Then, on the extremely rare occasions when Craig manages to last for more than two minutes, or he finally gets it right and Judy lets out a tiny whimper, he always asks in his arrogant tone, “Who’s your Daddy?”
Then, with her eyes closed, she stares into those big blue eyes, smiles to herself, and replies, “You, my Love. Only…You.”
* * * *
In his peripheral vision, Trotter noticed Judy Sloan’s movement as he passed by her window, but chose to ignore it as he always did. He entered his apartment, closed the door behind him, tossed his gym bag on the sofa, and then raided the refrigerator.
Trotter loved living in this gated apartment complex, The Ocean Oasis. No maintenance worries, no lower class scum; mostly young professional people lived here, such as three hundred dollar an hour lawyers, accountants, and over paid doctors.
Except for that odd Sloan couple. Craig Sloan worked night shift at an Aluminum processing plant as a fork truck driver. Rumor had it that Judy and a younger, but just as greedy, sister inherited their father’s three acre ‘gentleman’s farm’ outside of Pittsburgh, but quickly sold it without any of their brothers’ knowledge. How else could they afford to live here? Trotter regarded the wife as psychopathic; she was always peeking out the window at everybody. Even their kids are weird. Craig Junior’s hobby was shooting rabbits with his grandfather’s twelve-gauge shotgun.
The Ocean Oasis even had some poor bastard on their payroll to clean up any messes the tenants left behind in their state of the art gym. Imagine that! Fourteen hundred bucks a month let you be a slob, never cut grass, or fix a leaky faucet. Then use as much free hot water as you wanted. Topping it off, the townhouse came completely furnished, including access to a resort style swimming pool.
Craig overly enjoyed relaxing at that pool with an Old Milwaukee in his hand and a half dozen more on ice in his cooler. Most sunny days, an endless stream of young creamy blondes lounged about living the casual California lifestyle in their skimpy, flesh-revealing, fantasy-inducing bikinis. Did they actually think nobody was watching when they did their boyfriends in the corners of the deep end? They always did it in the corners of the pool in the deep end. Once while poolside and trying to relax and nap, Trotter had witnessed an angry mother chase a boy from the pool, while her hormonally distraught daughter protested, screaming, “Honest! Zach and I were only hugging and kissing, Mother…Really! What do you think I am? A slut?” He noticed Craig Sloan had clearly been disappointed to see the young couple go when he poured half a beer on himself trying to hide the fact he was not in fact reading the newspaper but had been watching the scene play out before him. Trotter had been quite amused by the girl’s response and very much glad to see the disgusting young couple leave.
Seven thirty, right on schedule Trotter figured as he finished his morning smorgasbord of tofu, celery, carrots, three raw eggs and whole grain toast, plain of course. Then, an assortment of protein-enriched vitamins for dessert all washed down with skim milk. All of the supplements were 100 percent natural; Trotter never took any artificially engineered crap manufactured in a laboratory. Doesn’t everybody know steroids cause the male genitalia to shrink?
God forbid—if one was ever to mention the word ‘steroids,’ or even drop a hint that Jack Trotter used chemicals to achieve his enormous muscles, you just opened a huge can of whoop ass. Exactly like the one Rick Newman, a medium built, young red haired man with acne, so sorely opened last Saturday morning in The Oasis’s gym.
Could it have been more than a mere coincidence that it was precisely one week before the famous diva, Fontaine, was to perform her farewell concert?
* * * *
Trotter was spotting the bar for the up and coming anesthesiologist, which prevented the one hundred and fifty pound barbell from falling on Newman, which could easily crush his windpipe or fracture his ribs. Trotter stood behind the weakling, and gently pulled up on the barbell as Newman strained to press it.
“You should consider getting yourself some vitamins or protein shakes, Rick. You’ll notice faster muscle growth.” Trotter willingly advised the smaller man.
“That stuff’s probably a waste of money. How many steroids would a fifty-dollar bill get me? You must have a line on some good shit.”
To that insinuating query, Trotter flew into a rage, jerked the barbell from Newman’s hands and slammed the measly one hundred and fifty pounds into the supports. Then, in one quick maneuver, he straddled the smaller man and sat on his chest, causing the air to expel from his lungs with a grunting sound.
