by Wolf Wootan
***
On Tuesday, May 8th, Sam breezed into the Mickey Malone office at 9:30 A.M. Before he could say a word, Pearl nodded toward his office and mouthed, “She’s in there!” while moving her cupped hands about 3 inches from her breasts.
“Miss Big Boobs,” she mouthed again.
Sam nodded, rolled his eyes, and went to get a mug of coffee. Then he entered his office, wondering what he was going to tell her. When the door opened, and Carole saw it was Sam, she stood up from the client’s chair and faced him. She was dressed in a purple tube top, tight purple pants, matching low-heeled sandals, and, of course, matching lipstick, eye shadow, fingernails, and toenails. She looked like a grape popsicle. He had an instant urge to lick her. He closed his office door. Pearl jumped up from her desk and put her ear to the door to see what she could hear. Sam counted to five silently, then rapped the door sharply at ear level. Pearl went back to her desk with her ears ringing.
“Hi, Sam,” said the grape popsicle, her eyes lowered. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
“Not really, Carole. I’ve been very busy. I worked through the weekend,” he lied. He had worked Sunday, but he’d taken Friday, Saturday, and Monday off. “You look lovely today.”
He had to bite his tongue to keep from saying, “You look good enough to eat!” He didn’t want to set her off here in the office. She just might want to do it on his desk. Pearl would kill him!
“Thank you. I wore this especially for you,” she smiled.
“Wear” was a misnomer. It was painted on. He could see the small lump of the mole on her left hip. He hadn’t had sex since she had drained him last week, and he was feeling the urge again. She delivered great sex, but he couldn’t get her to stop once she started.
Probably worth the gamble, he thought. I’ve got to peel those clothes off her and see if she’s wearing grape panties!
“Have you made any progress on my brother?” she asked as she sat back down.
Sam moved to his chair and eased into it, putting his mug on the coaster on his desk. He noticed that Pearl had given Carole a mug of coffee.
“Need that heated up?” he asked, pointing to her coffee and dodging her question.
“No. I need to know two things: Where do you stand on my brother, and why you’ve been avoiding me. Usually, when I give a man sex like I gave you, they come back for more!” she said softly, her hazel eyes boring into his.
“All right. Second question first. I’ll be frank with you. I usually have sex several times a week. I haven’t had any since you. You screwed my brains out! Sometimes you have to know when to quit!” replied Sam.
She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry, Sam! I hadn’t had sex in quite awhile, and once I got started—you were so good—I just wanted more and more! I’ll do better next time. If you’ll see me again.”
“Aww, Carole! I could jump your bones right now, but not here! Tell you what. I’ll pick you up around 6 o’clock and take you to dinner. Then we’ll go back to your place and have a nice, slow session,” said Sam.
“Can I still talk dirty if I don’t get so . . . energetic?” she asked shyly.
“Sure. Whatever turns you on. Now the first question. Your brother. Those fingerprints from the envelope have caused the Feds to swoop down on me. I’ve been ordered off this case. Even though I didn’t tell them who my client was, you can expect a visit from them. They know whose prints are on the letter,” he explained.
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed, a hand going to her breast. “What do they want of me?”
“I don’t know. I’m just warning you.”
Sam continued, “Well, with the sudden FBI involvement, it’s looking more and more like your brother is into something devious. I’d suggest you go to the FBI, but after my meeting with them, I’d guess you’d be wasting your time. They’ll stonewall you. In any case, they’ll probably come to you with a court order. Any more secrets you’ve been keeping from me?”
“No. Are you still gonna pick me up tonight?”
Sam didn’t believe her.
“Yes. I want to see if you’re wearing grape panties!”
She giggled, “How did you know? You are a good detective!”
***
When he picked her up for dinner, she was dressed in a short, yellow sheath dress with a V-neck with matching everything.
That’s not ‘yellow’! he thought. That must be ‘pineapple’! I can’t wait to get under that dress and pull off those pineapple panties! It seems as if everything she wears reminds me of something edible!
