View Full Version : A Waif in the Alley. 2 of 3. Adult Detective 2,700

March 22nd, 2015, 12:18 AM
No synopsis since the first section is already posted today. You should read it first.
By then I was wide-awake, nothing like embarrassment to get that old mind in gear. My next thought was that, following police procedure, I should wait until I'm in a better position before starting any questioning. We're taught to get, and keep, control of any situation. I definitely wasn't in control of that one.

“My name's, Jerry.” I sat up straight, pleased to see her relaxing again. “It's nice to have company for a change,” I informed her. “You're the first in a long time.”

“The first company, or the first female company?”

“Both, for that matter,” I admitted. “So what's up with you? You're too well-dressed to be sleeping in an alley.”

Like many women, ask a simple question and open a flood-gate.

“I just broke up with my boyfriend, Terry,” she started. “It was at that bar down the street. Didn't you see us? I remember you sitting at the bar.”

“No, I was watching the tv.”

“Anyway, I caught him cheating and braced him up.”

“It's hard to imagine him cheating on you, or anyone else doing it, for that matter.”

“Thanks, I think. See, he was angry and told me to take a hike.”

“In those shoes? What a heel,” I was feeling better by then -- a little playful.

“Quiet. You asked, now let me finish.”

Damn, a really take-charge broad.

“Well, we had an argument and he walked out. That was about all there was to it. He even took back the credit cards -- they’re all in his name -- so I guess he was serious. That damn Janet, she can have him.” She continued, “It wasn't until he left that I realized that while he was in my wallet, he took my money too.

"I was upset, couldn't think straight, broke and no way to get home. He would have been there anyway -- maybe waiting for me. At least I have his gun.”

“Which is a good point. Why did you have his gun? Or do you always carry one around -- and such a big weapon for such a little girl.”

That caused her to sit straight again, a fiery look coming to lovely eyes. “I was afraid he'd use it on me. Felt safer with me having it than him.” She looked me in the eye. “How did you know how big my gun was?”

I lost control again, and just as I'd been getting it back.

“Uh, I guessed. I heard the thud when you dropped your purse last night,” I lied. “My wife had a small one she carried around. Nothing like the sound of a pistol hitting the table -- or floor in this case.” I added, “It certainly wasn't a makeup kit.” Whoo, got out of that, I thought.

“You have a car?” She asked, thankfully changing the subject.

“Sure, out back. If I park it on the street it gets sideswiped by drunks from the Clink of Copper.”

“Then you can take me home this morning, so I can get my things out. Terry should be at work.”

I felt like asking her who she thought she was telling me, not asking, to do something like that. But then, a girl like her wouldn't be used to rejection.

“I guess I could do that. When you want to go?” Call me “Pussycat.”

“Just as soon as I get dressed.” She got up and went back to her ... oops, my wife's room.


“Wait outside and keep your eye open for a blue Honda Civic,” she ordered while getting out.

I was double parked in front of a three-story brownstone in the better part of town. “Better leave him his pistol,” I yelled at her back, “so he can't charge you with theft. And, besides, you need a Carry Permit.”

I watched her hips gyrate like a metronome as she mounted the steps, unlocked the front door and left my sight.

Twiddling my thumbs for twenty minutes, I took time to show my shield to a motor patrolman who saw my double-parked vehicle.

“Police business,” I told him, hoping Susan wouldn't pick that time to come out with a suitcase. It might have caused questions back at work. The City is big, but we're a closed fraternity and word gets around. Which reminded me, I still hadn't told her I was a cop. Maybe I shouldn't? I thought. Some people are turned off by police, especially broads with guns.

She finally got back, a suitcase in one hand. What was the world coming to -- a woman with only one suitcase?

“Okay, let's go before anybody sees me.”

“Where to? You think of a place to stay yet? Maybe a girlfriend's?”

“Well, uh, I thought about with you,” she almost whispered, looking straight ahead. “Just for a little while, until I can find one of my own. I'll pay you for the space; after I find a job, of course. Terry supported me, and I don't have any close friends.”

