THE YACHT PEOPLE
An Erotic
Private Eye Yarn
by
Michael Hemmingson
An Obelisk Library eBook
Smashwords Edition
2012
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy.
copyright © 2012 by Michael Hemmingson
All rights reserved
A print version of this novel is available from Wildside Press, published 2008.
Note
A truncated, short story version of this novel first appeared in the anthology
Aqua Erotica 2.
Dedication
This one has to be for
Dominique Navarro
for instigating this book
with her neurosis and anger
&
is homage to those great, forgotten old
perverted private eye novels written by
Carter Brown
PART I
I went in search of myself.
---Heraclitus
CHAPTER ONE
She didn't tell me that she was a squirter.
It's not the sort of thing an apparent one-night stand lets loose after a few drinks, some making out, the pulling off of the clothes and the inevitable, eventual screw. I guess I can say it was a pleasant surprise, like the way a plumber grins when a pipe he's working on suddenly bursts and sprays all over him.*
There we were, in my sailboat—a 30 foot Catalina—awkwardly squeezed onto my cabin bed; we were both half naked and her legs were spread and I was going down on her. I was having a fairly fun time eating her out, and then she shook and grunted and filled my mouth with her thick and tangy ejaculate.
There was a lot.
I mean a lot.
"Wow," I said, pulling back and spitting some of that wild stuff out.
"Sorry," she said rather seriously, grabbing at my hair like it was horse reigns; "sometimes I get carried away when I get so excited and carried away."
Again, I said, "Wow," with the wonder of a bright-eyed teenage football hero after his first blowjob from a randy and dandy cheerleader during the eve of senior year.
She asked: "Do you mind?"
"No; I like it."
"I bet you do," she said, "slut."
"Hm?"
"You heard me."
I was amused, to say the least, of the situation. "Lady, did you just call me a 'slut'?"
"I know what you are," she said, "and my name is Erin. I'm hardly a lady, not in this position."
Erin, yes, Erin—I think she may have even told me that when I met her in the Yacht Club, adjacent to the Marriott Marina Hotel in downtown San Diego; you didn't have to live on one of the hundreds of boats docked at there to wine and dine and dance and mingle in the Yacht Club, although many of the people around, at any given time of the day, did own and live on a boat. I had seen her there at the bar before, or maybe she's the one who spotted me. We'd crossed paths once or twice.
She sat down next to me and asked my name and asked if I'd buy her a drink. "If you tell me yours," I said, being as coy as I could at the moment.
She misheard me. "If I show you mine? I need to have at least three strong drinks in my sexy flat stomach before I show it to you, buddy."
Actually, it was more like six, but who counts these days?
And there we were on my little boat—she showed me hers, I did my thing, she turned on the waterworks...and then I showed her what I had.
Her eyes brightened and she wiggled her nose like the witch on Bewitched.
"I always wanted to suck on a private dick," she said, reaching down and taking me in her mouth. She knew what she was doing, that's for sure, that's all that needs to be said; she'd been blowing cock since the beginning of time, since the Big Bang, for billions of years—she was that good.
"Play with my balls," I told her.
“Umm.”
“Suck those nuts.”
“Umm.”
“Eat my crotch…”
She did, with her long shiny fingernails running over my skin…
***
"Are you really a gumshoe?" she asked after I came in her mouth.
I was feeling pretty relaxed at the moment. I said, "Where did you hear that?"
"Gossip around the docks."
"Oh?"
"People talk."
"They always do, don't they?" I had to smile. "The fuckers; the talking fuckers."
Her voice was low: "I'm sure you've heard plenty of bad things about me."
"Not at all," I said. I zipped my trousers up. "I've just found out for myself just how juicy you can be."
She gave me this look, it was like ha-ha: I guess she didn't find my comment on her pussy flow amusing.
"No need to pout," I said.
"No need to be so crude," she said. "So is it true? You're a private detective?"
"Was."
"You were fired? Lost your license?"
"Retired."
"You don't look older than forty."
"Thanks. Gee."
"I mean it."
"I'm thirty-five."
"Nice," she said.
"I don't do that work anymore," I said.
"Why not?"
"I'd rather sit around on my boat," I said.
"Sounds boring," she said.
