Though Raymond had dropped out of college, he had a strong work ethic, starting his own plumbing company with one employee and one van. After five years, he’d expanded the business to twenty employees and eight vans.
Two years later, Raymond purchased a bankrupt electrical business. After a name change, fresh paint on the trucks, and a couple of key government contracts to springboard the once-fledgling company, his two businesses were being used on more than half of the new homes, government projects, and commercial buildings in the area.
For these two businesses, Raymond leased cheap warehouse office space on the east side of town. There had been some noise recently to upgrade that part of town by changing the zoning of the properties around him, but he’d been able to swap favors with three of his fellow commission members to maintain the current zoning for his two services businesses.
Raymond had visions of his own in the commercial development world. The position he held on the zoning commission afforded him the opportunity to quietly pluck well-positioned properties off the market before other vultures could make a bid. His desires focused on the far west side of town.
Tony uncovered all of this information in little time with modest effort.
He put in a call to Carol. “We’ll use the same basic approach with Raymond as we did with Tom. Raymond is a bigger person and might require more of that special dose. He’s not as naïve. Play it careful. As the boss always tells us, get in and get out.”
“Roger that, Tony, sir,” Carol said mockingly.
Tony’s nostrils flared. He didn’t need her sassy-ass attitude.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
On a day of wall-to-wall gray skies and a cool mist, Raymond visited the truck stop on the highway east of town. He filled his car with gas and perused the porn magazines in relative anonymity.
Dressed in jeans with well-positioned holes and wearing a trashy brunette wig, Carol introduced herself to her target.
“Hey there, stud,” she whispered into his right ear. “Let me know if you see one of my pictures in there.”
Shocked to hear a woman’s voice, Raymond shut the magazine and turned, only to see her walking away, her white skin partially exposed through loose threads over her right butt cheek.
He caught up to her just as she finished pouring herself a cup of hot coffee. He looked around for cream and sugar. “Here, Miss…uh?”
Carol didn’t respond with her name. “Thank you, kind sir.” She blew the steam off her coffee. “But I like mine black.”
She winked and walked to the checkout counter, put two dollars down, and headed directly to the old Pontiac that Tony had given her for this project. As she purposely fumbled with her keys, she heard a knock on her window.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get your name inside,” Raymond said.
Carol reached through her open window and laid her hand on the side of Raymond’s face. “What’s your name?” she asked, unsure he would provide it.
“Raymond.”
She had him. “Listen, Raymond, you look like the kind of guy who could meet my needs.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Do you like handcuffs, Raymond? What about candle wax or a whip?” She knew he had watched online videos with those cinematic elements.
“Why, yes ma’am.”
“Follow me.” Carol popped his cheek, then rolled up her window and turned the ignition key of the twelve-year-old clunker.
She looked in her rearview mirror to be sure Raymond followed. Then she examined the beaten-up car, which had a rip in the passenger seat and a peculiar orange stain on the vinyl. The piece of crap smelled like cigarette smoke, which she found repulsive. It only increased her desire to end this project and return to her first-class lifestyle, driving her lipstick red convertible, a Lexus IS 350 C.
***
Carol opened the door to her motel room. “Welcome to my humble abode, Raymond. You can start by treating me like a real lady and pouring me a drink. They say it’s not good to drink alone, so join me.”
It was only mid-afternoon, but she needed him inebriated to initiate the seduction.
“I’m not into drugs or anything. I have a reputation to uphold, and I need to be a good example for my teenage kids.” Raymond sounded like he was running for office.
After they each downed two drinks, Raymond made it easy on her when he said he needed to use her restroom. Carol poured him another drink and slipped in the magic powder.
He came out without his pants on—just a stretched white T-shirt that wasn’t long enough to cover his bulging belly, boxers, and black socks. She laughed out loud.
“Hey, my feet get cold.”
They talked about the weather and even briefly discussed the latest challenges for the black president, which seemed to boost Raymond’s self-image.
“I need to freshen up a bit. When I get back out here I want your black ass on that bed, full Monty.”
“I can’t argue wif dat.” Raymond’s words began to slur.
Carol walked out of the bathroom in a black see-through negligee. She carried a pair of handcuffs and a black whip. Raymond’s eyes didn’t blink. He’d moved to the bed but still had on his T-shirt and black socks. The boxers were on the floor. He licked his lips.
“Ha!” Carol said. She walked toward him, cracking the whip on the floor.
During some of these productions, she felt like a porno film director. Carol knew using props enhanced the production quality. She needed a shot of this large, naked black man whipping her while she lay helplessly handcuffed to the rusted metal headboard.
“Come on, Raymond, let me see what you’ve got.” She locked the handcuffs around one of the poles, knowing she could free herself with a quick snap of her wrists.
“Okay, biiiyatch.” Raymond began to lash Carol. The whip was made of faux leather to ensure Carol would feel little pain. Raymond was losing his balance and coherency more as each minute passed, but Carol still felt the force behind the lashes.
“Take off your T-shirt. I want your sexy chest on top of me.” Carol moaned, adding to the erotic atmosphere.