Somehow, I found that both hard and easy to believe.

I was torn between conflicting emotions. Here I was, a big macho detective, arresting big macho criminals, outwitting them in their nefarious criminal endeavors, and letting myself be manipulated -- yes, even outwitted -- by this woman. My ex-wife had been the same way. On the other hand, she was a beautiful manipulator and I guess I'm a sucker for that type of woman.

“Okay, I guess. Only until you get on your feet,” I told her, visions of sugarplums and bouncing beds dancing in my head.


Later that day, I wanted to read my morning newspaper -- but it wasn't there. One problem with living in that neighborhood was that the paper was stolen about a third of the time. I should get a discount on the damn thing -- or maybe call a cop.

Susan, maybe to make up for not paying me -- not that I was counting on ever getting any money -- was busily cleaning the house. All but my study, of course. That was my own private preserve; from my aforementioned louder half. I still kept it locked, with my most private and work stuff inside, including a twenty-year collection of “Big-Uns Magazines.” Bought them off a guy named Al … Al Bundy.

“I'm going out for a while. You need anything?” I asked.

“No thanks. Not right now, but I want to get some things later,” she answered from my bedroom -- an all-day cleaning job in itself. It was probably the reason I slept on my easy-chair. The bed was filled with junk, and I never felt like cleaning it off. “I'll just take a taxi. I had a little money stashed at Terry's place,” she finished.

Hell, the precinct was closer than the newsstand. I'd just stop in, hear the gossip, shoot the shit, and save four-bits by stealing a paper from the lunchroom.


Detective Sergeant Jeffrey was sitting at the Front Desk. He hated that job and glared at me as I waved my way past him to the Squad Room. We're short on personnel -- all except us detectives, that is. Every once in a while, we have to man the front desk.

It's not a very good job, having to clean up vomit from booking drunks. Not to mention taking down civilian complaints and listening to sob stories from two-legged rats that crawled out of the woodwork. Now known for our homeless, we should give equal press to our brainless.

Jefferson and Thompson were at their desks doing paperwork while catching -- meaning waiting for something to happen.

“Hey, Jerry. Thought you were off today?” from Thompson.

“Yeah. I just can't stay away.” Don't get the idea our conversation is always that unoriginal. “Just wanted to see if anything was happening. Someone stole my newspaper again.”

“Picked up that Adamoski kid this morning. The idiot was at his mother's house. She called us -- don't tell him, though,” Thompson told me.

Good, that asshole had been avoiding us for weeks. A simple gas-station robbery -- twenty-buck job -- but he'd kept a step ahead of us, taking up a lot of our time and resources.

“Oh, and Trapper got called on another of those murders this morning, four in a little over a week, all 'made men.' I hope we don't have a mob war on our hands. That's the surprising thing, that we don't have one already,” Jefferson called out from across the room.

“Let'um kill each other off,” Thompson said, laughing, “as long as I stay out of it.”

We talked shop for a while before Thompson left for a “Dead Body Found” call in some senior-apartment building. In our city, every unexpected death has to be investigated as a homicide -- even people dying of old age, alone in their rooms. Until the cause is ascertained, every such death was considered as a potential murder or felony.

After swiping a newspaper from the empty lunchroom, I left and went back home. I know, strange without even stopping for a drink. But why look at the bargirls with what was waiting at home? I hadn't felt that way since the first year of my marriage, before I discovered my wife didn't really enjoy married sex, only the pre-marital kind -- meaning until she landed me. Guess it took a year for her bait to be used up. It was the only thing she was ever frugal about.

I could have taken the time, since Susan was gone when I got back. I looked in my wife ... Susan's room and saw her suitcase on the bed -- so she was probably coming back.

I needed supplies myself, her having cleaned out my refrigerator the night before -- and I was down to the last ounce of a half-gallon of cheap vodka. Of course, I had a couple more half-gallons hidden around the house for emergencies. That not being one, I went back out for groceries.