"It has its moments," I said.
"You don't have any other goals in life?" she asked.
"Except for drinking and getting picked up by women I barely know in bars," I said, "no, not really."
"Are you insinuating I initiated this?" she said.
I raised a curious brow, like Mr. Spock in Star Trek.
"You cocky bastard," she said, reaching over to hit me on the arm.
I shrugged.
We stood there and looked at each other and it was a stupid moment.
"You don't know shit about shit," she said, and quickly left me alone on my boat.
***
My boat. I never saw myself as a boat person, and then one day I obtained some incriminating evidence on a client's estranged wife, saving him a bundle of cash and a headache on the divorce settlement. Along with a hefty bonus, he said, "How would you like a boat? It's not a yacht or anything, but it's cozy and could be fun and I don't need it; I'd like you to have it." I said why not and figured I could always sell it. The boat sat in the marina docks, under my name, the mooring fee coming out of my checking count each month, for nearly three years. I let friends from out of town or having domestic problems stay on it now and then, but for the most part it sat there on the waterfront: empty. Every month I kept telling myself to put an ad in the paper and get rid of it but always seemed to forget; perhaps subconsciously I didn't want to get rid of it. Which, it seems, was a good thing. My life was quiet and uneventful until that night I fucked Erin. I was no longer interested in excitement, adventure, sordidness and crime after I took three .38 slugs in the gut during a really stupid case, was in the hospital for three months, was told over and over, "It's a miracle you're still alive." So I quit the private eye biz and moved onto this boat, living on savings and taking my time deciding on what the next career would be…let's face it: I wasn't cut out to be a P.I. anymore—or a hit man.
***
The stupid case. I remember thinking: Looked like it was going to rain, the way the clouds were gathering. Downtown San Diego was packed with all sorts of Saturday night party people. I was wearing a long leather trench; my hair was greasy and messy and I knew I had dark circles under my eyes. I couldn't sleep, because what I was about to do, something I didn't do as a shamus: kill people for money. But the people I was going to kill deserved it.
I went to one of the topless bars near the harbor. The doorman checked my ID, gave me a glance, said: “Something eating you, buddy?”
“Eh?”
“Seem a little nervous there. Never been to a titty and pussy club?”
Grinned. Lied: “Well, I just got out of the pen.”
He nodded. "Enjoy."
There were two stages, two girls; the girls changed every third song. When they didn’t dance, they served drinks. I ordered a pitcher of beer but I didn’t drink.
I watched the backroom.
I saw a fat man in a
good suit come out, count some bills from the register and then go
back in.
Got up and followed him.
Didn’t knock on the office door that had a little sign: PRIVATE.
Underneath the trench, I retrieved the sawed-off pump-action I’d been toting, hiding, waiting—yes—nervously to use, for this very moment.
Barged in.
All three of them were fat and their shirts were dirty, stained from fallen food; but their suits were real nice and they had shit-eating grins as they counted the money in front of them.
“Hey,” one of them started to say, “you’re—“
Then he saw the sawed-off.
Another one went for the .38 revolver tucked in his stretched waistline.
“Tsk tsk,” I went, and waved the sawed-off.
The third went for the phone.
“Nope,” I said.
“Hey, asshole,” the fat fuck who got the money from the register said, “what the hell do you want, bub?”
“Ah, the Martoni brothers,” I said. “Best pizza this side of town. Best sleazy stripper joint, too.”
“Yeah, that’s us,” said one of the brothers. “Who are you?”
“A dancer used to work here.”
“Lots of dancers work here. They comes and go.”
“Her name was Rhonda Littlefield.”
Silence.
“You know what I’m talking about. She was murdered three months ago.”
One of them said: “Yeah, poor Rhonda.”
Another said: “What about her?”
A third said: “We had nothing to do with that.”
I said: “She was my sister.”
“She hung around the wrong kind of people, you know?” I was told. “Her own fault.”
The door behind me opened. I opened started shooting. One of the dancers came in—fake platinum blonde with fake tits, wearing a bra and a g-string. She started to say something and stopped when she saw me and the sawed-off.
“Get in,” I said and grabbed her thin arm.
“Is this a hold-up?” she said, chewing bubble gum.
