Hot Sheets

by Ray Gordon

  "There's someone at the bloody door!"

  "Yes, yes I'm just going."

  "Coming again, more likely! Don't stain the bloody carpet!"

  Opening the door as Cecilia dragged the vacuum cleaner upstairs, Mike held his hand to his head as he gazed at Miss Chaste standing on the step. Dragging the woman inside, he decided to call Dickwipe and have her banged up in a secure unit for senile old bags.

  "Miss Chaste!" he bellowed, slamming the door shut. "What on earth are you doing here?"

  "I rang you," she quavered. "I told you that I'd be here this morning."

  "But you're supposed to be in the mental home. You can't stay here; this is no longer a hotel."

  "I was sixteen years old once, Mr Hunt."

  "What?"

  "Young and beautiful."

  "I suppose we were all sixteen once. You can't miss out a year, it's not possible."

  "You wouldn't send me away if I were sixteen now, would you?"

  "Well, I..."

  "I've had a message."

  "Who from?"

  "The other side, Mr Hunt."

  "Beyond the grave? That doesn't surprise me, seeing as you've already got one foot in the grave!"

  "No, a message from the enemy. I was..."

  "Look, go and sit in the bar," Mike interrupted her as the doorbell rang again. "I'll come and talk to you in a minute."

  Breathing a sigh of relief as the old woman wandered off, Mike grabbed the door handle. Cecilia masturbating with the vacuum cleaner handle, Dickwipe surveying the building, Miss Chaste off her rocker, and now Harold Gloom going on about double agents! It was all too much! Opening the door, he grabbed Harold's arm and yanked him into the foyer.

  "Harold, get in here!" Mike bellowed. "What's all this crap about Miss Chaste?"

  "I met her on the beach. She told me that she's working for the other side, the enemy."

  "She's gone off her head, for Christ's sake!"

  "No, she told me that someone's out to kill me. However could she have known that unless she's an agent?"

  "What did she say, exactly?"

  "That I should be careful because someone was going to have me done away with."

  "She's here, in the bar. Christ, the bloody doorbell again!" Mike cursed.

  "I'll go into the bar and wait for you."

  "Yes, yes all right!"

  Someone hammering on the door as the phone rang, Mike didn't know which way to turn. His so-called staff were bloody useless, he reflected, deciding to answer the door. Dashing out of the kitchen, topless, Goldie grabbed the phone and sat on the desk as Mike opened the door.

  "Ah, Inspector Dickwipe!" he smiled. "How did the survey go?"

  "I've just seen a man resembling Harold Gloom's description enter this very hotel, Mr Hunt!"

  "Really?"

  "Yes, really. Who came in here just now?"

  "Er... no one."

  "Do you mind if I check the bar?"

  "Well, er..."

  "Why is that girl topless?" Dickwipe asked, pointing at Goldie.

  "Er... she's just had a shower."

  "Somewhat unethical to make a phone call with her breasts exposed like that, isn't it?"

  "She is somewhat unethical, I'm afraid. Do you know, when she was..."

  "To the bar, Mr Hunt!"

  "Yes, of course."

  Following the inspector, Mike decided to down half a bottle of neat vodka. Once Dickwipe knew that Harold was in the hotel he'd be wise to WPC Widegroin's whereabouts. There was only one thing to do - get seriously pissed!

  "Miss Chaste!" Dickwipe gasped. "And you must be Harold Gloom?"

  "Er... yes, that's right," Harold smiled, leaning on the bar as Mike poured a couple of vodkas.

  "Someone's going to kill him!" Miss Chaste said agitatedly, grabbing the inspector's arm.

  "She's crazy!" Mike laughed nervously, passing a drink to Harold. "She should be locked up for good!"

  "Who's going to kill him?" Dickwipe asked the old woman.

  "Satan!"

  "What?"

  "Satan's going to kill us all!"

  "Er... Miss Chaste, go and sit down over there while I talk to Mr Gloom."

  "If you say so."

  "Yes, I do. Now, Mr Gloom, where have you been of late?"

  "Well, here and there."

  "Who with?"

  "No one," the innocuous man replied, wondering why Mike was making odd facial expressions at him.

  "You've been alone?"

  "Yes."

  "Have you been to Scotland?"

  "No, never."

