The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

  A large wood table takes up most of the dining room. The white walls are covered with an eclectic assortment of photos, old and new, not unlike the vestibule wall in Kyle Carter’s house. I do my best to get a good look at them, but there’s so many it’s hard to concentrate on just one. I make out Brit and her green eyes standing on a sandy beach, maybe in Cape Cod. She’s wearing a yellow polka dot bikini; I kid you not. She’s also wearing round Jackie O sunglasses. The wind is blowing, and she’s holding a big straw hat on her head with her left hand while blowing a kiss with her right. Her smile is infectious, and I swear I can hear the waves crashing above the sound of her laughter.

  “You like my teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikini, Steve?”

  I turn quickly. She’s carrying two glasses in her right hand and the now opened bottle of wine in the still bandaged left. She smiles and the way she’s looking at me just makes me want to melt into the carpeted floor.

  “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t, Brit,” I say.

  “Come sit,” she says, setting the wine on the coffee table.

  Taking her cue, I go to the couch and sit myself down. She goes back into the kitchen and comes out with a plate of cheese and crackers. Not Ritz Crackers like I’d probably serve, but expensive crackers. The cheese looks like an expensive Vermont cheddar too. My fave.

  “You going to pour for us, Steve?” she asks.

  “Call me, Jobz,” I remind her. “That’s what the people I’m closest to call me.”

  Grinning, she says, “Okay then, Jobz it is.”

  I pour two healthy portions. We both raise our glasses at the same time, as if we scripted it.

  “What shall we drink to?” she asks.

  “How about my mother’s health?” I say.

  “That’s a fine toast, Jobz,” she says, “but your mom is being well cared for right now. Let’s talk about other things tonight.”

  “Okay then,” I say. “How about we toast to you and me?”

  My mouth goes dry when I say it, and I swear my voice cracks like I’m fifteen again. And there go the sweaty palms. I guess you could say I’m whipped already. We clink glasses and take a sip. The wine is pretty good for a fifteen-dollar bottle. I set the glass down on the table, grab a piece of cheese, place it on a cracker, pop it in my mouth. The cheese is creamy and tangy, the cracker fresh. It snaps in my mouth. I’m in heaven.

  Brit drinks and sets her glass down. She does something that surprises me. She scooches closer to me, reaches for my tie with both hands, and begins to untie it.

  “You are far too formal tonight, Jobz,” she says. “You mind if I make you feel more relaxed?”

  She’s gotta ask? Just the feel of her hands on my necktie makes my blood rush to all the special places. I’m wondering if she can tell just how special she’s making me feel considering I’m now officially at full mast. She slides the tie out from under my collar and unbuttons the top button and the one below that. She’s right, I do feel much more relaxed. I also feel like I could ravage her right about now.

  We both drink more wine.

  “So, tell me, Jobz,” she says. “What do you do when you’re not out looking for bad guys or slackers committing unemployment insurance fraud?”

  No one’s ever asked me that before. I have to actually think about it for a beat or two. I drink more wine, eat more cheese and a cracker. Then, swallowing what’s in my mouth, I tell her that I used to be a fly-fishing guide.

  “Really,” she says. “I love to fish. I have a couple of fly rods. I’ve never really gotten the hang of it, though.”

  “That’s because you probably never learned from a pro,” I say.

  She gets up, heads down the hall, goes into her bedroom. After a moment, she comes back out with a fly rod in hand. It’s a short seven-footer, and I can tell just by looking at it that it’s a five weight. It’s outfitted with lime green, tapered floating line.

  “How’s about a quick lesson,” she says.

  I drink more wine, place my glass back down and get up.

  “Absolutely,” I say.

  Situating myself behind her, I take hold of her right hand and place the cork-covered fly rod grip in it.

  “Oops,” she says, “I’m a lefty.”

  “Oh,” I say, helping her shift the rod to her bandaged left hand. “I just assumed you were right-handed.”

  “I do some things with my right,” she says, “but my left is the dominant.”

