2
She led the detective through the club, past the bar line packed with afros dreadlocks and shaved heads, even a couple of cornrow tops, then along the edge of the noisy gyrating crowd (of perhaps 400 which was almost certainly in violation of fire safety code for the small joint) on the dance floor under the shifting colored lights, past the left stack of the house speakers and the stage where the gaunt deejay in a rasta bonnet and long thin goatee controlled the beat while the emcee in his thick bare chest and tattooed muscled arms and sideways ball cap had the fingers of one hand elaborately wrapped about the microphone at his lips while his other hand hung over the front row bobbing in rhythm, then into a narrow hallway connecting the washrooms and finally to the back door where another bouncer in smooth black leather nodded and pushed it open for them to step into the cooler air of the damp night.
Twist stood in the alley, the spittle of rain not enough to wet his thick and unkempt dark and wiry locks, the odd drop of dew merely ensnaring itself fully intact in the dim corona around the edges of his head, cast by the street lamp at the end of the block. He was a slender man of low maintenance, his hollow cheeks peppered with a couple of days of stubble, and stood with a slight stoop. The blue-grey suit that hung about him was well-worn and long since broken to the contours of his frame, and the entirety of his style was carried in a mauve silk shirt left open at the collar. Marcy, on the other hand, was fully decked out for the evening in black platform wedges with gold zippers up the front just past her ankles. Fishnets kept her fleshy thighs together and a black miniskirt clung to her round hips and protrudent booty while a white blouse pinstriped in gold had sleeves rolled up to display stacks of bangles and bracelets and was knotted beneath her bust, showing off the black lacy edges of her bra's cups and the large soft mounds of her tits with deep crevice between where suspended from a thin chain, the one-inch high letters JJ in gold and studded with small diamonds in their hanging curls rested just above. The little black satin cropped jacket that she had donned for the outdoors did nothing to cover her midriff, the dangly diamond hook in her navel nor the roll of flesh about her waist cinched by the tight fit of her skirt. Her hair hung down in one length, black shiny and perfectly straight, from which the golden arcs of three-inch hoop earrings emerged as they subtly swayed, was trimmed neatly just above her ass and was topped with a crisp new black ball cap with the font 'Lakers' stitched across the front in gold threading.
"You call that shit music?" he remarked.
"What the fuck you want?" she pressed him to get to the point.
"Turn around."
"Serious like? Out here?"
"Assume the position," he insisted in the onset of his mild agitation. Marcy huffed in displeasure of her capitulation.
"You got a lotta nerve, a white cop alone in this hood. After what you guys did, there's brothas here dat'll bust a cap in yo skim milk ass first and chat you up later," she advised. "I mean I know this is one sweet piece o' tail but wouldn't it be easier to just do the massage parlor thang if you so hard up?"
"I prefer it this way. Now, let's go," he insisted with a quick shove to the chest that stepped her back.
"Just gimme a minute ta git my fuckin' diaphragm on," she said as she dug into her shiny gold handbag.
"That didn't stop you before," he smirked.
"I wasn't gettin' fucked by a
pig
before," she spewed as she continued to delve into the depths of her purse. Twist stepped close, placing his left hand on her shoulder, then suddenly thrust his right fist deep into her gut. Marcy bent at the waist, her face contorted in silent pain.
"That should teach you some respect," he leaned over her. "Now hurry up. I told you, I haven't got all night." After a moment, her breath came back to her.
"Asshole," she hissed. Then she leaned back against the damp brick wall, squeezed out a good dose of spermicide into the little membrane and dropped the tube back into her bag. "It would be a whole lot easier if you'd just use a goddamn rubber."
"Like I said, I prefer it this way," he repeated coldly as he unbuckled his belt and opened his fly. "Turn the fuck around."
"If I knew you was comin'," Marcy spat between stiff breaths as she recovered from the belly blow, and prepared by pulling down her black panties, squatting and reaching awkwardly up inside herself. It didn't matter that it wasn't really a risky point in her cycle, she just didn't want any of his repugnant swill meandering around inside her if she could help it. Giving her hips a shake and satisfied with the placement, she straightened up, turned around and braced her palms against the wall to offer her ass.