  "Then why did you phone Mr Hunt and tell him that you were in Scotland with WPC Wendy Widegroin?"

  "I didn't."

  Downing his drink, Mike knew that the beginning of the end had arrived. He should have told Harold of the lies he'd told Dickwipe about Scotland, but it was too late now. What was needed now was a bloody miracle!

  "Mr Hunt," Dickwipe began, turning to face Mike. "Did you or did you not tell me that Harold Gloom rang you from Scotland and informed you that he was with Wendy Widegroin?"

  "Er... did you not. I mean, I did not."

  "Yes, you did!"

  "No, what I said was that they were desperately in love and that Harold had phoned to say that they would like to go to Scotland."

  "Is that right, Mr Gloom?"

  "Er... yes, that's right."

  "I see. Tell me, Mr Gloom, where is Miss Widegroin now?"

  "Well, she..."

  "She went to Scotland to wait for you, isn't that right, Harold?" Mike interrupted, winking at Harold.

  "Yes, that's right, she's waiting for me."

  Answering a call on his personal radio, Dickwipe moved to the window. "Go ahead," he said without taking his eyes off Mike.

  "There's been a report of a naked woman climbing down a drainpipe at the front of Stokepot Towers Hotel, Inspector."

  "When was this?"

  "She was seen about ten minutes ago."

  "Right, I'm at the hotel now, I'll investigate."

  Cringing, Mike poured himself another neat vodka as Dickwipe walked towards the bar. This was the end, he knew. Whoever the escapee, she'd run straight to Pox Green station and expose him and his wonderfully debauched, filthy lucred future. Oh, well, he thought ruefully, win some and lose some. One door closes and a prison cell door opens.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Counting out the sixteen-hundred pounds he'd collected from the clients the previous evening, Mike shrugged his shoulders resignedly. "It could have been so good!" he sighed. Widegroin had escaped down the drainpipe, and it was surely only a matter of time before Dickwipe arrived with his men to arrest him.

  "Sixteen-hundred pounds in one evening!" he breathed as Paul staggered into the bar and flopped onto a sofa. "One thousand, six-hundred bloody pounds, just like that! It's all coming to an end, and we'd only just begun!"

  "Your ex-wife wants something to eat," Paul muttered, reclining on the sofa.

  "Tell Dave, not me!" Mike snapped irritably.

  "Eggs and bacon, or something."

  "I wonder why Widegroin didn't release Belinda?"

  "And coffee."

  "So Dickwipe will find her up there, more than likely, adding to my horrendous predicament."

  "God, my head aches!"

  "I suppose you're pissed, seeing as it's ten in the morning."

  "I had a kick start, that was all."

  "You'll have a kick start in the bollocks in a minute! Is Harold still in his room?"

  "Yes, he reckons he's in hiding from the assassin."

  "In bloody hiding! I'm trying to run a brothel, not a sanctuary! I wish he'd fuck off out of here!"

  "I hear Miss Chaste came back."

  "Yes, she did, the senile old bat. Dickwipe took her away, thank God. Christ, I've had nothing but bloody problems ever since I started room sixty-nine!"

  "That's life, Mike."

  "Well, it bloody well shouldn't be! Where's Cecilia,
in the cupboard?"

  "No, she's vacuuming her room. Well, she's in her room with the vacuum cleaner, put it that way. Nancy's helping Trudie and Goldie tidy up on the top floor after the orgy last night. You should see it, Mike, there's spunk and cunny juice splattered everywhere! The walls, the ceilings, the carpets... everything's been well spunked and juiced."

  "There might be a bloody mess, but what a night! Sixteen-hundred smackers! Nothing lasts, though. Oh well, I suppose I won't be in prison for too long. And then... and then what? When I come out, I'll go trout fishing, spend hours relaxing, listening to music and... and I'll be broke!"

  "Are you going to let Inspector Arsewipe ruin everything for you?" Paul asked Mike severely. "Some bloody copper and that daft WPC - are you going to let them fuck your future?"

  "Well, I..."

  "And your ex-wife?"

  "I don't know, Paul! I just want to go fishing, for Christ's sake!"

  "I don't want to listen to you arsing on about music and fishing, that's not you, Mike! Where's the man in you? Where's the old Mike who gets things done? Where's the old Mike who had marvellous, bloody brilliant, ingenious fucking ideas for the future?"

