Maybe it would go through after all, he thought. This was the biggest deal he'd had on his desk in years, something that would put him back in the game – big time – and he'd known going in his presentation had to be flawless. It was, too. He was sure he'd nailed it, and he was ecstatic about the way the morning's talks had gone. One of the company's senior partners, Linda Markowski, had been there and she'd seemed pleased by the whole morning as well, so the signs were good.
They'd gone to lunch after, just he and Markowski and a couple of the principals involved, and she'd made noises about promotions if the deal was signed, sealed and delivered – and he felt like he had in the late-70s. Invincible. One of Wolfe's Masters of the Universe. They finished two bottles of Champagne and he'd felt it, too. She was coming on to him...no doubt about it. Problem with that was simple enough, however.
It wasn't just that she worked at the same place; no, he'd screwed half the women in the office over the years, so that wasn't the problem. No, Markowski was Fugly – as in fucking ugly – and from behind her ass was about as wide as a Volkswagen Beetle's. And roughly the same shape, too, he thought. Round and low. Fugly...with ankles as fat as her thighs. She was brilliant, however, so he'd considered screwing her before. Now, with her nearing fifty, sex was out of the question. No way, if only because it was still considered bad form to throw up on your boss's tits.
So, when a high heel brushed his ankle he – successfully – tried not to jump, then he slowly, not at all obviously, moved away, not letting his part of the conversation break stride. She picked up the check – on her corporate card, of course, then they rode down in the elevator together.
"I'll see you Monday," he said as they split in the parking garage; he didn't wait for a possible invitation and walked through the garage to his car – an old BMW CSi that had seen better days. He got in the queue to pay for his time, then turned right out of the lot onto Elm, made an immediate right on Field and was approaching the light at Ross when he saw her. Maybe homeless, maybe just a hooker, she was dressed like a vagabond but even from a distance he could tell she was a looker.
As he approached she held up a small cardboard sign that read 'will fuck – for food,' and he damn near skidded to a stop by the side of the road where she was standing. He rolled down the window and looked at her as she walked up to the side of his car.
"So," he began, "you hungry?"
She looked at him, pretended to smile a little. "Yeah. Feel like some company?"
"Yeah, ya know, some company might be good right about now. Know someplace we can go?"
"No, not really. Aren't there a bunch of hotels out on Hines?"
"Yup. You a cop?"
"Nope. You?"
"Not likely," he said as he unlocked her door. She picked up her book-bag and opened the door, stepped inside, and he was surprised if only because she didn't stink. He'd half expected filth as she looked, from a distance, like a vagrant. But no, she smelled of perfume, and not cheap perfume, either. He looked at her as she buckled up, noticed her jeans were clean, her halter top was too, and her sneakers were almost brand new. Kind of like a cop, in other words, and he suddenly grew cautious.
"You know someplace?" she asked quietly, now almost like she was shy, maybe even a little confused – and he relaxed again. If she was a cop she'd have a place in mind, someplace already bugged, probably with vice waiting in a room next door.
"No, not really. I don't do this kinda thing very often, if you know what I mean. What's with the sign?"
"Good way to get you stop, wasn't it?"
He smiled, tried not to laugh. "Yeah. I guess so."
"Why don't you just head up Harry Hines. There's got to be some places out there."
"So, you don't do this often?"
"Nope. First time for me. You married?"
"No, not in a few years."
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know. You like rough stuff?"
She looked out the window and grinned. "As long as I'm the one being rough, yeah."
"You do much stuff like that?"
"Um-hmm," she sighed.
"You like it that way?"
"You have no idea," she cooed.
He pulled into the first sleaze bag motel he saw, got a room then went back out to the car, drove around the side and parked out of view from the office, then opened her door, helped her out of the Beemer. He opened the room door, stepped inside and turned on the a/c, and when he turned around to face the girl she stepped into his arms, kissed him deeply, massaging him through his jeans until he felt like he was ready to explode.
"You got something for me?" she asked.
"Hmm, what? Money?"
"No, silly. You feel like you're about to lose it down there."
"I am."
"You want me to take care of that for you? We can go for round two a little slower, if you know what I mean?"
"Oh, God...could you?"
She knelt and pulled his slacks down, took him in her mouth and worked him over quickly, and she was careful to take all of him in her mouth. When she was finished she told him to take off his clothes and lay out on the bed.
"Spread your arms to the corners," she commanded, and she reached in her bag and took out two pairs of handcuffs, then cuffed each wrist to a bed post. "Spread your legs," she hissed next, and with two lengths of rope she tied him off to the bed. She pulled a very soiled pair of stockings and panties from her bag and took them out of the baggie she'd put them in about two hours ago, then rubbed them over his face. "Open wide," she said a minute later, then she stuffed them in his mouth, tying the wad in his mouth with one of the stockings. "You wanted it rough, didn't you," she cooed again, smiling at him.
He tried to say something but of course couldn't, and she walked over to the TV and tuned into an afternoon news program, turned up the volume then turned to him again and walked over to the side of the bed. "Ready for some rough stuff?"