I pushed her toward the Martoni brothers and said, “Just stay put and keep quiet.”
“You want money, is that it?” one of the brothers asked me. “Here it is, pal, take it.”
“What I want,” I said, “is to know which one of you fat fucks killed my sister.”
Silence.
“Hey, you knew Rhonda L., right?” one of them asked the platinum blonde.
She had to think about it. “Rhonda? Yeah, sure. We hung out once or twice.”
“Well, this is her brother, that’s what he says. You tell him how she was. Picking up strange men from this place all the time. Never safe. Drugs. She just got with one of the weirdos, cut her up and stuff. We had nothing to do—you tell him, Lynn, you tell the brother what kind of nasty bitch his sister was.”
The platinum blonde was shaking now. She looked at the sawed-off, then me, said, “Rhonda L. was kind of wild, you know.”
“I know one of you did it,” I said. “All I want—which one? Which one, or I blow all three of you whales away.”
One of them said, “Hey, boy, where do you get such an idea it was one of us? We’re not like that.”
With my free hand, I took out a small diary from the trench pocket. “Chronicles of a life, penned by Rhonda Littlefield,” I said. “Talks all about how she goes to work at one of the Martoni Brothers Pizza Houses. Then she gets talked into working here: wiggling tits and ass, flashing her cunt and serving drinks. Tells all about how she gets coaxed into bed by one of the Martoni brothers—no name, just one of them. ‘They’re all fat and disgusting,’ she writes. But she goes to bed with this fat fucker because he knows about her secret—a little habit-now-problem with cocaine. So he gets her hooked on more so she’ll sleep with him. Then, one day, she winds up dead in a cheap motel room. Now, I either find out which one of you killed her, or you all die.”
Silence.
Two of them turned and looked at the third brother.
The third one said: “Okay, I gave her blow and she…was friendly. But I didn’t kill her, pal. She liked to play rough, with me, with anyone. I didn’t kill her.”
I shot his head off.
It was messy.
The two remaining brothers had their dead brother’s blood, bone and brain all over them.
The platinum blonde held a hand over her mouth.
Then I took out the other two the same way.
The blonde and I stared at each other.
The music in the club was loud; no one heard the shot-gun fire.
“Are you going to kill me too?” she asked very softly.
“You never saw my face,” I said. “You never saw me at all.”
“Never! Never! I don’t know what you look like, I didn’t even know there was someone in here with—”
“That’s good.”
“Oh man what a mess,” she said. “Can I scream now? I really need to.”
“When I’m gone.”
“How will I—”
“Three minutes,” I said, and started to go.
“Hey, you really Rhonda L.’s brother?”
I tossed her the diary and she caught it nervously. “Keep it. Write in it.”
Her mouth opened and the bubble gum fell out when she saw that all the pages were blank.
“How did,” she started to say, "how…"
I turned to leave.
It should have been the end of that, end of the story. But:
"Hey, asshole."
I stopped and turned around. She had the .38 one of the fat brothers tried to go for. She pointed it at me and shot three times.
I was in shock. I walked away.
I walked down the street, bleeding. I was dizzy. The first payphone I saw, I called 911.
CHAPTER TWO
"Hey there, Hollywood Square."
I was sitting in the Yacht Club on my second vodka tonic when Erin and a robust fellow in his 50s with a bald head, a great tan, a white beard and a white sports coat with blue slacks sat down across from me.
"Erin," I said.
"I'd like you to my husband, Bobby," she said.
The man shook my hand and his grip was tight but there didn't seem to be any anger in either his grip or eyes. "Erin told me all about you," he said.
"Did she now," I said.
But he was quite friendly with me: "How you used to be a bonafide private eye! That's really great. Always wish I'd done something like that."
"Always wished I'd been a brain surgeon," I mumbled, not really in the mood to be too much of a smart-ass tonight.
"Anyway, I saw you sitting there and I told Bobby-boo," said Erin, "I told Bobbob: 'Let's invite him to our party this weekend.'"
"Indeed," said Bobby-boo, "we'd love to have you as a guest."
"It'll be fun," Erin said, kicking me under the table with her pointed toe.
Her tap hurt. I didn't let it show.
"Sure," I said, "Love to."
