“Coffee?” “ No thanks. That was kind of you.” “ Well,” he says, taking a seat behind his desk. “The po-po were here earlier. They were asking about you.” “ Me, specifically?” “ You, the will, Mariska... They wanted to know how involved you were.” “ I wasn't involved at all.” “ That's what I told them. Well, I told them that I didn't know of you having been involved.” “ Thanks. I think.” He shrugs and slides the papers across the table to me. When I move to look, he pins them to the desk with a hand. “I don't like this.” “ Is it me?” “ No. Well, yes. But not in the way you think.” “ So...” “ How old are you?” “ 22.” “ A baby,” he says. “Someone with their whole life ahead of them...” “ Is there something wrong with the business, or are you afraid I'll ruin it?” “ Look, I'm no detective, I just write up documents and read legal jargon, but here's something to think about: Mariska was dedicated - thoroughly dedicated - to her work. She didn't have a life outside of her business. The. I noticed that none of the females there for classes wore any girdles or corsets an in many cases they wore nothing at all under their thin summer frocks so they could get the full effect of masculine guidance in the complicated dance steps. The men allowed their hands to fall down to the young dance trainer’s backsides as if by magical gravity or a magnetic attraction of fresh young rump eager to teach their charges that nothing ventured was nothing gained on the dance floor.I had set up a series of private training rooms for the one on one sessions and left them to their own devices but cautioned the girls about using common sense with condoms and cleanliness so the cleaning crew did not become a source of rumor about the heated confrontations in the small rooms with limited space to move around but they were soundproof and private and that seemed the best way to make quick progress in reaching a happy ending in almost every dance style. I had the room next to my office set up with.
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