Raymond finally lost all inhibitions and ripped off his shirt, exposing his flabby belly. He flung the shirt toward the cheap bookcase. The shirt hit a hidden camera. As if in slow motion, the camera twisted, sliding closer to the edge of the shelf. Carol’s heart raced, and she couldn’t avoid staring at the camera. After another lash, Raymond saw her distraction. He sluggishly turned his head toward the object of her focus. The camera slid off the shelf and fell to the floor.
"What da fuck is that?” He appeared puzzled but groggy.
He leaned to his right, falling off Carol and the bed. She attempted to distract him, but the flaky rust from the metal bed must have lodged inside the handcuffs’ locking mechanism. “Don’t stop Raymond. I want you now more than ever.”
Raymond picked up the camera. “I knew you were into some kinky shit and everything, but this takes the cake.”
He turned back toward Carol and grinned. “We can go there. BBS can put on a show for you and all the other mudderfuckers out there.” He grabbed his crotch.
Carol took a breath, thinking she’d averted disaster. Then, as Raymond placed the camera back on the bookshelf, his hand tangled in wire dangling from the shelf. He jerked it toward him. The rest of the wire, which had been stapled to the bottom part of the wall, flew upward. He continued yanking. More staples and wire popped, as if he was pulling up railroad tracks. The wire snaked up another wall. He kept pulling and another camera crashed to the floor.
Carol could see through Raymond’s foggy brain—something about this scene wasn’t right. He took two steps toward the second camera. He then raced back to the bed.
“What the fuck is all of this, bitch?” Raymond snarled, tossing the leather sex toy aside.
Carol twisted and yanked, but couldn’t unlock the jammed handcuffs. She knew she was vulnerable to Raymond’s growing fury.
“You little,
white, cracker whore. Do you think I’m stupid or something?” He crawled back on top of her and slapped her. “You could have had the best cock of your life and you go and pull this shit?”
He closed his fist and punched her in the nose. She screamed as blood gushed out.
Suddenly, a horrific noise came from across the room, as a beast of a man burst from the closet, taking the door off its hinges.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Before Raymond’s heart took a second beat, Tony dove across the bed, tackling the naked black man. Tony’s initial surge caromed Raymond off the side wall and into the bookshelf, knocking dusty books and fake plants to the floor.
Carol nearly peed herself in fright from the shocking entry. She continued to try to free her hands from the cuffs as the two men fought.
“You want a piece of me?” Raymond bellowed. Obviously energized by an adrenaline rush, he bounced to his feet, still in his dark socks and nothing else. “Boy, by the time I finish with you, you’re going to wish you hadn’t been jerking off in that closet.”
Although more than ten years older than his adversary, Tony was quicker and stronger. He dodged an errant right-hand jab, then grabbed Raymond’s fist and twisted his own body under Raymond’s arm. Instead of Tony gaining leverage, Raymond’s perspiration caused Tony to lose his grip. Raymond seized the opportunity to bull-rush Tony, flipping him against the metal headboard near Carol. Tony groaned as he landed on his right side.
Carol tried to kick Raymond, but he grabbed her left ankle and flung her sideways. The handcuffs stopped her momentum and kept her from flying across the room.
Tony composed himself, as he and Raymond faced each other, circling. Raymond continued talking and cursing.
“Come and get me, bitch,” Raymond barked.
“Don’t you get it?” Carol shouted. “We have everything on you. This is all being recorded. You want to see your life ruined? You’re going to be our bitch, Mr. Big Cock.”
“Shut up, Carol.” Tony’s steely look unsettled her.
Tony waited for another Raymond lunge. With perfect timing, Tony dropped to the floor and kicked out the back of Raymond’s knees, then thrust his left elbow into Raymond’s larynx. Raymond’s armed flailed, as he gasped for air.
Tony stood up and rammed his right foot into Raymond’s testicles. Even with restricted air flow, Raymond let out an agonized groan as he rolled onto his side holding his crotch.
Tony touched his head and saw blood on his hand. He rolled Raymond over, sat on top of him, and pummeled his face with closed-fist shots. “There’s only one bitch in this room, and that’s you, you fat fuck.”
Carol’s hands finally broke free from the cuffs.
“Stop it, Tony!” She jumped on his back. “We’re not going to kill this man. Chuck wouldn’t want it.” Carol’s weight made Tony fall backward. The impulse to destroy Raymond had been interrupted.
Tony gave Carol a cold stare, then turned back to Raymond. “Mr. Zoning Commission member, you can never speak of this day. You need to know how serious we are and what will happen if you don’t cooperate with our instructions.”
Tony grabbed his target’s right hand, and with the flick of his wrist snapped two of Raymond’s fingers, breaking each in several places. “Try to play on your computer with those fingers.”
Raymond cried out in pain. Tony bent down so Raymond could hear him. “If you cross me again, I’ll take a broomstick and shove it three feet up your ass.” Tony’s threat lowered Raymond’s moans to a soft murmur.
Carol didn’t move, now more fearful than when BBS was slapping and punching her. She had seen Tony in a couple of bar scuffles and knew he had a temper, but she’d never seen such ferocious anger.