***
Love to, my ass. But what do you say when you're talking to the husband of a woman who, just a week earlier, had squirted her fuck juice straight down your throat?
Still, Saturday night came, I had nothing to do, I didn't feel like sitting around on my little boat, so I put on a dress shirt and my nice leather sports coat and walked up several docking piers to Erin and Bobby's large boat, dubbed The Sympathy. It was a giant, bright white beauty made by Crescent Custom: seven cabins, a large entertainment area, a sailboat the size of mine attached to the back. There was a hot tub with several naked people, drinking wine, in it. The party seemed several hours under way. Loud contemporary jazz played on the sound system—something atmospheric with the upright bass and piano. Many of the attendees were fellow boat people whom I'd seen around but didn't really know. Hell, let's face it, I didn't know anybody and I didn't know squat, which was always the problem with me, which is why I always found myself in the shit that I seemed to easily sink into.
For instance, Stephanie...
***
But first, there was Erin.
She spotted me, holding a tall glass of champagne. She was wearing a low-cut, sheer green silk evening gown that was practically see-through. I wondered why she bothered wearing anything at all: I could see her nipples and the hint of pubic hair through that fine fabric. Maybe that was the point, because I instantly decided this view of her was far more erotic and enticing than if she were naked like her guests in the hot tub.
"Hey," she said, "thanks for coming," and she gave me a kiss on the cheek, grabbed my hand, said, "you look good," and she moved her mouth close to her ear and: "maybe later we can slip away for some quick fun." She took a step back and said: "Have fun. Get yourself a drink, why don't you."
I started making my way toward the bar and Bobby intercepted me like we were on a basketball court. "Mr. Private Eyeball!" he said, and chuckled, first grabbing me by the shoulders and then vigorously shaking my hand. "Good to see you here! Having fun? Oh, you don't have a drink! Go make yourself a drink this instant, fellow!"
At the bar, I started to make myself a tall White Russian. A young woman appeared at my side. She wasn't any older than twenty, but what did I know. She could have been fifteen or thirty, I could no longer tell. She was wearing a pink halter top and a very mini denim skirt. Her legs were skinny and smooth and tanned. Her arms, shoulders and chest were just as tanned. She wasn't wearing a bra and her nipples were dark, pointy, and yummy. Her eyes were blue and she was a blonde (of course).
"Looks good," she said, "make me one?"
I gave her mine.
"Oh," she said.
I started making another.
"Nice," she said when she sipped it.
"Most bartenders don't know how to make a White Russian for garbanzo beans," I told the girl; "a great beverage of this ilk should always be one thirds equal parts."
"Right," she said and nodded her cute little blonde head of hair, "they usually get too thick on the milk or Kahula and not the vodka. Oh, by the way, I'm Stephanie," and she held out her small, smooth hand.
***
We chitchatted, we talked; we moved about the giant yacht to places where we seemed to be alone and could talk. It doesn't matter what we talked about and I'm not even sure I remember. We did drink a number of my especially made White Russians. Stephanie said she had to pee and excused herself but then came back and said: "The women's restroom is occupied and there's a line and I really have to go, you wouldn't mind if I...oh fuck it," and what she did was lifted her mini-skirt, pushed her thong panties out of the way, hoisted herself up on the safety rail, pointed her ass and crotch towards the water. She almost slipped and fell and I caught her and she said: "My knight in shining something," and holding onto me, she let it fly: a long stream of piss heading straight into the marina. No one at the soiree seemed to notice, or they didn't want to notice; Stephanie found this funny, she giggled, and I guess I found it amusing as well and laughed and the next thing I knew I was kissing her, I was kissing her as she relieved herself over the bough.
***
And the next thing I knew I was in one of the cabins with Stephanie, on the bed, pushing those thongs out of the way so I could get my cock inside her tight little pussy, her legs on my shoulders, the miniskirt around her hips, one tit peeking out from the halter. "Fuck me hard," she said, "I mean really hard, old man," pressing her fingernails into my neck, "fuck me good, baby." I did my best.
"You remind me of someone," I whispered.
"Your first love?" she asked.
"No."
"Your mommy?"
"No."
"Who?"
"Someone dead," I said.
She reminded me of Rhonda Littlefield.
