“I don’t want to have sex with you. Last thing on my mind. You want out of here? Why don’t you lead the way?” I demanded.
“That’s what I’m paying you for,” she retorted.
I had had enough. As far as I was concerned, it was her fault we were in this mess. I had told her to stay in the car, but she didn’t listen, and I suspected there was a reason for those pictures that she wasn’t telling me. Besides, no karate in the world can stop a bullet.
“They’re looking for you, not me. I can walk out of here anytime I want,” I reminded her.
“Don’t,” she said, a hint of apprehension in her voice. “I’ll behave. Just get me out of here.”
“I’ll try. Can you act like you’re enjoying this a little bit?”
“Should we kiss?” she asked.
“Think you can survive kissing a woman?”
A male voice outside the door said, “Look in there.”
“Definitely,” she replied and to prove it, started kissing me. I mean, really kissing me, more than I thought this tasteful lady was capable of. Her tongue was in my mouth, doing a search-and-explore mission. Then she really surprised me, pleasantly, I might add, by putting her hand between my legs. I decided to return the favor and put my hand over her crotch and started massaging the denim between her legs.
She gasped and started pushing against my hand. Damn, but she was doing a good job of acting like she enjoyed this.
I heard the voices at the door of our room.
“Not in here. Just the usual trade.” Then they left.
I gave them a couple of minutes and Karen a few more moans and gasps. I toyed with the idea of finishing her off, but decided it was more important that we get out of this place.
“Sorry, honey,” I whispered in her ear, “I just can’t keep it up.” I took my hand away and acted like I came for the benefit of anyone watching.
“Let’s go,” I said. I dropped the condom into a trash can for the realistic touch, and we headed back into the maze. I was sure that I had seen a fire escape from the parking lot. If it wasn’t at this end of the building, it was time to try the other end. We followed the maze until we ran into another wall, but this wall had a door with a panic bar on it. Classic fire escape. I ran my hands along the wall until I found the wire leading to the alarm. It had been painted over several times and was hard to break. I destroyed the blade of my pocketknife cutting it. Something else to add to the bill. Then we were out in the cool night air. Easy as pie. We were on the way home.
Almost. Halfway across the parking lot, one of the men with the unsexy voices yelled, “Hey, there they are.”
And we were being chased. We got into Karen’s BMW in record time and squealed out of the parking lot. I counted no less than three other cars following us.
“You’d better drive this car for all it’s worth,” I told Karen. Then I got an idea. “Get across the river.”
She didn’t say anything, she just drove. Her face looked pale. But then so did mine. I had seen a quick flash from one of the following cars. They were trying to shoot out our tires. At least that’s what I hoped they were shooting at.
We were on the south side of the river and heading out into the country.
“Head for the old bridge over the bayou,” I said, giving her directions. I hoped that the digital clock on her dashboard was precise. This time I heard the shot. We turned down the narrow bayou road. Maybe its twists and turns would make us a difficult target. Karen was a pretty good driver. She hit the turns fast and didn’t slow down. I could’ve done better, but not by much.
Another turn and we were heading for the bridge over Bayou St. Jack’s. Every night at exactly twelve-fifteen they raised the bridge to let the fishing boats docked in the bayou head out to the Gulf. We turned onto the Bayou St. Jack’s Bridge at twelve-fourteen. The warning lights were on, but the barricades hadn’t dropped yet.
“Go for it,” I told Karen. She gunned it.
The barricades started to lower. We were heading for them doing around seventy.
We just made it. Karen had to swerve to get past the far one, but we were the only traffic on this side of the bridge.
“Don’t look relieved yet,” I said as she started to slow down. “Better get out of firing range first.”
She looked wide-eyed at me. “You mean they were firing guns at us?”
“Yep.”
She sped up again. I directed her through the back roads. We kept going until we were in the middle of nowhere.
“Turn here,” I told her. We went up a twisted dirt road, past an old abandoned-looking shipyard. Then I directed her to pull off into a deserted lot behind some trees. It used to be an ice cream stand, a long time ago, but nothing remained now. Hurricane Camille had taken down the last tattered wall. She didn’t ask me how I knew my way around these parts. That was good, because I didn’t want to tell her. I grew up down here, but that was another story. And not one that someone like Karen Wentworth would give a damn about.