He pointed his finger in Newman’s face. “First off, you little sum bitch, I don’t use that shit to get these.” To get his point across, he made a muscle, leaned forward and shoved his massive bicep under Newman’s chin.
Then he straightened back up, but resumed pointing in the kid’s wide-eyed face, and smugly stated, “And secondly, since you brought up illegal substances, The Ocean Oasis security cameras have Rocco Donatelli, and you, smoking crack in his Jeep. Not just once, but twice.” Trotter then melodramatically shook his head in mocked disbelief, and chuckled deviously.
Rocco, convicted two months ago for possession and intent to sell an ounce of pure crack cocaine, was a medium level dealer. Trotter followed him out of The Ocean Oasis one night, and then busted him for selling the drugs an hour later in a nightclub parking lot. Detective Trotter received accolades for the arrest.
“We also have what looks like you two exchanging drugs for money in his four wheel drive. Are you fucking stupid? Or did you just forget I’m a cop?”
Newman tried to answer, but could not speak because of Trotter’s weight. He saw the younger man attempt speech, but no words could come out, so he stood up, but stayed straddled over Newman. Trotter folded his arms and looked down at him with that, Well—I don’t have all day, look. Newman caught his breath. “I just thought…you were a cool cop. Come on dude, we even partied together.”
“Having a beer while watching the Pittsburgh Steelers kick the shit out of our beloved Chargers does not constitute…partying.” Trotter chuckled some more, while shaking his head.
However, he then got seriously mad, and pointed that menacing finger again. “There are two reasons why your ass is not sitting in a jail cell right now next to Rocco’s. One, I convinced the boys downtown that since your supplier was taken off the streets, you’d lead us to another one. And guess what?” He laughed. “You did! We now also have pictures of you and a known felon named Leon Sullivan doing business. I can haul your ass downtown right now on probable cause alone, then come back here with a search warrant, and the DEA, to kick in your door; interrupting your cute little wifey’s…Calgon moment.”
Trotter paused, giving the kid a moment for the mental picture to hit him. He noticed a small scowl quickly appear and fade just as fast. Then he asked, “How do you think Marcy would like that shit? Huh?”
“She wouldn’t,” Newman answered in a slightly disgusted tone. How could I’ve been so fucking stupid? Mental images of a SWAT team trashing his place while his wife stood by in her robe, crying, played out in his mind. An even more terrifying thought was when he envisioned the Narcs finding his stash and paraphernalia hidden in his bedroom closet. Prison! Oh! Fuck me!
“No, I don’t think she would like that, either.” Trotter said, smiling, while arrogantly nodding his head in agreement, saying further, “My guess is…it would definitely ruin her day. Yours, too.”
The smile faded from the detective’s face, he continued, “The second reason why you’re not sitting in jail is…you’re going to do me a little favor. I need you to, uh…get me a few…things.”
“You’re a friggin’ cop for Christ’s sakes. What could I possibly get, that you don’t have access to?” Newman asked nervously, wondering if Trotter was just setting him up for a bigger bust. He knew he was toast, and best co-operate.
“And you will deliver in one week, or less, by this coming Saturday, or you will be sleeping with one eye open,
praying your cellmate, Bubba, doesn’t wake up with a hard-on. Do you understand? You got exactly…one week. Not one day longer, Newman!”
“Yes…No. What? What is it you want?” The kid scrunched his face in frustration. “If I can get…these things, will you let me off the hook?” A little plea bargaining couldn’t hurt right about now.
“Yeah, you’ll get off, but Leon will be taken down, with your anonymous help of course. Then, since you co-operated and helped put a felon back where he belongs, I can convince the court you’re just a user and recommend rehab over jail time…and I guarantee you’ll never do either. I can make you disappear in a paper trail. Do we understand each other?”
“I understand everything. Except for what you want.” Newman shrugged his shoulders and held his hands up. “Well? What is it that you fucking want from me?”
Trotter finally told the anesthesiologist exactly what goods he wanted. He also warned Newman, in a low growling voice, “If a single soul finds out about this…you will, most definitely…be leaving The Ocean Oasis complex in a body bag. Capiche?”