When I returned, I parked behind the building for the night and picked up my packages and bottles. On my way in, I noticed the trash can almost full of plastic and other debris from new clothing. You know, those flimsy little plastic clothes hangers that nobody would ever think of actually using and cards twenty-times the size of the products they contained. Those kinds of things. It looked like someone, maybe my new boarder, had bought out a clothing store.

To my consternation, the refrigerator was already full. She’d also bought food. Now we had too much for the damned thing to hold. I gotta give her credit though, she immediately set upon rectifying that mistake, fixing a meal large enough for six.

“Wish you would have told me you were buying food,” I admonished her.

“Same here. After all, I emptied it, thought it was my duty to fill it back up.”

“I see you bought new clothes?” I mentioned, pouring myself a drink, “you want one?”

“After dinner. I gotta cook. Yeah, one way to forget Terry -- a new wardrobe.” She smiled, pirouetting around the kitchen, knife in hand, to show me her new short-shorts. She needn't have bothered, since I had noticed them right away. A few bumps and grinds weren't unwelcome, however.

I retired to the living room to watch television while I waited for her to prepare the meal. I don't think I'd fixed a half-dozen of those in the eight months I'd been living alone.

“I want you to take me to see my sister, tonight. That is, if you have time?” Susan called from the kitchen.

Ah, that sexy voice. She seemed to know how to add just the right mixture of salty command and peppery dreams to her intonations.

“All right, but I don't want to go in.”

I didn't want to get involved with relatives. After all, we still hadn't really gotten to that stage. Relationships with a girl's relatives are an important step for me. Once they find out I'm a cop the demands tend to start. Like doctors and lawyers, a policeman gets pestered for free advice, but doctors don't get asked to fix speeding-tickets and bail out strange relatives; that sort of thing.


That time, I dropped her off at an apartment-house, a very expensive one with a doorman. I was to pick her up in an hour. At least I had time to have a couple of drinks in a bar down the street. The bar was one of those dumpy kinds of places I love. The kind of drinking hole with activity and at least the threat of violence.

I went inside and sidled up to a stool with a cracked top, plastic stuffing jamming up the crack of my ass as I sat down.

“Vodka and seven-up,” I instructed a huge but simpering bartender.

Wrong part of the bar. A nice-looking girl was tending the other end. My fault for not looking first. With my luck, I figured, he'd try to pick me up.

I paid and, getting my change, pocketed it. It wasn't the type of place you lay money down on the bar. Swinging around with a squeak and drink in hand, I saw four bikers with two girls. They seemed happy. Not so with the table of wise-guys in the corner.

At least one of the minor mobsters recognized me, not surprising since I knew most of them, at least by sight. They seemed to be traveling in groups lately -- since so many of them were being knocked off. We all smiled at each other. Maybe they felt safer with me there? Ha-ha. Protect and serve is our motto. I considered it more fun to watch either bartender than them, and turned around to finish my drink.

To my surprise, Susan was waiting when I got back -- me being a few minutes late. Hell, I hadn't been in any hurry, figuring women are always late anyway.

“What kept you, Jerry? I said an hour?” She was a little peeved and had another suitcase in hand, that one bright-red. “Are you sure you can drive? You look a little soused.”

“Sorry.” I ignored her on the way home. It took all my concentration to manipulate that damned steering-wheel. The windshield seemed to distort traffic, and who kept moving those lights back and forth?

We went home and I had another drink or three. The next thing I knew was waking up, again in my favorite chair. I didn't remember, but I must have slept well. In fact it's unusual for me to remember deciding to sleep anymore, normally blanking out long before I get to that point. Oh, well, as long as I remember to wake up.

I heard a radio going in the kitchen, along with the clanking of glass. By the time I propped myself against the doorway, I remembered something -- a vague memory about trying to crawl into her bed the night before. It had completely slipped my mind. It must not have been too serious a blunder though, since she was still there and I didn't seem to hurt anywhere.

Well, there's always tonight. Anticipation makes the act more fulfilling -- at least that's the theory -- and I was becoming used to being embarrassed around Susan.

End of section two of three. The first was already posted today. The last will be posted tomorrow. Is Jerry ever going to have sex with Susan? Find out tomorrow.