“Now you can relax,” I said.
“Thanks, that was rough,” she answered as she pulled off her wig. I peeled off my false mustache. It was beginning to itch.
“Why did Harry not want you to take pictures?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe he thinks I’ll hand them over to his mother.”
“Why did you take them?”
“Do you ever go off duty?” she countered. “Or do you dream of solving cases in your sleep?”
“Answer my questions and I’ll answer yours.”
“I’m not sure. I guess to prove it to myself…and revenge, I suppose. I can’t stand the idea of him laughing at me for having been foolish enough to love him. If I make him look ridiculous, then he can’t laugh at me, can he? Those pictures do make him look ridiculous.” She stopped for a minute. I said nothing. I wanted her to go on talking.
“Despite what you may think, by my…uh…performance in the bar, I’m afraid I’m rather naïve. Harry needed a girlfriend for college and family. I was available and willing and he used me. Not sex, but as window dressing for his life. He didn’t touch me much. I thought he was a gentleman. It hurts.” She turned her face to the window. But she didn’t cry. I’ll give her that.
“Yeah, I know,” I said. Maybe I was wrong in smelling a rat. Maybe she was just a confused woman who had gotten kicked in the teeth. I continued, “I think we can head back now. We’ve lost those guys. And they’ll be looking for men, not women anyway.”
“No, do you mind staying here a little longer? It’s so peaceful. Besides, I have something to ask you.” She turned back to look at me.
“Sure, go ahead.”
“I’m not sure how to begin. In the bar, when we were…well…” She stopped, lowering her eyes.
“Yes,” I encouraged.
“Well, I enjoyed it. What we were doing.”
“And that surprises you?”
“Yes, it does. I thought that sex was okay, but nothing to write poetry about. I figured it would take someone like Robert Redford to make me excited about it. What I didn’t expect is that it would be a woman.”
“Kind of a lot of things to find out in one night,” I answered. I never ever jump into bed (or the back seat of a car) with virgins, so I played it cool.
“It is, isn’t it? At least the information is positive.”
“I hope you feel that way in the morning,” I said.
“I will,” she answered firmly. She was looking at me again. “What you did to me was very exciting. That’s why I was being such a pain about it. I really was enjoying it and didn’t want you to know. If I hadn’t been so scared I would have come the second you touched me. Please finish what you started. Make me come this time.”
I never, ever touch virgins unless they’re very sure of what they want and they practically beg me. (This happens more often than you think.) She sounded pretty certain to me. I was still thinking when she decided for me. She put her lips against mine and sta
rted kissing me. I found the tilt lever under my seat and let it all the way down. The advantages of expensive cars.
I have a lot of experience in the back seats of cars, but not much in front seats.
Karen made up for lost time. Either that or she was a fast learner.
I need more cases like this one.
She dropped me off at my office sometime just before dawn, saying she would call me in the next day or two to settle the bill…and for other things. I smiled agreement. Perhaps my luck was finally changing, I thought as I climbed the stairs. Hepplewhite meowed as I opened the door.
I have one big room that functions as my office. My living space is off to the side. Both sides. Bedroom and kitchen off in one direction. On the other side, a study that is now a darkroom, a very disorganized walk-in closet, and the bathroom. My destination was a comfortable, if somewhat lumpy, couch. I do have a bed, but it’s not in the best condition since a rugby team came to town a few months ago and stopped off at Gertie’s. I ended up taking home a six-foot-three player and, between the two of us, we managed to break a leg and do untold other damage. She offered to help fix it but had to leave early in the morning, and I had better things to spend my energy on. So the bed remains as it is and I sleep on my couch. Some day I’ll get to it.
Hepplewhite moved quickly once she realized that I would indeed use her for a pillow if she didn’t.
Chapter 3
I didn’t wake until late afternoon. No phone messages, only a hungry cat. I fed Hep, then decided that it was useless to wait around for a phone call that might be twenty-four hours away. Time for brunch at the Spread Eagle.
Ralph was a real pal. He set me up a three-course meal: peanuts, popcorn, and pretzels. After he served a few other customers, he came back to my corner of the bar.
