in lot twelve.
She looked intelligent in her photo.
I could set her up with online courses, a career path.
She'd probably prefer that to whatever she's running from.
