PDA

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



hvysmker
March 23rd, 2015, 02:51 PM
Synopsis: After picking up a stray in an alley, Jerry, a cop, gives her temporary shelter in his estranged wife's room. There isalso a rash of mob killings in town. (Sections one and two were posted yesterday.) Currently, he's waking on the second morning with her, finding Susan has fixed breakfast for them. He also has a dim memory of trying to crawl into her bed during the night and being rejected....
----------

She looked luscious that morning, wearing a green robe. Wasn't that the universal color for “go ahead”? Of course she was eating again, what else.

I walked up behind her and poured some java. Her coffee was better than mine. I never measured, simply dumped it in and added water. A man thing. I needed a woman thing -- being in a sexy mood that morning. Maybe she was feeling that way herself, or sensed my testosterone jumping around down there?

As I sat, jerking the java, I heard the radio saying something about another mobster biting the dust the night before. The address caught me. It was near where I had dropped the girl that same night. No details, though.

I sat, trying to string my thoughts together again, too much to think about at one time so soon after waking. Love, lust, murder, coffee ... yes, coffee. I'd think about coffee. My mind most mornings was akin to a bad auto-transmission. It would try to shift gears, sometimes grinding while going from third to reverse, back to first, thumping all the way as it drank it's coffee while looking slyly at the pretty girl across the gearbox. About the time it hit second for the fifth time -- I finished my second cup.

“Done with the second coffee, Jerry?” Susan asked with a sly grin while getting to her feet.

She had obviously been watching me and my facial contortions as I attempted to fight lingering sleep and residual alcohol while keeping that pink elephant in its cage.

I swear I felt warmth as she approached the back of my chair. I know damn well I felt a wet tongue on my left ear.

“You ready?” she whispered. “Don't you remember I promised you something last night -- something for after breakfast, when you were sober?”

Her arm snaked around my head, turning it to the left until our lips met, side-wise. It was hard to get two tongues to work right from that uncomfortable -- did I say uncomfortable? -- angle. We managed.

Without trying to stand, I swung my chair around as her robe seemed to drift down, a soft green cloud settling onto a linoleum floor. Exposed were a pert little body, breasts like two cups of honey, nipples akin to hardened sugar cubes waiting for my mouth to melt them. Susan’s hard body and flat tummy pressed against my middle-aged flabby shoulders. It was something I noticed right away, with a measure of surprise. How did she get all that food in there and stay so slim?

We made it to her room where my semi-alcoholic state from the night before enhanced our lovemaking. I don't remember getting undressed, but the rest of the occasion has a special place in my memory. Every movement, ever nuance, is burned indelibly into the convolutions of a pickled brain.

The feel of her skin sliding over mine, mine sliding into the warmth of the waiting receptacle, internal organs pounding in a mixture of frantically synchronizing heartbeats, felt through sub-molecular intimate contact. The sweet tender odors of love, merging with animistic grunts and whines of fulfillment.

A final blaze as consummation forced a spiraling collusion of burning, cascading luminescence in colors never before, or nevermore, experienced.

Arms entwined in sated exhaustion, we slept.

***

We spent the rest of the day at the beach. Susan looked scrumptious in an orange bikini. Already, I was feeling possessive. It was the first time I'd been to that beach in many years. I looked over at the boardwalk, trying to make out the bullet holes from my last visit. It involved a shootout with a perp. Thankfully, there weren't too many of those. Shootouts I mean. Plenty of perps though.

A tip had brought my partner and me to this part of the beach. Who would have thought the guy would have a gun in his bathing suit. I guess -- like a roll of socks -- it made him look a little over-endowed. Maybe more macho than socks, for that special effect? Like for shooting cops. I dreaded it, but I had to tell her I was a cop -- soon, anyway. That wasn't something you could keep a secret forever.

Susan came back from the water. Unlike dogs, some things were made to be lovely even when wet. She was smiling as she deliberately dropped and rolled in the sand before plopping down beside me.

“Lick it off, lover,” Susan commanded, looking like a pretty piece of sandpaper.

“No way, honey,” I declined, brushing her off with my hand instead, “only the packaged parts if you unwrap them.”

