View Full Version : A Waif in the Alley. 1 of 3. Adult Detective 2,400

March 22nd, 2015, 12:17 AM
I’m a cop. Having a three-day break from work, I went out for a few brews at the local drink dispensary. I was walking home from the “Clink of Copper Saloon.” Hearing those same drinks telling me, “Your lease is up, I'm coming out, ready or not,” I stopped to relieve myself in an alley. As I whipped it out and started a purification process, I heard a clanking sound in front of me.

“Hey! Hold it right there, buddy.” A bundle of trash moved and elongated. “Pick another spot, huh?”

As the object rose, it transected a stray beam of light that shone on a pretty female face framed by long jet-black hair. Thick bushy eyebrows over a pert button nose with a set of slanted catlike eyes completed the picture.

“You know, if I had been asleep...? You bastard. You DID pee on me. I ... I'll kill you,” an angrily strident but sexy voice berated me as I stood, hands on my fly with both spirit and spirits flowing down a leg.

Surprise and public drunkenness slowed my reflexes. I turned in time to block her knee with my thigh but missed a fist flying toward my cheek. Unbalanced, I stumbled across the slippery surface of the alley, banging my head into the opposite wall.

A dark fury flew at me. I could only think to raise extended arms in supplication, even while losing control and feeling the stream hide inside the fly, going directly down one pants leg, the sweet smell of urine reaching already stinging nostrils.

“Please, I'm sorry,” I whined for the first time in many years. “Please don't hit me.”

“A girl can't even lie down for a few minutes without some idiot giving her a yellow shower,” the apparition continued to berate me. At least she was standing still -- in my face but standing still. “I should call a cop. Jeez, you smell.” She giggled.

Unlike her, in the shadows, I was standing in the glow of a streetlight and must have looked pathetic -- still in the process of wetting my leg. When nature kicks-off, it stops for no man. At least not without a conscious effort, which I was still too surprised to initiate.

“You better get home, buster. I'll really kick your ass the next time.” She smirked, looking me up and down in derision, then went back to her former shadowy shelter, sinking out of sight ten feet from her last location, as though not completely trusting me.

I had also been looking her up and down, but in appreciation masked by embarrassment. After all, what did I have to lose in the embarrassment context?

Getting myself together, and zippered, I moved cautiously in her direction, alert for any perceived movement. “Uh, excuse me, ma'am, I ... I ... wond....”

“What the hell you wonder, asshole? No. I'm not a hooker,” she screamed at me; at least from a sitting position that time, “and if I had a home, or any money, I'd go there. Now leave me alone or I'll call that cop.”

I thought I even heard a soft whimper but must have been mistaken. It would hardly have been in context.

“Now don't get me wrong ... I have an extra bedroom at my house. My wife left me last year.” I urged her gently. “It even has strong locks on the inside of her door,” I explained. “My ex-wife is a security freak.”

I stood, looking into the darkness for a full three or four minutes with no answer. Then, shrugging, I turned to leave. “Sorry, again. Good night,” I muttered, condescendingly, and walked away.

“I could use a couple of dollars, if you can spare it,” she stammered at my back, halting me, "for taxi fare to a friend's home?"

“That I don't have. I spent all my cash at the bar. That's why I'm going home so early,” I lied. I was simply tired of getting plastered at the bar with company and wanted to go home to do it in solitude.

“You got anything there for a sandwich?” she asked, sounding a little more friendly. “I haven't eaten all day.”

“Sure. Lunch meat, a little ham, some canned roast beef. Even my cat, if you want?” Trying for a little levity.

With my back still toward the alley, I could hear a slight clatter as she rose. The sounds of high heels coming up from behind caused my back muscles to knot involuntarily in expectation of another attack. High heels for the homeless, was my silly thought.

When she came alongside, we walked the three blocks to my apartment house without talking. Me with one hot and one cold leg as my trousers dried, her clackety clacking beside me.

Unlocking the front door, I moved aside -- remembering my manners. She walked past with a little flounce, giving me my first good view of her in the hallway light. A stray thought came that I would like to eat her while she ate her sandwich. A yum-yum for sure.

That's how I tend to think of women. The lowest rating being just “women,” next up are “good-looking women,” then come “pretty women.” Higher are “yums” meaning I'd like to take them home to eat. On top comes the rare “yum-yum,” meaning don't bother wrapping them, I'll eat them right there. She was a yum-yum ... at least from the back. Come to think of it, that's why my wife left me. She's going down that proverbial ladder and can't stand the thought. She's found herself a newer, younger, more fun-loving lover -- either trying to regain her youth or hang on to what's left.

It took me a couple of minutes to set all the locks on the door. By the time I caught up with her, the stray kitty had already found the kitchen. Without even asking, she'd opened the bread and stood with her head in the refrigerator, shapely butt waving back and forth and shoulders dipping as she checked it out.

“Uh, help yourself,” I told her -- somewhat belatedly. “I have to change clothes.”

The girl must have remembered the purse still hanging from her arm -- probably getting in her way -- and dropped it to the floor with a loud “clunk.”

“Uh, huh,” she muttered, mouth full of something and helping herself to more something.

I had to take time to wash up as well as change clothes, making it a full twenty minutes by the time I got back to the kitchen. The stranger was still stuffing her mouth, a clutter of the aforementioned beef, ham, and lunch meat, along with cheese I hadn't mentioned, scattered around the table. She was busily engaged in trying to get that last olive in her mouth -- prior to chewing -- when I arrived.

Accomplishing the impossible, she managed to close her mouth, transferring the load into both pretty cheeks. I swear I could see her slim little throat expanding to twice its size as she swallowed, reminding me of one of those boa constrictors. Whatever happened to the custom of chewing? I thought, shaking my head.