Newman’s eyes widened and he nodded yes. Trotter’s face showed business.
Both men left the gym. Trotter took his usual way home and noticed that crazy Sloan woman peeking out her window, again. Get a life!
Chapter Two
“Rain on the Scarecrow, Blood on the Plow.”
John Cougar Mellencamp
Newman went to his apartment; his pretty wife asked, “Did you have a nice workout today, Honey? You look like you sure worked up a sweat.”
“Yes, I can feel my muscles toning up.”
“Did that big detective spot the bar for you, again?”
“Yes, Marcy, he did, and he gave me some good advice, too.” Newman certainly was not lying about that. Believing Trotter was very capable of murder, he pictured his wife crying frantically over his dead ass, wrapped snuggly in a body bag.
“Gee, it’s so nice to have a cop as a friend. Do you think Jack can get me out of my speeding ticket?”
“No! He might think that would be illegal.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I need a shower.”
He went to the bedroom closet, retrieved his stash, and flushed everything. Then he called Leon from the bedroom phone and quietly told the dealer, “I’m going to dry out for a while. Do not stop by here anymore. I’m done with that shit. The hospital’s doing random drug testing again.” Then he took his shower.
* * * *
Trotter finished his skim milk and put his vitamins back in the cupboard. He grabbed his car keys and left his townhouse, just as Rick Newman exited his apartment across the parking lot. Out of the corner of his eye, Newman saw the huge ape heading toward his Mustang. He pretended not to notice Trotter’s presence by looking at his Rolex and adjusting his turquoise studded cufflinks, while hurriedly walking to his brand new 1990 Audi.
“Hey, Rick!” Newman heard the ex-marine call out his name. Shit! He stopped alongside his car; a terrified look plastered his face. He watched as Trotter covered the thirty or so feet between them in about seven strides. This motherfucker walks like a God damned Sasquatch! Then his mind raced—What’s today? Christ, it’s Thursday already. I have only today or tomorrow to fill the rest of his order. The scalpel and hypodermic were easy. The other shit’s going to be tough.
“Look Rick, I just want you to know I’ve seen what those steroids can do to a young man. They shrivel your nuts, and make you mean. That’s why I stay clear of them.”
Trotter then chuckled as he added. “Not to mention, they’re an illegal substance. I like my boys the way they are, and I definitely wouldn’t want to, uh, get mean. That is, not unless I have a very good reason. Capiche?” Trotter’s friendly looking face then faded to that of a psychotic axe murderer’s face as he chuckled again, more deviously.
Newman wanted to stay on good terms with the huge cop. Especially since, Trotter had those incriminating surveillance tapes. With that in mind, he forced a chuckle, too. “Yeah, Jack, if you were mean, that barbell might have ended up on my throat last Saturday. Thank God you’re such a nice fellow.”
That didn’t come out quite right and the kid stuttered. “Wha, wha, what I mean is…” but Trotter cut him short, he knew the skinny little runt was pissing his pants from the intimidation and humiliation. “We’ll talk later, gotta run.”
Trotter offered his hand, the smaller man acted reluctant, but then he figured he had better shake, so he quickly grabbed Trotter’s oversized paw, and tried to give a convincingly firm handshake. However, Trotter picked up on this immediately and simply could not resist. He very easily matched the pressure the much smaller guy exerted, then he applied much more in a steady squeeze while saying, “Hey, uh, if you’re free this Saturday, maybe we could uh, you know…do some benching…We’ll put three hundred on the bar for you…And I better have my stuff…by then, or you…are… going down!” He emphasized the words “stuff” and “are” by squeezing extremely hard, and then even harder, holding the pressure.
The force generated by Trotter’s huge hand was to the point of intolerable pain for the smaller man. In a slightly higher than normal tone of voice, behind clenched teeth, Newman answered while grimacing, “Sounds great,” as he jerked his hand out of what felt like a vice. “I’ll be there Saturday, and I’ll have your stuff.”
“Excellent! I’ll knock on your door this Saturday morning. And Rick, don’t forget what I said about the body bag,” Trotter warned the yuppie. Then he executed an about face and walked to his own car, a shit-eating grin stretched from ear to ear.