He mumbled something but nodded his head.
"Well, okay, but I'm going to need you to hold back, okay? I don't want you to cum too soon. If you do, I'll be upset. Okay?"
He nodded his head and she started working him over with her hands, occasionally taking him in her mouth until she was sure he was about to blow his load, then she straddled his thighs, still using her hand on him...
"You know, I think you're about to cum. And you know what? I haven't even been fucked yet. Do you know how pissed that makes me? Huh? Have any idea?"
He shook his head while he watched her rise up over his groin, then he saw her take his penis in hand and guide it inside. When the warmth enveloped him he tried everything he knew to stop the flow – but it was pointless and he came inside her moments later...
"Did you just do what I think you did?" she cooed again – only now she pulled an eight inch kitchen knife from her bag and in one swift motion drove the blade into his chest, just beneath the sternum. She cut through his stomach and bowels then pulled the knife out just shy of his penis, reinserted the blade and cut from his liver to his spleen, severing the aorta in the motion and leaving a neat cruciform wound across his gut, then she went to the shower and rinsed his semen, and his blood, from her body.
After she dried off she went over and checked his pulse – and of course there was none – so she dressed and went to her book bag, took out a pint container of cottage cheese, then a baggie full of finely sliced green onions, and she sprinkled the onions on the cheese and ate about half the container before leaving it on the bed by his face, then she packed her bag and walked out of the room.
She figured her mark would stop at this hotel, so she'd parked her two month old Ford Mustang nearby then hopped a bus downtown; now she went to the convertible and opened the door, drove up Harry Hines to the medical school – and she drove into the student parking lot and got another book bag out of the trunk and walked to her first year anatomy lecture.
She got to the lab just in time, and smiled all the way.
+++++
His name was John Wayne Dickinson, and he'd been with the Dallas Police Department for a little more than five years. His first two years, in academy and with an FTO, or Field Training Officer, had been followed by three more years working patrol in Central Division, in and around downtown Dallas. He'd done some good preliminary work on a couple of homicides and scored well on the Civil Service exam, so had then been sent to a school to learn basic criminal investigative duties and procedures; when he aced the final exam he went back to Central hoping to work homicide but soon learned that – like everything else about this job – you had to pay your dues and put in the time before plum assignments came your way.
He had, of course, landed on the bottom rung of the ladder – right in vice – yet he had found the work instructive so far, as long as you could keep from falling into the gutter. The cases he'd had so far tended to lead downward – down into the darker recesses of humanity. He didn't particularly enjoy the work, but at least a few of the cases had been challenging. Others, like one at an adult bookstore earlier in the week, had left him feeling soiled, ashamed to be a member of the human race.
Some weenie-wagger had gone to the glory holes in the video arcade and had promptly stuck his hard-on through the first available hole; the person on the other side took a nine inch hat-pin and stuck it right through the guy's erection – in effect impaling him to the wall. Until his screams brought management, who then called the paramedics – who then, of course, called dispatch. And the responding patrolman had of course called CID, or the Criminal Investigative Division – and so, of course, the call landed on Dickinson's desk.
As there was no imminent danger of the guy bleeding out, the paramedics left the guy impaled there until Dickinson showed up, and after he photographed the poor guy the medics took tin-snips and cut him free, not bothering to catch him when he fell to the floor – which resulted in a major head injury.
That report had been a son-of-a-bitch, too.
There'd been no evidence, of course, save for a small, half-eaten container of cottage cheese with green onions sprinkled on top. He'd bagged the container, if only as a matter of policy, then taken the container straight to forensics – and hoped for the best.
It was a warm Friday afternoon, the first day of October, and the State Fair was going on and he hoped to get out there over the weekend with his brother and sister-in-law, and their kids, too, because the Fair was still a big deal to them. Always had been. Back in grade school they'd always gotten a day off from classes and rode out to Fair Park in school buses, and he'd been fascinated by the train exhibit that opened up in '63 – a few months before that Kennedy fella got himself shot over on Dealey Plaza. Some guy named DeGolyer collected all those trains – then donated 'em, and he thought that was just too cool.
He looked through his mail, called to see if forensics had anything on the "cottage cheese caper" – as his captain had called it – but no, nothing yet, but his photographs were in and he pulled out the prints and cringed when he saw that hat-pin sticking through that poor devil's dick.
"Man, talk about coitus interruptus," Becky Sawyer said as she walked into the room. She was an old hand around CID, one of the first women to make detective in Texas, and that had been ten years ago. She was homicide now, and a damn fine detective – at least that was the scuttlebutt on her. He felt her leaning over his chair, her breath on his neck as she looked at the pictures in his hand. "Goddamn, don't that make your balls shrivel up, run for cover just lookin' at 'em?"
"Now that you mention it, yeah."
"Anything come back on that cheese?"
"Nope."
"Was there a spoon in the container?"
"Yup. Sterling silver, too."
"What?"
"Yeah, some fancy English brand. Real expensive, according to Perry."