On the way home from dinner, Carole asked, “So, are you off my brother’s case now?”
“Essentially. I’ll keep my eyes open. I’ll have Pearl send you a small bill to cover the work she did on the prints. It won’t cost you much,” he replied as he put his right hand on her knee and pushed her dress up. He was getting horny.
“Then, I want to hire you for another job. Do you do bodyguard work, too?” she asked as she pushed his hand up against the crotch of her already damp pineapple panties.
“One of my specialties. Who needs a bodyguard?”
“I do. Mrs. Gotrocks—Wellington—is having her semiannual Diamond Gala on Sunday the 20th. On Lido Isle at her mansion. We’ve been planning it for some time. I handle all the details. Except one. She’s insisting on handling the hiring of the security people herself. I find that strange, don’t you? And annoying. The gala was robbed at gunpoint last year. Millions in jewelry were taken. She wants me to wear one of her diamond necklaces and I feel skittish about it. It’s worth three-quarters of a million. I’d feel better with you at my side. You could be my escort. You do carry a big, dangerous gun don’t you?”
“Always. The streets are mean and dangerous. I’ll escort you for free. Pretty woman, fancy party. Why not?” said Sam. “Call me with the details later. I’ll pencil you in.”
Her panties were pineapple, but he couldn’t restrain her, even though she had promised to be less energetic. She wore him out again!
Chapter 16
Thursday, May 10, 2001
Riverside, CA
Sam and his Camaro were cruising west on the 91 in Riverside when his cell phone chirped. It was 3:10 P.M. and the work traffic was already starting to take form, on its way to turning the freeway into a creeping slug. It was even worse going east. The smog was heavy in Riverside, so he had the top up and the air conditioner blowing on high.
He flipped his phone open and said, “Crown here.”
“Rogers here.”
“Hey, Beck! What’s up?” replied Sam, happy to hear from her. He hadn’t seen her all week.
“Oh, nothin’ important. Where are you?”
“Headin’ back to the Santa Ana office. I’m just passing through Riverside.”
“What’s your schedule mañana?” asked Becky.
“Meeting in L.A.”
“Oh.”
Sam heard the disappointment in her voice.
“OK, Beckster. What’s going on? You need me for something?”
“Well, it’s not important. Besides, you’ve got your meeting.”
“Hey, Beck! We’re a team, right? You wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important. I can always cancel a meeting. Lay it on me, kiddo!”
“Well, I was hoping you’d be coming to the beach house early tomorrow. Tomorrow’s a Friday, you know. I’m here at UCI and my prof just told me that he wants me to handle his physics class tomorrow at two o’clock. I’m the TA—Teaching Assistant—for the class, you know,” Becky informed him.
“Well . . . isn’t that good?”
“Oh, yes! But . . . it’s the first time I’ve faced a whole class full of people! I’m usually tutoring one-on-one—or maybe as many as three—but never a whole class!”
Sam could hear the concern in her voice. She was really nervous.
“So, what do you want from me?” he asked.
“I kinda thought you could sit in—give me moral support.”
“
Me? In a physics class? I wouldn’t understand a word you said!” laughed Sam. He slowed down to 40 as the traffic thickened.
“Well . . .”
“Oh, I get it! You’re afraid you’ll get heckled for being a kid, or the guys will hit on you?”
Becky laughed. “There’ll be some heckling, maybe. I can handle that . . . I think. The guys in the class are pretty smart. I hope they’re smart enough to realize that I’m jail bait!”
“Becky! Where’d you learn that phrase?”
“When I was eleven. I was a street kid, remember?”
“So you want me to be there to crack some heads in case they get out of line?”
“Well, shit, Sam! This is a big deal to me! Teaching my first college class! I just wanted to share it with you!” exclaimed Becky, nearly in tears.
Sam felt like a shit, and was at the same time very proud—and touched.
