View Full Version : A Waif In the Alley 2 0f 2 Be careful of those casual pickups. Adult 3,000

March 7th, 2020, 03:33 PM
“Wait outside and keep your eye open for a blue Honda Civic,” she ordered while getting out.

I was doubleparked in front of a three-story brownstone in the better part of town. “Better leave him his pistol,” I told her, “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 doubleparked 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 women with guns.

She finally returned, 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,” she said. “I had a little money stashed at Terry's place.”

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 sat 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 is considered 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 returned. I looked in my wife ... Susan's room and saw her suitcase open 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 apartment 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 a 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. As with doctors and lawyers, a policeman gets pestered for free advice. But doctors don't get asked to fix speeding-tickets and bail out strange two-headed slobbering 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 for a couple of drinks in a bar we’d passed 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 seven,” I instructed a huge but simpering bartender.

Wrong part of the bar. A nice-looking woman 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 wiseguys 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 travelling 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 made home where I had another drink or three. The next thing I knew was waking up, again in my favourite 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 clinking of glass. By the time I propped myself against the doorway, I remembered something else -- 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.

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 first 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 spotted 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 intimate sub-molecular contact. The sweet tender odors of love, merging with animistic grunts and whines of fulfilment.

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? Such as 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 police 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 prison.”

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 before 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 pillowcase, 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 six cases going. We were supposed to handle only four, 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 a 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 took 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 during which he hosted a bullet in the leg 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, scarfing up 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 pile’a bullshit.” I retrieved my own 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 pay.

“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 entire 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, I didn't give a shit if they killed each other off.

An address caught my eye. The guy had been stabbed, found in his car near the alley where I’d found Susan. And his address was nearly the same as where I’d taken Susan. 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 driven 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 building, 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.
Hvysmker -- Charlie