  Something hits me then. It isn’t love pangs that poke at the inside of my stomach, but instead, realization. I’m currently looking for a left-handed murderer. A murderer who might have injured her hand when stabbing Anita Simon to death. But what the hell am I thinking? This is Brit Boido here. Not some sleazy, psycho killer. Brit is sweet, and kind, and beautiful. She’s a healer, not a killer. She’s Florence fucking Nightingale for Christ’s sakes.

  “Okay,” I say, trying to shake the bad thoughts and paranoid suspicions from my head, “Jerk the rod back and make a smooth arcing motion, like an inverted pendulum. Ten o’clock, two o’clock. Ten o’clock, two o’clock. It’s all in the wrist. Get it?”

  I’ve got my left hand wrapped around her left hand, and it’s making me so hard, I swear she’s got to feel me pressing up against her perfect, heart-shaped behind.

  “Ten o’clock, two-o’clock,” I repeat, while the rod moves up and down, up and down, nearly smacking against the ceiling at one point.

  I’m no longer pretending not to be pressing myself against her, but instead, making a point of it. Not that she minds, because I swear to God, she’s grinding her bottom against me.

  “Ten o’clock, two o’clock,” I repeat, my voice barely a whisper.

  That’s when she drops the rod, spins around, and plants her mouth against mine. Her tongue playing with my own, she begins to unbutton my shirt. I attempt to pull off her shirt. She’s forced to take a step back for the shirt to go over her head and her arms. At one point, the shirt gets stuck on her sticky bandage, but she manages to pull it off. The way her pert chest looks in her black pushup bra robs me of my breath. Reaching around her back, she unclasps the bra, allows it to fall away, exposing her perfect breasts, her erect nipples staring me in the face.

  I kiss her on the mouth again, but then kiss her neck, going lower and lower each time until I’m able to run my tongue and lips over her left nipple. Using my hand, I fondle the other breast while she breathes and moans heavily. That’s when I feel her unbuckling by belt and unbuttoning my khaki trousers. She pulls me out. I’m as stiff as a board. When she begins to pump me, I feel like it’s very possible I might release far too early. Taking her by her good hand, I lead her to the couch. Unbuttoning her jeans, I pull them down. She’s wearing silky black panties.

  “Sit,” I say.

  She sits herself down on the couch. Lifting her legs, I pull off her cowboy boots, one by one, and then her socks. I then pull her jeans off. Removing my own pants and shoes, I find myself only with my unbuttoned shirt on. I remove it. Dropping to my knees, I slowly pull her knees apart. She resists at first, as if I’m going way too fast for her. But I put a little strength into it, and she capitulates. Judging by the way she’s already moaning, I know she’s got to be soaked under that satin fabric.

  Kissing her thighs, I move more and more toward her until I place my mouth on her panties, rubbing her through the fabric. Her moaning becomes louder, deeper, and from the gut. I pull her panties aside and expose a perfectly manicured angel space. I ravage her warm, wet tenderness with everything I have. In return, she heaves her chest and pinches her nipples, twisting them into knots. Her eyes are closed and she’s loving the combination of pain and pleasure. That’s when I tear the panties off her body.

  She screams out, and I move in for more of her nectar until she can’t take it anymore, and she releases with a flood of juices that nearly drown me. Her cries become shrieks and she has no choice but to close her legs on my face, pushing against the top of my head with
both her hands.

  “You have to stop,” she says, her voice exasperated and strained. “I can’t take anymore. It’s too good, Jobz. It’s too good.”

  That’s when I raise myself, pulling her legs up and over my shoulders. I mount her slowly so that I don’t hurt her. I begin gradually, so that her tight warm wetness doesn’t make me explode too soon. I try to find a rhythm that suits us both. My face is stuffed into the nape of her neck and I can feel her fingernails scratching at my back.

  “Fuck me,” she says, in this demon voice that is nothing like her sweet natural voice. “Fuck me hard.”