“I’ll be there, Beck! In fact, I’ll come on down to the beach house tonight. I’ll be honored to be there with you! You can brief me tonight, so I won’t make an ass of myself.”
***
The next day, Friday, Sam arrived at UCI 20 minutes before two and found the classroom Becky had briefed him on. He wandered in and took a seat in the back of the room at 1:55 P.M. It had been years since he had been in a college classroom. The students began arriving a minute later. Sam knew from his earlier discussion with Becky that these students were all seniors—all in their early twenties. The class was called Mathematical Representation of Physical Phenomena. Sam still couldn’t believe that Becky understood this stuff—much less be able to teach it.
The assembled class consisted of 15 people—3 women and 12 men. The dress code varied from one guy in a suit and tie to a bearded one in torn blue jeans, sandals, and an earring. Becky had assured him that they were all very bright or they wouldn’t be in this class. She had only met two of the women and one of the men personally—but knew their abilities from how they did on tests and homework. Becky kept posted conference hours so students could come and ask questions about assignments, get help if needed, or argue about homework or test grades. Only those three had availed themselves of that service, so they, of course, knew that their TA was the 16-year-old genius that all physics students had heard rumors about. Becky wasn’t sure whether the rest of the class knew about her being the TA or not. Sam knew from his own college days that it was not unusual for classmates to not know each other well. Close friendships tended to be made in other, more social venues than the classroom.
Sam had butterflies in his stomach, but he wasn’t sure why. Becky had made it quite clear last night that he was not to embarrass her in any way. She wanted him there for moral support, yes, but mainly she wanted him to share this important milestone in her life: taking charge of a class. Still, Sam was certain that if anyone gave Becky any problems, he would have a hard time not punching the guy hard enough to drop his IQ by 30 points. Becky should have realized that when she asked him to be here. Oh, well. He squirmed in his seat.
The door in the front of the classroom opened and Becky made her entrance. Sam was amazed! She had left the beach house before he had awakened, so he had no idea how she had dressed that morning. She wore a long dress that reached her ankles, her blonde hair was pulled into a bun on the back of her head, and she wore her glasses instead of her contacts. Her attempt to look more mature worked to some extent—she could have passed for 20 or 21, in a nerdish sort of way.
The students were talking in small groups and only a couple of them looked up when Becky walked in. The room continued to hum with inane babble. Becky went to the lectern and put a stack of papers on it and looked out at the class, waiting for their attention. The noise continued. Sam balled his hands into fists as he started a slow burn. The two women who knew Becky started trying to quiet the people and a few of them took notice of Becky.
“Hey, who’s the chick?”
“Where’s Professor Danforth?”
“Put a sock in it, O’Reilly! Quiet down!”
Becky said, “Please, class, give me your attention. I . . .”
The babble continued, some of it now focused on Becky. Sam was furious! He had promised Becky that he would remain calm and let her handle things, but he was about to blow! When Sam began to stand, Becky saw that look in his eye that she knew was the danger look—a simmering Etna about to blow! Sam was about to hurt somebody. She had to do something quickly or things would get ugly!
***
Becky flashed back to the first time she had seen that fiery look in Sam’s eyes—it had scared her then, and it was scaring her now. It was a little over a year ago—when she was 15 and was finally starting to fill out her blouses and T-shirts—and the two of them were leaving the Mickey Malone office at dusk, intending to walk the block to where Sam garaged his red Camaro.
A low-rider Chevy—sub-woofers blasting—pulled up to the curb and two tough-looking Mexicans jumped out. A third remained behind the wheel. Becky was a little antsy, but she knew that Sam had his gun on his left hip—under his Aloha shirt—so she figured if trouble ensued that he only had to show the gun and the creeps would leave. It didn’t quite happen that way.
One of the guys was about 5' 10" and the other a little shorter—neither of them as big as Sam—but what they lacked in size they made up for in bravado.
The tallest one snickered and said, “Hey, man! We’re takin’ up collections for charity. How about you makin’ a donation?”