“New gossip about Harry,” he said.
“Yeah?” I asked.
“Shoot-out at the O.K. Corral last night. You heard about it?”
“No. I was teaching a hetero girl a new form of birth control.” Hearing about it and being there are two different things, I figured.
“Harry got his picture taken. Stands to lose a lot of money.”
“Huh?” The queer smell came back.
“Harry’s got a rich grandfather in very poor health. His will’s got certain interesting clauses, so they say. Like any deviant behavior gets you disowned.”
“Harry’s got his picture all over the place,” I replied. “Certainly every boy’s bar in town. Why doesn’t that get him disowned?” This was not good news to me. I was beginning to feel a trifle bit set up.
“His sister Karen already tried that. Showed Granddad one of those pictures. Harry denied it. Said the picture was doctored. And what upstanding Southern gentleman wants to believe his grandson is queer?”
“None I know of.”
“So Granddad said he wouldn’t believe any pictures without the negatives and Harry figured he was home free. Until,” Ralph continued, “Karen hired some faggot goon to help her get to him.” (Well, at least I hadn’t been recognized.) “She snapped his picture. Now all she has to do is give the undeveloped roll to granddaddy to prove it’s not a doctored photo, and she inherits the whole lot.”
“That’s real interesting.” Boy, was it ever. “Any chance his sister’s a knockout blond about so high?”
“Yep. A real mess for Harry.”
A customer signaled for Ralph. We had a good relationship. He didn’t ask me how I got my information and I didn’t ask him about his. So much for my luck changing. It was time for me to find out a few more things about the woman who called herself Karen Wentworth. I downed another shot of Scotch, then headed back to my office.
I made a few preliminary phone calls while munching on an oyster po-boy. Then I called Danny Clayton. She and I had gone to college together, two poor scholarship students huddled against the mass of children of the rich and powerful. I think we had been accepted so that that Northeastern snob school could claim that it had a black and a Cajun from the Bayou State. After that, we’d both come back South. Danielle to honors at Tulane Law School and me to, well, dishonors on Bourbon Street. Danny now worked in the D.A.’s office and knew a lot of things. And we’d been lovers for one very long hot summer. We still liked each other enough to occasionally jump into the sack together.
Danny’s latest this-one’s-going-to-last-forever answered the phone. She told me that Danny was working late. I left my name, then called Danny’s office.
“D.A.’s office, Danielle Clayton speaking,” she said.
I told her my story. She raised an eyebrow (phone-etically speaking) at my front-seat adventures, but then, she always does. She had a few helpful suggestions.
“Get out of town and stay out until this thing blows over,” was her first.
“Why?” I asked.
“Dixie mafia. Her name’s not Wentworth, it’s Holloway. Of the Holloways of One Hundred Oaks Plantation. That’s a big estate upriver from here with very extensive and secluded access by water. Possibly some drug running going on. If the plantation doesn’t go to either Harold or Karen, then it goes to the Daughters of the Confederacy Historical Society, and no drug runner in his right mind would tackle them.”
“You mean Grandpa Holloway can’t stand the idea of queer grandkids, but lets drug runners use his place?” I asked.
“Not quite that simple or we’d have them,” she answered. “Ignatious Holloway, as near as we can figure, is a perfectly straight-backed old Southern gentleman. But he’s had a few mild heart attacks and a stroke, and he absolutely resists the idea that anything illegal might be going on on his land. So we can’t stake it out or get a search warrant, because he’s got too many friends.”
“What about Karen and Harry? By the way, where are their parents?”
“Beau Holloway got divorced, married a Jewish woman, and hasn’t been seen below the Mason-Dixon line since. Mother’s being trendy somewhere in California. No evidence that Karen and Harry have any connections with the mob. But they’re smart little cookies who know when to duck, not to mention when to make friends with a rich grandfather. Also, there’s a third granddaughter, Cordelia, who’s given up family squabbles for Lent.”
“How does one do that?” I’d never been able to manage it.
“She told her grandfather that she didn’t want any of his money. Informed him in no uncertain terms that she was living with another woman, just to make sure. Aptly named, too. She visits him a couple of times a week. Karen and Harry could pass for Goneril and Regan.” Danny liked to use literary references. I recognized King Lear, but let it pass. Then she added, “Stay away from her. She’s a good kid.”