***
Stephanie and I were going at it a second time. She was sucking me off and helping me up for the adventure. Erin walked in on us. She leaned against the wall and said: "Isn't this something." She said: "Isn't this a sight."
Stephanie popped my dick out and said is a raspy tone: "Wanna join us, you pervert?"
Erin's dress seemed to slip off her body and she was naked and standing next to the bed. "If you don't mind, I'd like to, yes."
"Do you mind?" Stephanie asked me.
I said: "Only a fool would mind," or something like that.
I knew this was going to be a mistake but at the moment, I didn't give a fuck. Or I did give a fuck-two fucks and a blowjob, actually.
***
Erin got up and she suddenly had a bottle of something and plastic cups. Where did she get it? Who cared? I needed a drink like they did and so we drank and eyed each other's sweaty, shiny, fuck-stinky flesh. The two women started to lip dance all over my body. After two drinks I started to feel funny. I was dizzy, but as horny as a male finch in a cage with a dozen winged bitches. "You slipped me a fucking mickey," I said. The two women laughed. I giggled with them. I couldn't move from the bed. I was numb all over but my prick was thick and hard.
***
"Now isn't this a sight," said Bobby as he walked in on the three of us. We all chuckled and pointed at him and told him to get naked. He got naked. It was then I noticed he was holding a camcorder.
***
I woke up and it was a bright sunny day and I felt like complete and total shit, like I had gone to Tokyo and Godzilla had stomped the crap on me for an hour and a half. I was also naked and my crotch and mouth smelled of dried pussy juice, and I'm sure most of it came from Erin. I found my clothes on the floor and put them on. Erin and Stephanie's clothes were there but no Erin and Stephanie. On the deck I found Erin and Bobby sunning their bodies and drinking mimosas. Bobby wore black Speedos and Erin was topless with a pair of thongs. Twenty feet away from them lay Stephanie, spread-eagle on a giant towel, completely nude and working on that wonderful tan. They all said good morning. I mumbled something. Erin asked if I wanted a mimosa and I said, "Why the hell not."
"Please sit down, my friend," Bobby said, patting a chair between he and his wife.
I sat and sipped my mimosa.
"Hair of the dog, eh?" said Bobby.
I couldn't reply. I shrugged.
"Quite a night," said Stephanie, sitting up, what little fat on her belly making small curls.
"Oh boy," said Bobby.
"Oh yeah," said Erin.
"Ugh," said I.
"I have something to show you," Bobby said, standing up. Did I have to see all that hair? "Please," he said, "come with me."
I followed him into the boat's entertainment center. There was a 42" Sony plasma screen. Erin and Stephanie joined us, not bothering to cover themselves. They sat very close to each other on a loveseat. I didn't like how this was playing out but I was too damn hungover and enjoying the mimosa to give a damn.
I was ready for anything, I suppose, but I really wasn't ready for what happened next.
Bobby had a remote control in his left hand. He hit play. On the plasma was some low-lit porn, home porn, and I was the star; Erin and Stephanie were the starlets, except, when on screen, they were going at each other, which caused them, in real life, to giggle and one another and kiss: watching themselves was getting to the two women, who looked like mother and daughter at that moment, all hot'n'throbbin' again.
I said: "Funny."
Erin said: "Tell him."
Bobby said: "Here's the deal, gumshoe. It's time to put those ol' shoes back on and get 'em dirty again. It's time to do the voodoo that I know you do oh so very moo-moo," and he chuckled like he'd just said the funniest thing in the whole wide goddamn fucking world.
I said: "What?"
Erin said: "Tell him, BoBo."
"This," and Bobby pointing to the plasma screen that had Stephanie's lubed up hand sliding three fingers into my asshole, "is good ol' fashioned blackmail."
"Fast forward it to the nasty stuff," Erin said.
"Yeah," Stephanie said, playing with Erin's nipples, "the nasty!"
Bobby hit fast play to the part where Stephanie and I were in the bathroom and taking turns pissing in each other's respective mouths.
"Nothing like a little golden shower between complete strangers," Bobby said.
Hmm. I even remembered that part, and the memory was a good one.
CHAPTER THREE
"So what's the deal?" I asked.