Sam turned to face them, putting himself between the two and Becky. Sam smiled and said, “Sorry, amigo, I gave at the office. Why don’t you guys just move along?”
The bigger guy looked at his buddy and laughed. Then he looked back at Sam and said, “You hear that, Pancho? This turd thinks he’s a comedian. Hey, old man, why’nt you just give us your wallet and watch? Save a lot a trouble.”
This was when Becky thought Sam would end things by flashing his gun. That might have been Sam’s intention, but she would never know, because Pancho spoke up at that point, before Sam could respond to the first guy’s question.
“Hey, old man, what chu doin’ hangin’ with such a young chica? Look, Chuey, why’nt we take this chica for a ride—show her a good fuckin’ time?” laughed the one called Pancho.
Chuey cackled, “Good idea, Pancho! Fuck her brains out!”
Sam had glanced at Becky during that exchange and that’s when she saw his eyes change. Their filthy language hadn’t bothered her—she had heard worse when she lived on the streets—but she could tell that it blew Sam’s mind. Becky had heard stories from Nana—Sam’s mother—about how Sam had occasionally got into trouble when he was a cop because of his intense abhorrence of men who beat women, or any adults who abused children. Becky was afraid at that moment—afraid that Sam might shoot them and get in trouble.
So Becky said, “It’s OK, Sam. Let’s just go.”
“No, it’s not,” Sam replied as he spun quickly and delivered a whirling karate kick to Pancho’s face. Pancho fell to the ground and didn’t move.
Chuey spat, “You motherfucker!”
A switch blade appeared in Chuey’s hand and Becky was sure the blade was at least a foot long.
Sam was unfazed. He knew he could put an end to this by drawing his gun, but he wanted to punish them first. A quick karate chop broke Chuey’s nose—blood everywhere—and a swift kick to the crotch put him on the ground. The driver of the car started to get out, but when Sam moved toward him, he jumped back in the car and sped away, burning rubber. Becky memorized the license plate without even realizing it. Sam retrieved his cell phone and dialed 911.
***
So Becky knew that look. She had to cool Sam down quickly, before he hurt someone in her class. She had to prove to him—and herself—that she could handle this.
All of a sudden Becky picked up a book on the lectern and slammed it down, creating a noise like a gunshot. The students all looked at her.
She said distinctly and s
lowly, “Shut . . . the . . . fuck . . . up!” Then more quietly, “Please.”
She had their attention now. Sam eased back down into his chair. Becky smiled.
“Thank you. Professor Danforth is ill today, so he asked me to fill in for him. My name is Becky Rogers, and I am your TA for this class. I recognize a few of you, but most of you have not availed yourself of my services, so we’re not acquainted. That’s a pity. I would like to get to know all of you better so I could help you more clearly understand the course material. This is a very important course for those of you who intend to go on to graduate school.”
She paused and made eye contact with several of the ones who had been the rowdiest before. Sam began to relax a bit.
“As your TA, I grade your homework and your tests. You didn’t think a full professor took time to do that, did you? So you see, I have a great deal to say about what grade you’ll get in this class. Do I have your attention now?”
The class was silent now and all were staring intently at Becky.
“Before we continue, let me answer the question that I see in some of your faces. Yes, I am the 16-year-old nerd you have heard rumors about, and I will get my PhDs in both math and physics in mid-June. If you think that I am too young and immature to be giving you instruction, just think back to which of us portrayed adolescent behavior when I entered the room a few minutes ago,” said Becky with a crooked smile.
The students looked around sheepishly, some of them blushing slightly.
Becky continued, “Professor Danforth gave me free reign on what material to cover today, so I thought we could review subjects most likely to appear on the final. Miss Cranwood, would you pass out these papers, please? Thanks. I’ve prepared a list of problem areas for you to concentrate on. Even I can’t be sure what exactly will be on the final because Professor Danforth prepares it, but if you know the areas listed, you should do just fine.”
Miss Cranwood gave a set of stapled papers to each student as Becky talked.
