by Jewel Geffen
Too late. “Bad?”
“Oh, it's all above board and legal, Chapel. Nothing you could ever pin on anybody. I've been doing this long enough though, I trust my nose. And these people stink. Wouldn't surprise me to find out they're even more dangerous than you seem to think.”
“I'll be careful.” Scott said, a bit impatiently, and reached for the folder.
Jack yanked it back, holding it just out of reach. “One more thing, Chapel.”
“What's that, Jack?”
He shook his head. “You didn't get any of this shit from me, understand?”
“I know the deal, Jack. Come on, you know you can trust me.”
Jack Kowalski snorted. “Bet there are a lot of guys who heard that right before they took a bad fall.” But he handed the folder over.
Scott took it eagerly, tucking it under his arm, only just managing to resist the urge to rip it open right there in the alley and start looking it over. Everything the police force had on Reginald Mason, Patrick Bernard and the Black and White Club. It might end up being nothing much, but there was a good stack of paper, at least. Could turn up a few nuggets of gold in there. Something that might give him the upper hand he needed.
“Thanks, Jack. You won't regret it.”
“I already do,” Kowalski grunted, then he turned to walk away, tapping out and lighting another cigarette as he lumbered into the darkness of the steamy alleyway.
* * *
The phone clicked. “Who the fuck is this?” barked a hard voice.
“You don't know me, Mr. Bernard.”
“So why the fuck do I wanna talk to you? And how'd you get this number? This is an unlisted phone, or at least it's fucking supposed to be.”
Scott glanced across the table. James stood leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He took a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “You don't know me, Mr. Bernard, but I know you.”
“Well, that's fucking cryptic. Is this a wind-up? I'm a busy man; I don't have time to play games.”
“I've been going by the name of Luke Mallory, but my real name is Scott Chapel.”
A bark of incredulous laughter. “What, are you a fucking superhero or something? You got a secret identity?”
“Not exactly, Mr. Bernard. See, the thing is, I've been... until recently, employed by Mr. Reginald Mason.”
There was a long silence, nothing but the hiss of static on the line. Scott almost thought the other man had hung up on him, but the line was still active.
“The owner of the Black and White Club?” he tried again.
“I fucking know who he is,” Bernard said, sounding like he was grinding his teeth fit to crack his mouth. That, or crushing the plastic of the phone receiver in his fist.
Scott tapped his fingers on the police file. The pages had all been neatly returned to the folder, but only after James and he had spent the last twenty-four hours poring over them. It had been an eye-opening experience. There had been dozens of charges made against men associated with both Mason and Bernard, only to be mysteriously dropped.
It took some work to piece it all together, and there were enough gaps that Scott couldn't do more than guess at the real truth, but it painted a picture of what could be going on. The way Scott saw it, Mason and Bernard had been waging a sort of social shadow war against one another for years now. If this had been an attempt by Patrick Bernard to blackmail members of Black and White Club as a way of getting back at Mason, then it was but one in a long line of similar incidents.
“The truth is, I'm starting to suspect that he's... well... up to something, if you take my meaning. More than that. I think he might be out to get you personally.”
Bernard grunted. “No news there. Reggie's a born schemer; he's always fucking up to something. And of course he's after me. Has been for years.”
“Yes, but... well, I have some information about him that I don't feel comfortable disclosing over the phone, sir. Something about a plot against you.”
“A plot, eh?”
“That's right. Would it be possible to meet, sir? I'd feel more comfortable if we could talk in person.”
Another long silence. “If you've got my unlisted number, than I assume you know my fucking address, too.”
“Uh, yes sir, I do, actually...”
“Good. Be here at two o'clock tomorrow, two o'clock sharp.”
Click. The line went dead. Scott dropped the phone and sat back. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His whole body was soaked with sweat, and it wasn't just because of the heat.
“You sure this is a good idea?” James asked.
Scott laughed. “I'm sure it's a terrible idea, but I'm doing it anyway. Is there a word for that? Some fancy physiological term?”
James shrugged. “How about... crazy?”
Scott snorted. “Yeah, maybe. Gotta roll the dice sometime, though, know what I mean?”
“Not entirely.”
“Forget it. Come on, let's go over the file again, see if we missed anything. I wanna make sure I'm ready. Big meeting tomorrow.”
Chapter Twelve
Scott looked up at the grand facade of the mansion in front of him. It towered overhead, baroque and imposing. Huge ionic columns rose on either side of the door. A hideous marble gargoyle crouched overhead, its face twisted in an expression of warning and contempt.
Shaggy willows surrounded the mansion, which stood on a wide raised clearing over a tangle of swampland. It was like some horrible Gothic vampire's castle, Scott thought. He was beginning to question his decision to come after all, but it was too late to turn back now.
He glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. Best not keep the man waiting. He stepped forward and banged on the ornate bronze knocker.
A moment later the door swung open. Scott was leaning against one of the columns, trying to project an air of assured nonchalance. He just about fell flat on his face when he saw who'd opened the door.