"Here's the deal," Bobby said. "There's a fellow two piers down, has a really huge yacht, The Sherry Love. His name is Roland Wilson. Do you know him?"
"No," I said, "but I've seen the boat."
"He's an asshole," Erin said.
"Yes, a real asshole," said Bobby, "and something needs to be done about him."
"What does that have to do with me and this?" I asked.
Now, on the plasma screen, I was making Stephanie lick my balls.
"Wilson is clean, too clean on paper. I need some dirt on him. Something very, very bad. It'll have to be planted."
"And just exactly where and when do I come into the picture?"
"You'll plant the bad shit! And it has to be bad enough to ruin his reputation, maybe even make his wife leave him and his children disown his ass."
"And what makes you think I can help you with this evil plan?"
I polished off the mimosa and wanted to ask for another but knew well enough to not to.
"You're in that kind of business, buddy," he said.
I laughed.
"We did some checking around."
"We asked questions," Erin chimed in, proudly.
"We found out you didn't exactly move by the playbook for private eyes."
"You have your skeletons."
"Who doesn't," I said, and looked at Stephanie: "And where do you come into all of this?"
"She's just the hired gun," Bobby said.
"More like hired pussy," Stephanie said, opening her legs and touching her own pussy.
"And a nice one at that," Bobby observed.
I was thinking that.
"I'll say," Erin did say, running her hand across the pussy in question.
"And I don't come cheap," Stephanie added.
"We got our money's worth," Erin said.
"I think I'll be going now," I said.
"No," Bobby said, "you will sit down and listen."
***
"If you don't do what we want, we'll spread this tape around and ruin your life."
Well. I had a really good laugh.
I said, "Go ahead. I don't have a reputation or life to destroy. That was done long ago. You picked the wrong washed out alcoholic man for sexual extortion. I don't have a career, family, or even any personal integrity to embarrass. So send the tape anywhere you want. Hell, who knows, maybe I'll get laid more often."
"I doubt it," said Erin, "you're a drunk and not so good in bed."
"Look who's talking, Lady Leaky Faucet."
She made a face: ha-ha.
"Stephanie is young and looks even younger," Bobby said, "we could send the tape to the cops and tell them she's fifteen."
"I'm only in high school and this bad old man seduced me," said Stephanie in a funny small voice, like of like Japanese anime; she was sucking on her thumb and batting her eyelashes, too. It was a damn good acting job, I thought.
"But you're not," I said.
"It'll still cause you trouble," Erin said.
I shrugged. "I can take some trouble."
"There's something else," Bobby said, "and that's Stephanie's boyfriend."
"He's a big, jealous, mean killing machine," said Stephanie, "and let me tell you, boy, if he ever got a gander of that vid-vid, he'd hunt you down, skin you alive, and then bar-be-que your hide and feed it to the bikers who go to the bar that he owns."
"I've seen him," Erin told me, nodding her head, "and he is big and mean."
"And my oh my quite ugly," Stephanie went on, "but I love him so."
"He knows you're a whore?" I said.
"He loves whores."
"Well," I said, taking in a deep breath.
"So what will it be, gumshoe?" asked Bobby.
"My answer," I told the three of them, "is for you to all go fuck off and die. Do whatever you want. Break a bunch of legs. Bonne chance, like the French say. As for me, I say: 'Fuck you very much.'"
I got up and started to walk away. I expected someone to pull a gun on me but there was no gun.
Before I parted ways with this trio of criminal misfits, I stopped and said: "Assholes."
"You'll regret this," Bobby said.
"Probably," I said, "I always do, eventually."
***
Returned to my boat and sobered up by drinking bottled Fiji Water for most of the day and getting more sleep. Fiji Water usually does the trick. My gut was hurting, where I'd been shot three times and healed.
I took a nap and dreamt that I sailed my boat to Fiji where I lived peacefully and happily ever after.
Night came and I wondered what Bobby and Erin would actually do. I got dressed and decided to pay a visit to The Sherry Love. Jesus, that was one big boat; it was an Italian made Benetti Patricia class. Twenty cabins, an apartment building on water. Must've cost ten or fifteen million. I called up, I said I needed to speak to Roland Wilson.