  My heart is pumping wildly inside my chest, my breathing strained, my brain filled with so much adrenaline I’m convinced my skull is about to spring a leak. I know I can’t hold out much more and that she can’t either.

  “Fuck me,” she insists. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

  I feel myself coming to that summit, and I know she is too, our bodies no longer embracing but clashing violently. Finally, I release everything I’ve got into her and she echoes my liberation, once more screaming at the top of her lungs, her hips thrusting against mine like she’s trying to crush us both. Her fingernails dig into the skin on my back, and I can feel the warm blood. The pain is intense and raw, but it also feels so damned good.

  When we’re both finished, we slow our effort like a steam locomotive coming into the station, until all movement ceases and I gently lower her legs and shift myself beside her on the couch. Together, we breathe in the air and allow our hearts to calm down.

  “Well, that didn’t take very long,” she says, after a time.

  Her sweet Brit voice has returned, the demons having retreated back inside her soul. I suddenly feel somewhat self-conscious seated naked on the couch with a young woman who could easily have a far younger man as a suiter. Does anyone use the word suiter anymore? My mom used to use it. Dad was her suiter, she’d say. She always claimed not to have liked him at first. But he was persistent and eventually won her over. That was way back in the early 1950s when the war was still a vivid memory and most households still didn’t have televisions. Now, I’m listening to music playing via the Internet over a machine called a Bluetooth. Times change. Men and women’s desires don’t.

  Leaning forward, I drink down my wine and pour some more. I also pour more for Brit.

  “Why, thank you, sir,” she says.

  She drinks. Then, grabbing hold of her jeans, she slips back into them, sans panties. She also puts her shirt back on, also sans bra. I guess that’s my signal to get dressed again too. Listen, I’m the last to complain because at my age, working up a second round can most definitely take a while. Even with a woman as attractive and hot as Brit.

  “I gotta check on dinner,” she says, patting my thigh. “I also have to hit the little girl’s room to freshen up after our little wrestling match. I swear I worked up a sweat, Jobz.”

  “Glad to know you had fun, Brit.”

  She turns to me, bends over, plants a sweet kiss on my lips.

  “You are one sexy man,” she says.

  With that, she heads toward the back of the apartment and her bedroom.

  Suddenly, I’m alone with my nakedness. I’m not sure if what I’m feeling is happiness, or a sort of empty loneliness. I’m really falling for Brit, but I can’t help feeling like our lovemaking was a one-off thing. Time will tell, I guess. Best to just enjoy the moment and not worry over a future I have no control over.

  Getting myself quickly dressed, I grab my wine glass and decide to take a better look at all the framed pictures hanging on the wall. There must be three dozen of them. The subjects range from high school proms to her parents wedding back in the early eighties to some shots of Europe and even China’s Great Wall. Brit must be a traveler.

  As I’m slipping myself around the dining room table, I knock something onto the floor. It’s a set of car keys. Brit’s car keys. There’s a plastic electronic keycard attached to the key chain. It’s says Metabolic Meltdown. I know of the place. It’s where lots of women go to work their butts off to lose a lot of weight fast. She comes back in the room, still not wearing a bra, but her hair is now pulled back into a tight ponytail. Her face looks bright, happy, optimistic.

  I turn quick.

  “Just admiring your pictures,” I say.

  “Memories,” she says. “Only the good ones.”

  She heads into the kitchen and pulls the lid off a big metal pot, stirs what’s inside.

  “I didn’t know you belonged to Metabolic Meltdown,” I say.

  She spoons what looks like homemade mashed potatoes into soup bowls, then ladles out some of what’s been cooking in the pot onto them. Carrying them into the dining room, she asks me to take a seat. Since there’s a placemat set up in front of the chair right beside me, I pull it out and sit down. She sits down to my right-hand side.

  “Yes, I joined that gym a couple years ago. I’ve lost fifteen pounds and counting.”

  “It’s mostly women working out there, am I right?”

  “Some men, too,” she says. “Even a few cops work out there.”