Twist started with a grope, bunching her skirt up about her middle for a thorough fondling of her behind. Her pudginess turned him on. She was a petite thing, but with a layer of babyfat covering her from neck to feet, her curves had an exaggerated roundness to them. Even the elastic tops of her fishnets cut a little roll of chub into her thighs. Not only was her flesh pleasing to his eye, he relished the power he held to touch and violate them as he pleased as they shaped and wiggled in response. Crouching his knees, he attempted to line himself up but the angle was not sufficient. Gruffly, he took her by the hips and yanked, forcing her to step back and jut her ass out further. Then with a subtle kick at her foot, he urged her to widen her stance, which required her stepping out of one leg of her panties, kicking her clunky wedge free. Marcy grimaced as he parted her and eased himself in.
"Mmmmmm," he sighed on his breath as he began to fuck her. As much as she was getting used to the custom, she still could not resist a full body cringe. The pig never lasted much more than five minutes but it always seemed an eternity. His hands went up the back of her jacket and top to unclasp her bra, instantly dropping her heavy breasts loose in their cups for him to reach around and knead indulgently in their softness and tug on her nipples, pleasing himself at least. Soon he went back to her hips, bracing them to thrust with more force, small grunts of effort on his breath accompanying the smack of jiggling flesh as he banged her. Perhaps the location provided a sense of urgency for him, but with a quiet broken groan he soon spunked all up inside her and slumped himself against her back while his hands got in some languid extra titty fondle. He was done.
"Mmm, you're goddamn sexy," he slurred as his softening prick slipped out.
"You're fuckin' gross," she retorted, clenching herself shut as best she could to keep from dripping on her stockings panties and shoes.
After a moment, he pulled back and straightened up and she quickly began to put herself back together, squatting down to fetch her panties and stuff them into her purse, then standing and shimmying her skirt back down into place. Once she had her bra refastened, everything tucked back in, and blouse re-knotted, she turned to see him doing up his belt. "Can I go now?" she asked with a scowl. "I gotta use tha can and get this glue outta my box."
"Not yet," he shook his head as he leaned an elbow on the nearby dumpster and shifted gears. "Now, the business end. Start talkin'."
"About what?"
"The Franklin High shootings," he stated pointedly, accusingly, his brow and jaw fixed in a determined front, as if she had anything at all to do with it. His mind played over the scene as he arrived upon it the night before. Yellow police tape stretched across the twenty-foot chain link fencing surrounding the school yard. The bodies were sprawled on the ball court cement amongst the expansive pools and erratic spatters of dark red blood under the street lamps that lined the block casting faded shadows across one another, and the myriad of incessant red and blue flashing lights reflecting from each and every building's facade on the streets around, as the investigators milled about picking casings with tweezers and taking photos, and the clean-up crews stood by to bag the victims beneath the hoops and backboards. Two cops and one thug were dead. When they told him that one of them was McNamara, it stung him right in the heart. One more cop was in the ambulance with a hole in the top of his shoulder, another thug was in custody and a third thug, an Asian known to police was pinned to the ground face down and cuffed by three officers while the bastard bled heavily from the belly and thigh. Both of the surviving street gangsters would be facing murder charges before dawn. It looked like half the force was in that school yard, taking statements about the car that had cruised by, opened fire on the scene and disappeared into the night - a black Mercedes with perhaps two gunmen inside - from the scant few bystanders that were willing to talk to them. Gawking eyes took in the scene from the perimeter, most of them black, many of them children. They looked down from apartment windows, faces aghast with varying combinations of wonder fear and disgust. Among them were the assorted outlets of the media with their vans parked and their camera men focusing on their remote reporters speaking into handheld microphones trying to deliver the scoop from the sidewalk just beyond the chain links. All were kept at bay by police in kevlar and face shields. Against the far fence, a basketball lay deflated from a bullet hole. He found Lieutenant Ken McNamara face down at the half court line, his blood running the length of his extended arm to meet the white paint and continue along to trickle down the drain in the center circle. He'd taken one in the side of the neck. The two of them had been sworn in together at the same ceremony twenty-two years previously and Ken had three teenage boys and now a widow. It was a damn fuckin' shame. Twist simmered in contempt as he recalled how they at least had the investigation under control until the next morning when some anonymous vigilante asshole sent video from his phone to the Channel 9 news and the sonsobiches aired it without consulting the department first, plunging the entire city of Los Angeles into chaotic dissent. Suddenly, they had a bullshit PR nightmare and a full blown shitstorm on their hands.
"What the fuck makes you think I know anything about dat scene?" she asked incredulously.
"These guys were Black Rice."