I said it was very important. I was let aboard. Roland Wilson was a man in his mid-50s, very well-built and wearing all black: slacks, t-shirt, sports coat, loafers. He had a long grey beard. I'd heard he'd made his fortune in some sort of bio-tech stock deal. I met him in the dining area of the boat. He was having rib-eye steak and that steak smelled like Heaven. I was offered dinner but I declined. At his side was a woman in her early 20s, a brunette with saucer-shaped eyes and a soft white body, like she hardly went out in the sun-odd for a boat person.
"This is my wife, Sherry," Wilson said.
The boat!
"Nice to meet you," I said.
"Likewise," she said, very softly.
I couldn't help myself: I undressed her in my mind and made long, slow love to her all night and fell in love.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?" asked Roland Wilson, breaking my fantasy. "Your face is familiar, but we've never met."
"It ain't good news," I said.
"Assuming it's not."
So I told him everything-well, not everything, but enough.
"I see," Wilson said. "Well, I'm not surprised."
"He's a bastard," said Sherry.
"So there's some bad blood," I said.
"You can say that," Wilson said; "I married his daughter, Sherry, for one. He was not happy about that. The age difference, of course. I married her the day she turned eighteen, although we'd been carrying on since she was---"
"Roland," said his wife, "please."
"Her first job was at a certain pharmaceutical company. Some information came her way, she passed it along to me, and I turned my life's savings into a fortune. What she did not, however, was share these trade secrets to her father and his wife, her stepmother. They tried to get the SEC to investigate but there simply was no hard evidence, although since the statute of limitations has since run out, we can freely admit our little insider-trading scheme. You do what you have to do...to get ahead in this world. Wouldn't you say so?"
"Sure," I said, and to Sherry: "Erin is your stepmom?"
"Do you know the cunt?"
"Language, dear," said her husband, patting her bare knee.
"I mean 'bitch.'"
"We've met."
"She hates me. I hate her. It's a simple story."
"I don't get it," I said, "you all live in the same marina?"
"We were here first," Wilson said. "Her father made some money doing what he did, day trading and that sort of thing, and he and his wife purchased a boat and specifically moved here."
"To make our lives unpleasant," Sherry said.
"Why not move?" I asked.
"Why give them the satisfaction," Wilson said.
"They're pretty bent on ruining you."
"They can try. I appreciate your coming to me with this."
"Why not. They tried to blackmail me."
"What do I owe you for this information?"
"Nothing."
"Oh please."
"Well."
"Name your price."
"Like?"
"Name it."
"Five grand," I said.
"Let me write you a check," he said.
I thought: hmm. Easy money.
***
Check in pocket and feeling pretty damn dandy being paid about my good deed for the day, I walked back to my tiny boat. I didn't make it. I was jumped by two big guys with lousy intentions. One held me still while another knocked me on the back of the head with something quite hard and cold.
CHAPTER FOUR
The headache I had, when I woke up, was worse than the morning's hangover.
I felt a lump that had dried blood on it. I was lying on a smelly old green army cot in a narrow room filled with empty beer kegs and boxes of hard booze. A large man, his muscles going to fat, sat across from me in a white lawn chair. He had a thin moustache and long hair and I had a feeling he may have been the fellow who gave me the headache. I owned him one.
He also looked like he could've been a relative of the Martoni Brothers and didn't sit well with the three bullet wounds on my belly.
"Where am I?" I asked.
"Hey, Gregory!" the man said to the closed door.
The door opened and another big man (whose fat seemed to be turning into muscles, like he'd just discovered the world of weight-lifting three months ago) walked in. He was bald. I figured he was the one I had to settle with-I noticed a black revolver tucked into his pants. There was loud music and cheering coming from somewhere in this building. The place smelled like stale booze, piss and cheap disinfectant mixed with bleach.
"Get a good nap?" he said with a grin.
"You're Gregory?"
"And this is Steve. Steve, go get Tony."
The other man stood and left. Gregory sat in the lawn chair. I didn't think that poor piece of plastic would hold out much longer, the way it bent and made strange sounds that no lawn chair should ever make.
"What's the story," I said, "Gregory."
"You fucked up, pal."
"No kidding."
"Tony is pissed."
"Who is Tony?"