It was a gorgeous young black woman, her long dark hair worn up in a complex sort of braid. She was slender and tall, her body supple and muscles toned. She had on a bold expression, and greeted him not with words, but with a flashing of her brown eyes.
She was also, Scott couldn't help but notice, completely naked.
Her small breasts were fully on display, the dark tips of her ebony nipples gleamed and shone in the sunlight as if she'd just rubbed them with ointment. She had no hair between her dark thighs, only smooth mocha-brown skin.
She stood there for a long moment, one hand on her hip. She seemed to be waiting for him to say something, challenging him, almost. Scott had no problem admitting to himself that he wasn't up to the challenge. He just blushed and averted his eyes, trying his hardest not to stare.
It took some serious effort. The woman was gorgeous, electrically sexual. Her brazen attitude only made her all the more enticing.
Finally, after what seemed like a silent eternity, she cocked her head towards the house. “Come on then,” she said, her voice flat and affectless – a hint of a creole accent, he thought. “He's expecting you.”
Scott nodded, bowing his head a little, and he stepped inside.
The house was just as staggering and overwhelming on the inside as its exterior edifice had been. Scott found it a good deal more difficult to pay attention to it, however; all his focus was on the supple pair of ebony buttocks in front of him, the naked hips swaying from side to side as she led him deeper inside the mansion.
At last they came to a huge room, expansive and many-windowed with large couches and chairs everywhere, and a massive unlit fireplace against the far wall.
A huge white man sat in an equally massive chair. His expansive bulk seemed hardly contained by the enormous seat. Scott thought to himself that there wasn't a chair in the whole world suited to his girth.
It wasn't just fat, though, he wasn't merely obese. There was a strength and power to his size as well, a sense of lumbering might. His size was not due
to sloth, Scott guessed, but to excess. He was a man of huge appetites run wild, who saw no need to restrain himself for the approval of others.
His massive hands, the thick fingers covered in jeweled rings, gripped the edges of his chair so tightly that it appeared as if he were preparing to rip them right off.
The woman sauntered across the room and draped herself over the back of his chair, her pert dark breasts resting along the backrest. She trailed her fingers lazily through the man's thick black hair, all the while staring boldly at Scott.
Scott stood uncertainly in the middle of the room. The huge man seemed to be stripping him with his cold gray eyes – not only undressing, but actually peeling the flesh from his very bones.
This could only be Patrick Bernard. Scott could see at once that he wasn't the sort of flinch at anything, certainly not at ordering the house of somebody who'd crossed him to be burned down. He was clearly capable of that, and a good deal more.
“I'm a busy man,” Mr. Bernard rumbled coldly, “so I'll ask you to make this brief. Who are you really, and what the fuck do you want?”
Scott swallowed. Time to lay the cards out. Some of them, anyway. I'll keep the ace in my pocket for now. “I'm a private detective. Chapel Investigations.”
“Never heard of you,” he grunted.
“No reason you should have. I'm small time, but I happened to land a big case, by chance, mostly.”
“Congratulations,” Bernard growled, his voice dripping sarcasm.
“Reggie Mason hired me to look into a prowler. Someone photographing women who were members of his Club. The Club of which, I believe, you are a member.”
“That's incorrect. I haven't set foot in Mason's little bordello for years now.”
“Right. Because of the falling out.”
Bernard leaned forward, the chair beneath him creaking ominously. “What would you know about that?”
“Nothing really, just that something happened and the two of you aren't on good terms anymore.”
“That's an understatement, but go on.”
“Mr. Mason intimated to me, on multiple occasions, that you might be the one responsible for hiring the prowler.”
Bernard's eyes flashed. “What?” he snapped.
Scott felt his stomach flip over. This was a dangerous game he was playing here, setting up two titans against one another with himself in the middle. Good way to get crushed, Scott. “He seemed to think you were trying to bring down the club by frightening all the most important women away.”
“And what do you think, Mr. Private Eye?” Bernard cracked his knuckles dangerously.
“I think he's out to get you. I think it's a vendetta. I think he's trying to use me as a pawn to bring you down. And I don't like being used.” Scott shrugged, strolling across the room to take a seat opposite the hulking man. “If he'd been straight with me, I'd have had no problem running a frame job on you, I'll be honest.”
“Is that so?” Bernard said, his voice low and dangerous.
“But I don't like being played,” Scott said, doing his best to sound just as dangerous. “So I have a proposal for you.”
“And what is that?”
Scott spread his arms out. “Use me. Flip the tables on him. I'm affordable, and I'm offering you the chance to give me a job. One that's going to put the Black and White Club out of business forever.”
He bit his lower lip. His back was prickling with sweat. Was Bernard going to take the bait? If he did, then Scott had his in. He'd be able to get the inside scoop on what Bernard was up to, maybe shut him down before he could do any more damage. It was a fine line to walk, however.
Patrick Bernard was rubbing his chin. “It's an interesting proposition,” he said slowly. “I have one question before I give it anymore consideration, though.”
“What's that?”
“Who's Luke Mallory?”
Scott blinked. Shit. He'd forgotten that he'd given Bernard that name. What reason could he give for it that would make sense? It didn't completely fit with the private eye story he'd given Bernard, and he couldn't just come out and say that he'd gone to the Club looking for information on Bernard, now would he? But, then again...