  "Yes, you're fucking right! I'm determined not to allow Dickwipe to ruin me!"

  "Good, that's more like it!"

  "Paul, if you're capable, which I very much doubt you are..."

  "I'm more than capable!"

  "By the way, did you make copies of the tape and place the ads?"

  "Yes, all done."

  "OK, I want you to prepare for Prickwipe's raid. He'll probably wait until tonight when we have clients here. We won't take any bookings for this evening, I want the top floor empty, as if it's not been used for years. Belinda... we'll have to hide her somewhere, gag her and bundle her into the understairs cupboard with a cucumber shoved up her cunt. Stash all the sex gear in the basement, and make sure there's no evidence..."

  "What about the wooden spanking frames? It would be a shame to..."

  "OK, leave the frames. No one will know what they're for. I've got it!"

  "What?"

  "Dress Belinda and bring her down here. I'll call Dickwipe and tell him that she burst in here with a gun. He's bound to check up on her, where she got the gun from and what she was doing with it. Yes, it's a bloody marvellous, fucking ingenious plan!"

  "OK, I'll do it now."

  Leaning on the bar as Paul staggered into the foyer, Mike grinned. Belinda taken in for questioning, he mused. Fucking brilliant! Especially if it came to light that she really was an assassin! The gun, the letter from Mrs Gloom... Belinda-the-bitch was done for! Widegroin was the only problem now.

  There was something about WPC Widegroin, Mike reflected. She was extremely attractive, and a dammed good fuck! But there was more, something indefinable. He'd thought Princess Christina had something enigmatic about her, but Wendy radiated a charisma, a sensual charisma that he liked. She's got spunk, he reflected, pondering on her undercover operation, her escape down the drainpipe. "Yes, she's got spunk!"

  "Who's got spunk?" Nancy asked as she breezed into the bar, her jet-black hair flowing behind her, her pert breasts billowing her white silk blouse. "Have I missed something exciting?"

  "Ah, Nancy!" Mike beamed. "No, you've not missed anything. We're preparing for a raid."

  "Who are we going to raid?" the dark beauty asked, perching herself on a barstool, her parted thighs revealing her knickerless sex lips.

  "We're not raiding anyone, for fuck's sake! The cops are going to raid us."

  "God!"

  "He won't help, I'm afraid. Christ, not after all I've done to women! Talk about rousing God's wrath! Bloody hell, I've fucked women's arseholes, shagged their cunts rotten, whipped their bums... you never know, Satan might... what the fuck am I talking about?"

  "I don't know!"

  "OK, this is the plan... shit, there goes the fucking doorbell!"

  "I'll get it!" Dave called from the foyer.

  "As I was saying, Nancy, the plan is to make out that the fourth floor hasn't been used in years. I'll pretend that I didn't even know it existed. There are no stairs, the lift won't reach the top floor without a key, so it's perfectly feasible that I had no knowledge of a fourth floor."

  "But the policewoman was imprisoned up there, and your ex-wife."

  "Yes but..."

  "You'll have to come up with something better than that, Mike! Dozens of guests must have stayed on that floor during the last few months alone. The police have only got to check and..."

  "Yes, I suppose so," Mike sighed. "Sod it, it seemed like such a good idea. Pour me a large vodka, will you?"

  Walking to the window, Mike gazed out to sea. He could always leave the country. But no, there had to be a way out of the mess, he mused. The future had been looking so good - to have it ruined now would be sacrilege. Wondering whether he should open as a hotel again and forget about his new business venture, he turned as Dave showed the Reverend Hardick into the bar. The dirty old pervert's come back for more sex, he thought happily as Dave returned to the kitchen. More money!

  "Good morning, Father," Mike smiled as the cleric approached him.

  "Good morning. I was wondering whether it would be possible to..."

  "Yes, of course, Father!" Mike chuckled. "Er... Nancy, would you be good enough to..."

  "No, no it's not that," Hardick broke in, his face flushing. "I was wondering whether you'd consider catering for a party of twelve this weekend?"

  "What sort of party?"

  "You know, a naughty party. There are several other priests, as well as the bishop, the curate and..."

  "Yes, of course, Father!" Mike enthused. "Normally, at two-hundred pounds each, which includes a fine evening meal as well as a night of rampant sex, the cost would be two-thousand, four-hundred pounds. But I'll do you an all-in discounted price of two grand."