“Better not, at least in public.” She laughed, punching me playfully. “The cops would be all over us.”

“What do you think about cops?” I said, grinning back at her. “Are they your favorite people?”

Her face took on a serious look.

“I have to tell you something, Jerry,” she started. “My father was in the mob. I grew up to hate police.” Her eyes became misty. “He was shot dead, not by police but by his best friend. He wasn't Italian -- only a Greek -- so he couldn't be 'made' but he had a good business going.

“I don't hate the police anymore, at least not as much as I do mobsters, but they're not my favorite people. My mother and I spent too many years alone, trying to scratch a living while he was in jail.”

Oops, I better hold off on telling her, I decided. Not a big problem, since I'm good at procrastination. The rest of the day was a blast. To celebrate our altered status, we acted like any new lovers. The city was our plum, from the beach to a movie -- the latter remaining unseen. It'll be on television sooner or later.

I splurged on dinner in a fancy restaurant, where we again acted like teenagers, laughing, throwing toothpicks at each other and, in general, disturbing other customers. That night, we both ended up in the same bed -- of course. It was the first night in quite a while that I remembered sacking out, and quite an experience to feel a warm body rubbing against me for a change.

***

All things have to end. For the first time in ages, I woke to the sounds of the first alarm clock from the living room. Getting out of bed slowly -- so as not to disturb Susan -- I stood and took a mental snapshot of her lying there. I still see it in my dreams -- both drunk and sober. A picture of dark hair spread over ivory shoulders and yellowed pillow, one slim leg half-covering a patch of fur between lighter-colored thighs. A picture painted, if not by Rembrandt, hardly by Van Gogh.

I didn't want to wake her -- she would be sure to question my rising -- and I still wanted to pick a better time to tell her of my job. Cluck, cluck ... I know.

Turning off the clocks, I dressed quickly and quietly. I could get coffee on the way. I left her a note that I was going to work and didn't want to wake her.

***

“You're early, and what's that on your face?” Thompson was at his desk, they all were. Well, I didn't see Trapper around, though.

“What you talking about, man?” I asked, sitting down at my own paper-strewn desk.

“That smile, like you just got laid.” He laughed. “Oh, and the lieutenant wants to see you. Guess you screwed up again.”

I shuffled papers for a few minutes. Counting a new one, I had eight cases going. We were supposed to handle only six, max. Well, not all of them were active. There was the one where the perpetrator supposedly fled to Arizona. It had to sit quietly in its slot until we got a line on the guy. Sooner or later, someone would turn him in or he'd be stopped for running a red-light and we'd get him back.

I was trying to think if I had screwed up recently or not, but couldn't think of anything offhand. But then, my mind was on personal problems. I had to get organized before seeing my boss. The best way was to review my work. It was always that way after a day or two off. I tended to compartmentalize my work and home life. It was the only way to survive in a job like mine.

A knocking on glass pulled me from my revelry. I looked up to see the lieutenant motioning to me from his little glass cage in the corner of the room. Stepping around desks and filing cabinets, I went in to see him.

“What's up, Lou?” I asked as I casually take a seat. Lieutenant Samson was a large black man. He’d been a terror on the street, always in trouble with more staid upper ranks. After a particularly bad shootout, he made lieutenant and was transferred to a desk job. Now he was the opposite -- a spit-and-polish guy who hated mavericks. I could never figure that one out.

“I know you hate it, but you and Trapper have been assigned -- temporarily, now -- to a new task force. Us, Sheriff's Department, and even FeeBIes -- about those mob killings.”

“Look, Lou. Man, I got more cases than I can handle now. Pick someone else. Come on, you owe me a favor?”

“Not that big a favor. We want to get this one finished. I was ordered to put my most experienced men on it. That's you, Jerry buddy.” He shook his head. “Give your cases to Jefferson until you're done. Cheer up. With all the heavy weight on this, it shouldn't take long.”

I argued, but he commanded. Nothing for it, I turned my cases over to Jefferson and went down the hall to room #313 -- an apt number. Trapper was already there, eating free donuts. That was why he hadn't been in the squad room.