Newman got in his Audi and shook the blood back into his hand; under his breath he cursed, “God damned pig.” Then he used his left hand to put the keys in the ignition. They dropped to the floor the first time when he tried using his red, swelling right hand. I see I’m going to have fun at work today.
Trotter, still grinning, chirped the tires when he pulled out of the lot. He turned the CD player on and sang along with Hank Jr., “This country boy will survive! This country boy will survive!”
* * * *
Trotter drifted back in time to when he moved permanently to the West Coast and ordered ‘Da Stang,’ the pet name he christened his ride. Brand new in 1968, he ordered every bell and whistle Henry Ford had to offer. The Shelby Cobra GT Five Hundred came painted midnight black, with white pin striping. The day the dealer called informing Trotter his car was in, he went down, paid cash, and took his new set of wheels for a test drive up Oceanside Boulevard.
Ten miles out of town where traffic was sparse, he stopped on a long flat stretch beside a road sign that read rest area—quarter mile. He put his wristwatch in stopwatch mode, hit start and mashed the accelerator to the floor simultaneously. When he flew past the exit ramp, he glanced quickly at the speedometer as he stopped the watch. The Mustang ate the quarter mile in fourteen seconds at a hundred and five miles per hour. Piss poor performance for a six thousand-dollar muscle car, Trotter reasoned. For Christ’s sakes, when he was seventeen he had a piece of shit Mercury that would dust this thing.
He turned his brand new Mustang around and drove back to town, directly to Vinnie’s Speed Shop. Trotter went in and found the owner adjusting the timing on a vintage Willys Coupe. The bright red two-door coupe had big fat Goodyear racing slicks sticking out beyond the wheel wells. “What can I do for ya, big fella?” asked Vinnie Martinez, in a heavy Spanish accent. He smiled, proudly displaying his gold tooth.
“Is this old Coupe fast?” Trotter wanted to know.
“Fast…Fast? I’m turning low tens in the quarter mile on high test unleaded. Nitrous has a tendency to burn through the pistons, so I don’t run that class anymore. This baby has a four forty cubic inch vee eight, she’s punched out thirty over, balanced and blue printed; she has two four barrels, a full race cam, four inch stainless exhaust, headers, and solid lifters. She dynos at eight hundred and fifty horses! It’s not a street legal machine anymore. She’s set up for the quart
er mile with a four eleven rear end. If you wanna go any faster, find a jet. This baby will definitely…shit and git!”
Obviously, to Trotter, Vinnie was very proud of his ‘41 Willys, and he also seemed to be much more knowledgeable compared to an everyday grease monkey. “How much does a guy hafta shell out for that kind of…shit and git?”
With greasy, gasoline-smelling fingers, Vinnie pulled a toothpick from his shirt pocket, which of course had ‘Vinnie’ embroidered on it. He picked at a piece of a nacho chip wedged between his gold tooth and a nicotine stained tooth, spit it on the floor and answered, “If you’re gonna build an engine…do it up right, Man. Punch it out, go with forged connecting rods, eight quart oil pan, heavy duty oil pump…Here.” He reached down and pulled a Hot Rod magazine from the bottom toolbox drawer, already creased opened to the centerfold, which highlighted his Willys. He handed it to Trotter.
Trotter’s eyes widened.
“Here’s a complete list of what I did to this Willys.” The magazine covered all the parts and detailed the technical hows and whys.
“To do this to your ride, labor included, you’ll have around twelve G’s invested. What kind of car are we talking?”
Absent mindedly, Trotter pointed out the window as he admired the photos and the write up on the old coupe. “That black Mustang over there.”
Vinnie had to take a step around Trotter’s bulk. He peered out the window. “Wow! Sweet ride,” Vinnie exclaimed. “Yeah, but these new cars are pretty much all show and no go. I’m a Mopar freak myself, but that Ford definitely has potential. I can get you around a buck thirty in the quarter mile, pushing low elevens, top speed at about one fifty with six hundred plus ponies tucked under your hood. She’ll eat stock Corvettes and shit GTO’s when I’m done with her, and still be street legal.”
Born of Greed Page 2