  "Fine, fine!" the priest grinned, toying guiltily with the crucifix hanging from his neck. "I'll ring you and confirm the details."

  "Yes, you do that, Father. I can assure you that it'll be the night of your lives!"

  "Oh, good! Well, I'd better be getting back to the church, I'm marrying two women this afternoon."

  "You're getting married to two women?"

  "No, they're marrying each other. It's against the church... well, I did a deal with them. A nice little earner, I must say! Er... I mean... well, I'll be in touch. Thank you very much for your help in this, er... in this delicate matter."

  "Thank you, Father!"

  Watching Nancy lead the unholy man out of the bar, Mike clapped his hands together triumphantly. "Jesus fucking Christ!" he breathed. "Two fucking grand!" But Dickwipe and Widegroin were still playing on his mind, destroying his jubilation - and his earning potential. Working out the rough amount of cash he'd collect from half-a-dozen clients each night, he grinned. "Eight-and-a-half grand a week!" Thumping the bar with his clenched fist in his rising anger, he turned as Paul staggered into the bar with Belinda in tow. Dressed in her ripped clothes, her hands cuffed behind her back, her pert breasts on display through the opening in her torn blouse, she looked like a rag doll.

  "Fuck me, Paul!" Mike bellowed.

  "No thanks."

  "Not literally, you fool. Christ, she looks as if she's been... wait a minute, that's even better," Mike said pensively, rubbing his chin as he gazed at the woman's nipples. "That's it; I'll tell Dickwipe that we had to overpower her. Her clothes became shredded during the struggle she put up when we were trying to grab the gun."

  "Dickwipe?" Belinda echoed, her eyes widening with fear. "Er... Mike, there's no need to..."

  "What's the matter, Belinda?"

  "Nothing, it's just that..."

  "Why is your stomach churning with fear?"

  "It's not!"

  "If you're a private dick, then you haven't got any problems, have you?"

  "No, but..."

  "But what? Only the guilty need fear the wrath of Dickwipe."
<
br />   "There's no need to call the police in, Mike," she laughed nervously. "Surely, we can resolve this without..."

  "Sit over there, Belinda, on the sofa. I have some serious thinking to do, some very serious thinking. Nancy, keep your eye on her," Mike ordered, wandering into the foyer with Paul.

  Reclining in his chair as Paul perched himself on the desk, Mike looked up at the young man and grinned. "She's dead worried," he said softly. "I really can't believe that she's an assassin, but she's dead worried."

  "Yes, I could see that!" Paul agreed. "But what's she worried about?"

  "I don't know. Harold said that he was going to be pushed off the end of the pier, not shot. Why the hell did she have a gun? God, I wish those girls were here with their tight pussies, I could do with a good fuck."

  "So could I! Let her go, Mike."

  "Who?"

  "Belinda."

  "What?"

  "Let her go and see what happens."

  "It's a bit risky."

  "Have you got a better idea?"

  "Yes, as I said, I'll call Dickwipe and tell him about the gun, the struggle we had with Belinda."

  "That's a bit risky, too!"

  Paul was right, Mike reflected. If Belinda was an assassin, then the gun would hardly be registered in her name! He'd probably end up taking the rap for possessing a firearm! But what else could he do? Contemplating paying her off, offering her hush money, he grabbed the ringing phone.

  "Hallo," he replied, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk.

  "Mr Hunt?"

  "Speaking."

  "My name's Paxman, I'm with the Inland Revenue."

  "So?"

  "I..."

  "What makes you think that I'm interested in your name or your place of employment? I don't even know you, for Christ's sake!"

  "What?"

  "What? What do you mean, what?"

  "Mr Hunt, I'm phoning you..."

  "I realize that! Good God, I know you're phoning me because I'm on the phone listening to you!"

  "I'm calling to thank you for the cheque you sent us."

  "You're most unwelcome, Mr Paxman."

  "But there's still fifteen-thousand pounds outstanding for the year ending April..."

  "Mr Paxman."

  "Yes?"

  "Bollocks!"

  "Please, Mr Hunt, there's no need to become..."

  Banging the phone down, Mike reclined in his chair. Thieving bastards! "So, Paul, where were we?"