“You don't look too happy, Jerry.” Trapper fixed me with his trademark glare. Only five-eight, and thin to boot, he was still intimidating with that graveyard stare. We always had trouble with our “Good cop, bad cop” routine. He glared and I never smiled. Who could play the good guy?

“This is a bunch of bullshit.” I retrieved my own pile of donuts and free coffee, sitting down next to Trapper. Assigned seats no less, with little plastic name-tags. You could tell the FBI was involved. At least with them along we didn't have to worry about overtime expenses.

“Might as well get up to snuff,” I mentioned to Trapper, reaching for an expensively-bound printed notebook in front of me. I had been subconsciously avoiding the case, hoping it would go away. Now I had to read and memorize all that crap. People were drifting into the room, mostly to the donut table. It seemed the whole station house knew about the free snacks.

Opening the folder, I saw a page of photos; the deceased rat-pack. A chronology started on the flip-side. I knew some of the names, others were new to me. If you would ask me, I didn't give a shit.

An address caught my eye. It was where the fourth body had been found. The guy had been stabbed in his sleep, and it was nearly the same address I had originally taken Susan to. Among the particulars were his favorite hangouts. One was the Clink of Copper Saloon. I had found Susan in an alley there.

No! I shook my head, unbelieving. Only a coincidence? Of course he had taken her there, it was one of his favorite places. And he could have been killed later -- long after we were gone. Sure. That had to be it. And pigs could fly if they tried hard.

The fifth body had been found the morning after I took her to her sister's. The high-rise next door to where I had taken her. How could I explain that? Coincidence again?

“Jerry, the meeting's starting.” Trapper nudged me.

“Shut up. Leave me alone,” I snapped at him, continuing my reading. One of the first mobsters killed was also in his apartment, with a .25cal -- which made me feel a little better. That is until my deductive brain realized something. I had found the .45 on the top of her large, full, purse. No way it could have made that “clunk” on hitting the floor. She could have had another gun in there. God knows it had been heavy enough.

Hands shaking, I continued, ignoring the lecture in front of us. The second guy was shot with a .45 automatic. She was from a mob family and Susan's name was the same as the first victim. His wife? No, he was in his seventies -- his daughter.

“Mr. Edwards, Detective Edwards?” A voice made me look up. The expensively dressed lecturer -- probably FBI -- was talking to me. “We would appreciate your attention. It's the only way to get this problem resolved.”

He and the rest of the room were surprised as I stood, holding a sweat-stained plastic folder. I ignored both comments and stares as I walked to the front of the room, up to the podium.

***

The FBI supervisor insisted on being present, but I wouldn't let him in my door. He was acting officious, as they are wont to be. As I unlocked the front door, he tried to push past me. Being both larger and heavier, I jerked him by the back of his collar and whispered in his ear.

“I swear to you on my mother's grave, that if you come into my home I'll kill you. You wait out here with your asshole friends. We'll bring her out,” I told him with a smile on my face -- no need to alarm the others clustered around us in the corridor. A blank look on his face, he backed up a pace.

The rest of the task force had quietly surrounded my place, to the astonishment of a few of the neighbors. I had managed to talk them out of evacuating the entire area. The only reason I let Trapper in was that I didn't trust myself to make the arrest. Not hers.

Susan was cleaning the kitchen as I walked in with Trapper.

“Who's your friend, Jerry?” She ran over to hug and kiss me on the cheek, bringing tears to my eyes. “What's the matter? Why're you crying?”

I motioned to Trapper and turned away, shaking. I didn't see but heard the rest.

“Susan Jenkins, you're under arrest for murder. Please turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

There was a sob from Susan. Then a yell from Trapper, “Don't!”

I started to jerk around, cursing myself for my cowardice. I turned just enough to get Susan all over one side of my face as she blew her brains out with a concealed pistol. As it turned out, a .25cal.

***

I'm still on the force, technically at least. I see a shrink once a month now. It was weekly for a long time. That is, after I got out of the nuthouse. Right now, I'm on a forced vacation with half-pay. The new captain said they'll give me sergeant if I agree to retire on three-quarter pay. I don't know, but have a few weeks to decide. I'll probably take it. It should buy one hell of a lot of vodka.

The End.
Charlie