Yellow Mama E zine
Issue #116
Starfish: Fiction by Jesse Binger
Art by Sophia Wiseman-Rose © 2026
STARFISH
by Jesse Binger
“Well, you’re late,” Lina said with a half-smile.
“Better late than never.”
Bucky. Forty-seven. Stockbroker or Finance guru? What was the difference anyway.
They moved into the room. The one with the floral smells and lavender-scented lotions. Muzak playing gently from Bose speakers.
Don’t judge. Client’s choice.
Forty-five minutes later, Bucky was putting back on Brooks Brothers slacks and wobbling down the hall.
No money exchanged hands. Wasn’t that type of place. But nevertheless, Lina was $1200 richer. The power of the internet. Good sex. Discretion. Zelle.
Starlight Spa.
Opened for two years now. Daddy’s seed money. Only Daddy expected Starlight Spa to be what it pretended to be. Aura-inducing massages. Reiki. Singing Bowls.
Shit, like they could really sing. Or really heal. There’s a sucker born every…Lina stopped herself.
She was judging again. Dr. Gold gave her the tip. Stop herself each time it happened. Count to ten in her head. Then return to the scene with a nice comment.
Life-affirming. Breath-taking bowls. Happy, Gold?
Anyway, 12:15. Next client. Also late. But unusual in his case.
Barry Spritzer. Fifty-seven. Hedge Fund. Skinny calves, taut biceps, big, um, personality.
One of her favorite clients. Why? Two hundred tip, every time. Thirty minutes, in and out. And he even told jokes.
And not the usual, Interrupting-cow, My wife’s so fat, nonsense. He had Rickles-timing. A big blustery laugh and actually made her feel comfortable.
Well as comfortable as one can be, as a high-priced escort.
12:22, Barry hustled in.
“M’lady. What ‘ya have in store for me?”
To the room. The special one. The one with the soft cloud-like bed. Temperature at 62 degrees. Barry White crooning.
They got it on. Going good. So good. Until—
Barry dropped dead.
Lina did the usual—-check pulse, compressions, a little mouth to mouth (not gross when they were doing much more, five minutes ago).
He was gone. Dead.
Now in her line of work, there’s always that possibility. Older men. Clogged arteries. And, not gonna lie, she thought. This body. This motion. A bit of a danger zone.
Problem was, as she did a quick inventory in her head:
-
Dead man in her spa.
-
Cops tend to investigate death.
-
Her spa is not really what it seems.
-
Her books are definitely not what they seem.
In other words, she was fucked.
Lina picked up her phone. Clicked the number she hadn’t clicked in years. Waited until the gravely voice spoke, “Talk to me.”
“There’s a problem.”
Fifteen minutes later, Morris knocking at the door. Morris skinny like a twig. Morris, starfish tattoo on his forearm. His skinny forearm. Which meant tiny starfish. Morris, a cleaner. And not a housecleaner. Keitel, Pulp-Fiction-esque cleaner with flair.
He assessed the problem.
And forty-five minutes later, Morris and dead Barry were out the door. Spa was clean.
Lina got the text shortly after: ’tis done.
Good old Morris. It was always ’tis and methinks. Skinny, starfish, pretentious Morris.
But he done good.
That night, Lina took a bubble bath. Peppermint and Chamomile oils. Bath salts. The whole nine.
She drank a glass of Cali Riesling. Not that sweet German kind.
She remembered being young. Being hopeful. Wondered if life choices were really choices at all. Or just part of your destiny.
The phone rang.
Her father. Frankie “The Turtle” Alvarado. Why the turtle? Daddy liked to say that he had a hard shell. Took a few bullets, but they never took him down.
But really, it was his little head. Big bowling ball sized body. Dapper Don he wasn’t but the Turtle was something, right?
“How’s my princess?”
“Sleepy.”
“What else is new?”
“Daddy. I work hard.”
“Yeah yeah. Tapping on those bowls. I could imagine. Did ya get a hangnail too?”
Always the chider.
The next morning, bright and early, dressed in minimalist shades of gray. Slacks, a blazer. Always the facade.
It was inside where she changed. Cocktail dress. Bustier and boy shorts. Victoria’s Secret, by request. They all had their fantasies. And she was in every one of them.
A hard knock at the front door. 8:45 a.m. Too early for Terrance. Tough Terry, a bookworm accountant from one of the Big 4. She forgot which one. But she thought it was the worst one.
Two men at the door. Jeans. Sportscoats. Clean shaven. Mean mugs. Detectives.
“Rina Alvarado?” The handsome one said. Broad shoulders. Sparkly eyes.
“That’s me.”
“A moment?”
“Sure.”
For you, anything.
She let them in.
“Coffee? Juice? Water?”
“No ma’am,” the other guy said. Plain face. Morose look. Undertaker shoes.
“Well?”
“Let’s cut to the chase. Barry Spritzer. You know him?” Handsome asked.
“I don’t.”
“Really?”
“Nope. Never heard the name.”
It was all clean. Morris. The books. Everything. There was no way.
“See, Barry’s missing. His wife thinks he’s dead,” Undertaker said.
Wife? No surprise. Most of her clientele had them. Half didn’t want them anymore. But not her problem.
“And this pertains to me, how?”
“He had a pretty large life insurance policy. Ten million.”
“And—“
“Two days ago, Miss Alvarado. He changed the beneficiary. To you.”
Her throat went dry. The peppermint oil still clung to her hands.
Fucked didn’t begin to cover it.
Jesse Binger is an agented crime fiction writer from New Jersey whose work explores broken people, moral compromise, and quiet acts of redemption. He is currently seeking publication for his debut novel The Penitent Hours. When he isn’t writing, he works in project leadership and spends far too much time drinking bad coffee in diners.
Sophia Wiseman-Rose (aka Sr. Sophia Rose) is a Paramedic and an Anglican novice Franciscan nun, in the UK. Both careers have given Sophia a great deal of exposure to the extremes in life and have provided great inspiration for her.
She has travelled to many countries, on medical missions and for modelling (many years ago), but has spent most of her life between the USA and the UK. She is currently residing in a rural Franciscan community and will soon be moving to London to be with a community there.
In addition, Sophia had a few poems and short stories in editions of Black Petals Horror/Science Fiction Magazine
The majority of her artwork can be found on her website.