"I'm Tony, motherfucker," said the man who walked in, followed by Steve. He was around six foot five, skinny, tattooed, long black hair in a ponytail. He wore leather pants, cowboy boots and a vest. He would've been handsome if his face weren't so pockmarked. He tossed something at me and I caught it. It was a videocassette. "I watched your movie," he said.
"Oh shit," I said.
"'Oh shit' is right."
"I take it you're Stephanie's boyfriend?"
She said he was ugly and she wasn't kidding.
"Why must we resort to labels and expectations? The cunt is my property. What I want to know is what were you doing fucking what is mine when you didn't get my permission or even pay for it?"
Now I knew why Stephanie reminded me of Rhonda—these sort of women were all the same.
With that, he came over to me and backhanded me across the face. I tasted blood. I rubbed my jaw.
"I was set up," I said.
All three of them laughed.
I said: "Really."
"Tell me about it."
So I did.
The three of them looked at each other.
And they laughed.
"It's the truth," I said.
"That's so nutty I believe it," Tony said. "Fuck it," he said, "I'm sick of this bullshit. Go get Nancy," he told Gregory.
Gregory nodded and left.
"Why am I here?" I asked.
"To rough your shit up, maybe even kill you, but now I see you're just a fucking dupe. Like Homer Simpson in Day of the Locust. Ever see that movie? One of my favs. Donald Sutherland was great in it. So you got caught up in the pussy game. Happens to the best of us, but mostly happens to the worst, y'know. She used to get me, Steph did. She used to get me to do what she wanted; get me all pissed off and hurt any man she had a problem with. But you know what? This is the last time. This is it. I'm not playing anymore. This time she's going down into the sea and sleeping with the fishes, like they say in the gangster movies. This time she's dug her own grave. I'm officially breaking up with her."
Gregory returned with a redhead in gold high heels and black panties and bra. She could have been twenty, or she could have been forty. She looked tired and jaded and I found myself liking that—then again, these days, I wasn't too particular about the women I was attracted to.
Tony said: "This is Nancy. She's my apology to you. So have your bad ol' self some fun and then I'll see to it you get back home."
I was left alone with the woman.
"You okay?" she said.
"Yeah," I said.
She sat next to me. "You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah."
She smelled like cheap wine and baby powder. "You want to kiss me?"
"Do I have to?"
"You should," and she leaned in to kiss my cheek and whispered: "You won't be okay soon. You're in danger."
"How?"
"Mmm, baby, that's good," she said loudly, for effect, then whispered:
"We don't have to do this. I don't want to do this. I don't like seeing people get hurt, especially stupid men like you."
"I don't like seeing myself get hurt either," I agreed.
"I don't want to do this," and she added loudly: "Yeah, baby, touch me right there like that!"
"What the fuck," I said.
She whispered: "They always set up poor saps like you, and use me to do it. We start fucking, then Tony's goons come up and smack you around just when you're about to get your rocks off and leave you broken and bloody and naked in the street for the cops to find. It's not pretty, let me tell you, and I bet it's embarrassing as hell."
"Great."
"But that doesn't have to happen."
"It won't," I said. "Just keep up your act."
She started to moan and say nasty, sexy things. I grabbed one of the empty beer kegs and moved it next to the door. I nodded to Nancy. She yelled, "OH YEAH BABY FUCK ME DEEP!" A few seconds later the door opened and Steve came in. I picked up the empty keg and brought it down on his head. He went to the floor, unconscious. I reached for one of the booze boxes and yanked out a fifth of Jose Cuervo Gold. Gregory burst in next like an elephant out of the jungle. I smashed the bottle across his face and rammed the jagged end into his belly. He went to his knees, cursing my existence like a mad Catholic priest. I relieved him of his gun.
"I'll be going now," I said.
"You'll be going to hell," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "I know."
***
I escaped out the back exit. There were a lot of motorcycles and hot rods parked outside the building, a placed called Tony Hole with a neon sign: "LIVE NUDE WOMEN AND GIRLS." I was somewhere in Mission Beach from the looks of it. Not too far from home. I found a parked taxi and told the driver to take me downtown. It was a good thing I had a few bills in my wallet. I still had my check from Roland Wilson too. I couldn't wait to get to my boat, curl up in bed and pretend the last two days never happened.