“A cuckold,” he said. “He's a man who can't satisfy his wife in bed. No white man could, and he knows it. He's a man who wants to watch his wife fuck a negro.”
Bernard's lips curled into a damp smirk. “Ah...” he said, “of course. So that's all it took, eh? One little peek into our little world, and already you're converted. One of us...”
Scott shrugged. “It just... made sense. I arranged for my wife and I to get an invitation to the Club. We're members now. It's what put me on to what Mason's getting up to, really.”
Bernard lifted his hand, the tips of his thick fingers rubbing slightly together. Then he snapped his fingers, a sharp and loud sound in the wide room. “Let's see,” he said, “just how much of a cuckold you really are, Mr... Mallory.”
Chapter Thirteen
The naked brown-skinned woman came languorously around the chair, then dropped to her knees in front of Mr. Bernard.
He leaned back in his seat, his gaze fixed on Scott as she unbuttoned his pants and pulled down the zipper. She reached her slender dark fingers into his pants and drew out a thick short cock, pale and limp, and she lowered her mouth down onto it. Her brown lips closed over the pink head, and she started to suck on him.
“They say the human species originated in Africa, you know. We were all brown once.” Bernard reached down to pet the woman's hair, a gesture of affectionate control.
“That so?” Scott asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“Hm, indeed.” He pushed the woman's head down on himself, shifting his hips slightly to maneuver himself into a better position. “Whatever might have been gained by men coming to colder northern climates – a certain amount of innovation prompted by a harsher environment, perhaps – we lost in sexual prowess. There is no greater lover than the African, don't you agree?”
Scott shrugged, his throat dry and his palms sweating.
“My dear wife is on a cruise at the moment. I've no doubt she's prostrating herself before the swarthy islanders, and why not? What better use for a white woman than to serve the cocks of a superior race?”
Scott swallowed. “Well, I can't think of anything.”
“Of course,” Bernard said, grinning coldly. “It's a simple fact of nature. I don't consider it an affront to my ego that I not be so well-endowed as other men. They have their role in the great play, and I my own. To them the physical, and to I?” he tapped one finger against his temple.
“What happened between you and Mason?” Scott asked.
Bernard sighed. “Ah, that fucking nonsense. Of course, but you said you're an investigator. Always have your nose on the case, eh? Well, good for you.”
“I'd like to know. I want to make sure I'm on the right side of this thing.”
Of course he had no such desire. Bernard was guilty, it had been obvious from before Scott had even walked in the door. Everything about the man proclaimed his guilt. There was no question in Scott's mind that he'd found his man. Getting something he could use to pin down the slippery bastard was going to be a whole 'nother trick.
Bernard leaned back in his seat, putting both hands now on the woman's head, guiding her up and down on him.
“Mason likes to present himself as the great enlightened patron, but the truth is that he's only in it for the control. He wants everybody in that club under his thumb. I don't let anybody do that to me, and I don't let anyone do it to my wife.”
“And that's really it?”
“Does there need to be more? I don't let any white man tell me how to conduct my business in the bedroom, especially not a dandy fucker like Reggie Mason.”
“I see.”
“How about you, Mr... let's say Mallory. Do you let anyone boss you around?”
Scott sat back, interlacing his fingers across his lap. “My wi
fe's at home right now with her black lover. They were in my bed when I left this morning. He had her face-down with her hands behind her back.”
Bernard's breath started to come a little faster, his eyes sparkling with excitement.
“He was fucking her while she begged him for more and told him how much better his cock was than mine had ever been. When I go home he's going to shove my face between her thighs and make me eat his cum out of her pussy, and then he's going to make me thank him for it.”
Bernard's smile widened. “I might fucking like to see something like that,” he said, “I just might fucking like it.”
“So, what do you think of my offer? Can we help each other?”
“Tell you what, Mallory. I'm having a bit of a get together on my boat next week when the wife gets back. An intimate gathering of like-minded people coming together for an afternoon of sensual delights. It should be a lovely fucking time. You bring your darling wife, and after I see what she can do, maybe the two of us will discuss your proposal a little bit more.”
He gestured for the woman to rise. She stood obediently in front of him, head bowed, a strand of drool hanging from her lower lip. He reached up, clasping her hips, and he gave her bottom a little shake.
“Isn't she a marvel?” he said, licking his lips. “A beast of pure sex... She's a nymphomaniac, you understand. Overcharged with lust.” He spat on his hand and pushed it roughly between her dark thighs. Her expression didn't change a fraction as he rubbed her cunt, then drew her down on him.
Scott forced himself to watch, torn between arousal and disgust, as she started to fuck the fat man in the chair.
The punishing heat continued to hang in the air, and soon they were both damp with sweat. He grunted every time she came down on his cock, and her brow furrowed with each penetration.
Scott felt a trickle of sweat roll down between his shoulder blades.
“This is,” Patrick Bernard groaned, clutching her hips and opening his mouth wide, “the way it was meant to be.”
Chapter Fourteen