Silence took over the room, aside from the rhythmic drumbeat of her heart reverberating in her core. Carol rose from the floor and tiptoed to the bathroom to clean her wounds. Minutes later, she came back out slightly more in control of her emotions, and stepped around the debris that littered the room. She kneeled to give Raymond a wet washcloth. He remained quiet but accepted the small token.
Tony, who had been standing in the corner, took three steps toward Carol.
“I’ve spoken to Chuck. He isn’t happy, but we’ve worked out a revised plan.”
Raymond would live, for now.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“You’re wearing that to run out to get the newspaper in this weather?” Marisa was questioning my intelligence as I stood in the foyer wearing boxers and my sleep T-shirt. “Besides, I’m the only one allowed to see your sausage jangling around.”
Not one to shy away from a challenge, I opened the front door and took off. In seconds, a biting north wind pierced my skin. I picked up the frost-covered paper and jogged back. Halfway to the door, I heard Marisa shout new instructions.
“Grab the mail. We forgot to pick it up yesterday.”
I couldn’t feel my face, but I didn’t waste time with explanations. I ran out to the mailbox, gathered up the mail, and scooted back inside.
Marisa was waiting for me in the living room with a cup of hot coffee and blanket. She giggled the whole time she wrapped me into a mummy. I shivered from head to toe as I nestled next to her on the couch.
“I want to make sure my baby’s balls don’t turn blue and fall off.” She roared with laughter at her own sense of humor. My frozen lips attempted to smile, then I sipped the steamy coffee.
Because my numb hands had lost their dexterity, Marisa unfolded the newspaper across our laps. She started on the back page and worked her way forward. Always on the lookout for sales, Marisa said the back page of the front section typically provided the best advertisements. It was one of her most annoying habits, but I could deal with it in small quantities.
“I see nothing inside.” Marisa finally flipped to the front page.
“Just more frickin’ photos of kids singing Christmas carols and fluff stories on all the charity work in the area,” I said.
“Here’s an actual news story, down here.” Marisa said.
Headline: Man Mugged at Warehouse
We read the small article. Raymond Williams had been robbed and beaten outside of an abandoned warehouse on the west side of town. He was surveying the warehouse property as part of his duties on the zoning commission. It described his injuries as serious, but not life threatening.
“Doesn’t he own a plumbing and electrical business?” Marisa asked.
I nodded and read the one quote from Mr. Williams out loud.
“I didn’t see anybody. They jumped me from behind,” Williams said.
The story said Williams believed there were at least two assailants, but the police said finding the men without a description would be difficult.
“Our only hope is if the muggers use one of Mr. Williams’ credit cards,” said the police spokesperson, Wendy Tuttle.
I huffed and shook my head, agitated by the police department’s muted response to the mugging. “They report crimes like a communications firm.”
“Baby, they go to work every day, just like we do, and I’m sure they put officers on cases like this to follow up and do some digging. We’re not going to know every move they make on every case.” She had a point, but the article didn’t sit right.
The lack of transparency into Reinaldo’s arrest and Tiffany’s murder still irritated me. Maybe the police thought their work was complete now that they had a suspect in custody. But what evidence did they have? Had Reinaldo been formally charged? Had his defense attorney spoken with authorities to determine his game plan? I was asking myself questions the media should be asking the police, the district attorney, the defense attorney, the coroner’s office, and every other stakeholder.
I wadded up the paper and tossed it into the fireplace.
Marisa tried to lighten the mood. “Can you make us a nice fire tonight?”
I nodded, then hurried to take a quick, warm shower. Before work, I was headed to visit the publisher of the Times Heral
d.
“Try not to be too much of a pest.” She helped me put on my coat.
“You know I can be charming when I need to be,” I said.
“You’re getting pretty worked up by all of this. I understand why, but try not to let all of this get to you, okay? I don’t want you to have a stress heart attack before you turn thirty-five.”
I practiced deep-breathing exercises on my way across town.
Chapter Forty
Arthur Spanarkel’s office wasn’t in the same building as the Times Herald staff and printing presses. I’m sure Karina, when in normal operating mode as the editor, felt relieved not to have someone looking over her shoulder.
I walked into Arthur’s corner office and gazed at the overwhelming, eclectic décor. Rich, expressive paintings by Russell and meticulously detailed sculptures by Remington dominated one area. Vibrant mosaics saturated two walls. I assumed most were from south of the border. Framed newspapers highlighting the biggest events and stories in our area covered the wall behind his desk. As the assistant formally presented me to Arthur, I focused on one framed edition featuring a large picture of Frank Sinatra, which included his recognizable autograph. The framed newspaper had its own spotlight.
“Good morning, Mr. Doyle.” The publisher’s handshake was steady but not overbearing.
Arthur appeared to be in his late sixties, wore small, round, metal-rimmed glasses, and a brown tweed suit, including a vest and bow tie. Tall and lean, he either worked out or inherited some good DNA.
“Just call me Michael, please.”
“Yes sir, Michael. Feel free to call me Arthur, although my wife sometimes calls me Artie. But, yes, call me Arthur,” he said.
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