“Ah, that was good.” She leaned back, chair threatening to collapse from the sudden force of a half-pound of foodstuffs hitting her stomach in a single lump. Eyes on the table scraps, she encircled them with both thin arms. Bowing her head quickly, they were scooped into the waiting abyss. The human compactor leaned back with a grin and a soft “burp.”

“You said you have a spare room I can use tonight?” She gave me an intense penetrating gaze. “One with a good lock?”

I noticed how she was taking charge. A really confident young lady.

“Yeah. Right. Let me show it to you.”

Still standing, I waited for her to pry herself from the chair. I showed her to my ex-wife's old room. It hadn't been used in the past eight months and I still hadn't cleaned it. What the hell, if she wanted clean sheets they were in the closet.

The girl pushed past me and closed the door -- without even a thank you. Hearing locks start clicking, I turned for the living room. Time to resume that aborted drunk, I thought.
Pouring a glass of straight vodka, I headed for my favorite chair. Picking up the previous morning's newspaper from its seat, I sat down and took a swig. Seeing the paper still clutched in my hand, I looked at the headline. “Third killing in a week.” It had a picture of various police officials standing around an area enclosed by yellow barrier-tape.

No secret to me, since I'm a police detective myself. Luckily, I've avoided being assigned to the case -- at least so far. If it went on much longer there would probably be a task force assigned, and there weren't all that many of us to choose from. I preferred working by myself, a big frog in a little pool, to working with FeeBIes and other Feds -- a small cog, indeed. Those task forces were so damned impersonal and could stretch on forever, letting my regular caseload pile up while I hoofed it around to the tune of some asshole Fed broad.

During my third -- or was it sixth? -- drink, I wondered if there was any food left. I staggered to the kitchen and found only one slice of bologna in the fridge. It helped fill out a peanut butter sandwich, along with with ketchup and a bag of potato chips the girl had somehow overlooked.

On my way to the living room, I stumbled -- not unusual in my condition. But that time caused by extraneous means. My foot had hit the discarded purse, feeling like kicking a rock. I picked it up and dropped it onto the table -- again with that distinctive "clunk." Now, I've been a cop for far too many years. Long enough to have heard that sound often. Unless she had a lead pipe in there, or a folded machete, it had to be a firearm.

Looking quickly into the empty hallway, I struggled to master the clasp. Why aren't these things standardized? I wondered, fumbling with drunken digits. It opened to reveal the usual supermarket, combined with drug store and miniature beauty-shop. Through the front entrance of a veritable shopping center, I could see the handle of a large pistol.

Taking it out, I recognized -- of all things for such a little dainty girl -- a .45cal M1911A2 colt semi-automatic. The old army type, with a dull gray finish. I had been expecting ... maybe a .22cal? She had a wallet in there so, following my training, I copied down the information in my notebook. The one I keep in a back pocket with my hankie. Her ID read:

Susan Jenkins, 3353 Applegate Drive, this city. Surprising in this day and age, no credit cards. Only a driver's license and personal papers. She wasn't lying, no paper money either; and I wasn't going through all that junk just to make sure. The rest wasn't really any of my business -- but the pistol might be.

Not wanting to do anything right then, not in my current condition, I made-do with unloading the monster and replacing it. In the morning, I'd see what was going on. I have a bad enough reputation at work now, without bringing her in while I'm on a drunk. Maybe she even has a good reason for carrying? On a whim, I put the purse back where it had been -- on the floor.

I went back to my drinking and, as happens a lot, soon passed out in my easy-chair.


"Briiinnngg." One of the three alarm clocks in the living room woke me. Following standard procedure, I rolled off the chair and onto the floor. Crawling down a hall to the bathroom, I filled a tall glass with water from the sink and drank it down.

The water started a chain reaction, combining with remaining poisons from the night before and ejecting the whole mess into the toilet bowl. About that time, I heard the second alarm clock going off.

Not too bad last night, I figured, only a two-alarm morning. Sometimes it took all three to wake me for work.

Forcing myself to walk, I staggered to the bedroom and dressed in one of my four gray work suits. Not much difference, since they were all equally dirty and equally wrinkled.
Only then, did I realize it was an off day. I cursed those electric clocks. I'd forgotten to turn them off the day before.

I smelled coffee, which seemed like a wonderful idea at the moment. Wait a minute, I didn't fill the automatic coffeepot last night, was my next thought.

The morning looked better, as I saw an apparition -- a mirage in my own kitchen -- sitting at the table. It took me a moment to remember the stray I'd picked up the night before. With that memory came another. I knew I had to interrogate her -- but first, some java.

“Mornin'.” I poured a cup and sat down across from her. Lighting a Salem with a Zippo lighter, I tried to force a saturated brain to function. It usually takes two cups of coffee before I can string three consecutive words together in my head.

“Good morning. I didn't introduce myself last night. The name is Susan. What should I call you? I shouldn't have imposed on you like that, I apolo....”

“Two.” I told her, bleary eyes looking down at my cup.

“Two? Your name's 'Two'?”

“Two cups -- no talk. Two cups.”

We sat in silence until I finished my second cup, all the time trying to string three-word sentences in my head. Like: 'Why the gun,' 'you're under arrest,' 'what's going on,' or 'me lust you.'

“Me lust you,” I told her, loud enough to force her back to jerk straight-up in the chair.

“What was that?”

“Sorry, just thinking out loud,” I muttered, which made it worse by causing her to laugh.

End of section one of three. The second is also posted today, the third tomorrow.