I also let that pass. Danny has an exaggerated opinion of my decadence.
“What about Karen? Does her granddad know what she likes to do with women? Dismissing, of course, the possibility that she was telling the truth about me being the first.”
“Karen really is engaged to some society wimp. She might even marry him before granddad kicks off, but you can bet that she’ll already have hired a divorce lawyer. Not a pleasant lady on a bad day. Get out of this one, Micky, it’s dangerous.”
“I will, after I make reparations,” I answered.
“What does that…Yes, sir…No, sir,” to someone off in the background. “I’ll call you back later. Be there.” She hung up.
My plan was simple. As I figured it, the drug runners and the Daughters of the Confederacy were best suited for each other. Since Harry had just been struck out due to my unwitting interference, it was time to even the score.
I started rearranging the furniture in my office and cleaning up. Hepplewhite looked amazed, but I ignored her. Then I set up my two cameras, the mini on the bookshelf and the Nikon in the closet aimed through the hole that I hadn’t fixed in anticipation of just this sort of situation. Karen, I was betting, was interested in at least another good fuck or two out of me. And I had every intention of fucking her better than she thought
possible.
Chapter 4
Karen called the next morning. I talked her into coming to the office, saying I was waiting for some important phone calls and had some work to catch up on. She agreed to come by in the late afternoon. I tried out my cameras and got a few frank, uncensored pictures of Hepplewhite shedding on the couch.
I almost considered getting gumbo and garlic bread for lunch, but I restrained myself. Danny called twice, but I let her talk to my machine. She would call back later, hopefully at an appropriate time. I even had a slug of Scotch. I didn’t like the things Karen had done, but neither did I like what I was going to do to her. I’ve had sex for a lot of reasons, some of them less than noble, but never before only for revenge (with a side order of justice, I consoled myself).
Karen was about twenty minutes late. She was nowhere near as good-looking as I had thought before. Of course, I knew she hadn’t changed, that I had. I remembered just in time that I was supposed to be happy to see her, with lust afire in my loins.
“Hi, it’s good to see you again,” I lied.
“Yeah, same here,” she smiled. “How about business first? What do I owe you?” She whipped out her checkbook.
“No charge,” I answered, trying to look noble.
“I insist,” she countered, playing the same game.
“I could say you already paid.” I could say I don’t take money from people like you.
“That was later,” she said as she wrote out a check anyway. It was fairly generous, but she signed it Karen Wentworth and there was no name or address printed in the corner. I doubted it would clear. I put it in my desk drawer. Then I walked around the desk to where she was sitting, pulled her up so she was facing me and kissed her. Hard. She kissed back. I started to unbutton her shirt.
“Lock the door,” she said. I did. She sat down on the couch. The couch that had been cleared of all debris and noticeable cat hair. The perfectly positioned couch.
I put some music on, loud enough to cover any camera noise, and hit the trip switch on my way back to the couch. One picture every thirty seconds with thirty-six exposures. Eighteen minutes of down-and-dirty fucking. I started kissing her tits. Her nipples got hard. I put my hand between her legs for one picture, then slowly unzipped her zipper. Thirty seconds at each place, I figured. She pulled my sweater off. Good, I thought, definite proof that Karen Holloway was with a woman. Besides, all my lovers have said I have nice tits. She played with them. I put my mind in neutral and let my body take over. Bodies are amazing things; they like the touching and stroking. I might as well let mine get its cheap thrills. At least everything from the neck down was having a good time. I could feel the first wetness between my legs. I had her pants unzipped and my hand in her panties, teasing her open. She was wet. I took my hand out and wiped it playfully across her breasts. (Playfully, my ass, I just didn’t want my couch to smell of Karen Holloway juices forever. No, no, get that brain back in neutral). Then I started working my way down. I pulled her pants down around her ankles and made sure her shirt was open and that those erect nipples were smiling for the camera. She was centered on the couch, face full-front for the Nikon and in profile for the mini. I put my head between her legs and started going to work. It was work. She gasped, short little intakes of breath. I wanted to get at least a couple of shots of her in this position.
Death by the Riverside Page 2