  “No kidding,” I say.

  “Hope you like lamb stew,” she says, changing the subject while setting the bowls down.

  “Thought we were having stir fry,” I say.

  “I decided to put more thought into it,” she says, setting her hand on my hand. “You’re Mrs. Jobz’s son, after all.”

  “Being her son apparently has it perks,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says, pulling her hand away. “The wine.”

  “I can get it,” I say.

  “Nonsense,” she says. “You dig in. You must be starving after that workout.”

  She winks. I’ll be damned if I don’t feel myself getting aroused again. Maybe age really is just a number after all. Sliding out of her chair, she goes into the living room. Grabbing hold of the bottle, she also retrieves her glass.

  “This bottle is pretty much kicked,” she says. “I’ll open another.”

  She sets her glass down before her plate and heads back into the kitchen where she disappears behind the wall where the refrigerator is located. I hear her rummaging through her wine collection. I spoon a little of the stew into my mouth. It’s hot and delicious. I don’t want to eat without her, so for the hell of it, I turn and gaze at more of her pictures. I see one where she’s standing under the Eiffel tower. Another of her waterskiing on a lake. Maybe Lake George.

  But then, I spot yet another picture that makes my chest go tight. The picture is buried at the bottom of the wall maybe an inch above the white chair rail. The full-color image shows four women sitting around a table, drinking what looks to be margaritas.

  “I’ll be a stupid son of a bitch,” I whisper.

  “I’m sorry?” she says, coming back in with the new bottle of red.

  Quickly, I turn back around.

  “Oh, I was just commenting on all the nice places you’ve been,” I say. “I’ve never seen the Eiffel Tower.”

  “It’s magnificent,” she beams, spooning a small forkful of the stew into her mouth.

  I drain my wine, pour some of the new bottle. Pour some for Brit. So, what is this then? A setup of some kind? If she knows Kyle Carter and the rest of the women working at Loudonville Elementary School, including the now very deceased Anita Simon, how come she’s not all upset? Is it pure coincidence that she knows these women? Or are they all working together somehow?

  My mind is racing. But my gut is also telling me this: What if she is just as dangerous as Kyle Carter? What if she’s poisoning me right now? What if the stew is laced with something? Some kind of drug that will put me out and make it look like a stroke, just like Kyle Carter fed me? And for Christ’s sakes, she’s a lefty. She’s a lefty, and her left hand is injured. Maybe she cut it when she cut Anita Simon? Or is my imagination running away with itself?

  Whatever the hell is going on, my gut tells me to get the hell out of there and figure out
my next move.

  Think quick, Jobz, I silently tell myself.

  I place my fork down, slide out my chair.

  “You know what, Brit?” I say. “As delicious as this is, I’m not sure I can eat anymore.”

  “Oh no,” she says, feigning a pouty look of supreme disappointment. “I hope it’s not something I said, Jobz.”

  “Oh no, not at all,” I say, setting my hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s just that I’m suddenly not feeling that great. My head is pounding.”

  “Would you like some Advil?” she asks. “That will help.”

  “Nah,” I say, “it could be the wine. All those sulfites. I think I’ll head home and lie down. Call it an early night. I hope you understand.”

  She sets down her napkin and fork.

  “Can I at least send you home with some of this food?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “Tell you what. Why don’t you put it away, and we can reheat it say tomorrow night if you’re free? I’ll make sure to drink beer instead of wine, so there will be no headaches. How does that sound?”

  “Sure,” she says, suddenly smiling again. “I’ll be with your mom all day tomorrow and will be home by six-thirty. So come by again at seven and we can give tonight a mulligan.”

  She comes around the table then and kisses me lovingly on the mouth, her tongue playing with my tongue.

  “We will have one hell of a repeat performance, if you get my drift, Jobz,” she says with a wink of her green eye.

  “Promise?” I ask, playing along.

  “Promise.”

  Heading to the couch, I grab my jacket and tie. I head for the door and open it.