Folsom already knew some it what the captain was going to say. His checking of the names he gotten off the crew list against U.S. immigration records with the help of the NYPD researcher Trudi had revealed that the ship's captain and Sten had accompanied Meister to the United States, arriving in New York, and were in the States when Brad Roberts was murdered. The e-mail exchange with Trudi had also revealed, however, that Sigmund Frist was in New York at the same time. Folsom would not have been satisfied about who had actually killed his partner and lover, Brad, if the captain had not spun out the story, although even then he'd never be positive.
The captain and Sten had arrived at the scene of Roberts's murder after he had died—or so the captain claimed. It was the captain's understanding that Meister had fucked Brad—and that much had already been verified by the DNA—but that Frist had done the knifing that had killed him. Frist and Meister had been equal partners in Meister's sex enterprise schemes; Frist had ensured that Meister could conduct his activities in Germany through his influence in the police department.
But Meister had gotten greedy and was blackmailing Frist, whose activities and proclivities were being kept a secret from his police system. That's why Meister had to die as well. Dieter had been killed first; Frist had come upon Meister fucking Dieter in his favorite way in the ship's exercise room. Frist had joined in the fun and had killed Dieter as part of that fun. Than, an unknowing Meister had been taken to his own death in his cabin by Frist.
After that, Frist had tried to implicate Folsom in the murders, knowing that Folsom had come to revenge his partner's death and thus was highly vulnerable to being fingered for Meister's death. Folsom himself was able to figure out that Frist had drugged him before bedding him and gone off to murder Meister while Folsom would think they were still together and were engaging in all-night sex. Folsom's dream of handling a dildo during their sex was a half-conscious awareness that Frist was getting his fingerprints on one of the weapons. And Frist had access to all of the cabin keys on the ship and had planted the knife in Folsom's cabin when Folsom had encountered him there the day following the murder.
The captain claimed, of course, that both he and Sten were just willing and enabling employees caught up in a web of threats and bullying to do what Meister and Frist wanted them to do—and there was no one else alive now to totally belie his claim.
The next day, the police gave clearances for the ship to sail again to meet its schedule for arrival in Amsterdam, albeit with a skeleton crew made up of the lucky survivors of the recent days' mayhem. The police offered Folsom a hotel stay in Cologne until all of the paperwork was finished—and the bruiser begged him to stay with him instead.
But Folsom wanted to recover in his own way. He asked permission to sail on to Amsterdam and to return to Cologne—and, yes, to the bruiser's bed and shower and sofa—it was melting just to think of the good times he'd be having with the bruiser—a few days later by air.
As the ship pulled away from the dock and Folsom waved to Manfeld and company and the somewhat disappointed bruiser, he turned and headed for the Alexander Lounge. Half way there, though, he was accosted by the African potentate, wanting to claim his rain check on their romp on the Helios deck lounger, and Folsom thought, what the hell, and permitted himself to be carried off to the king's cabin.
The African took him in the tiny shower from the rear against the tiles, lifting Folsom's body up from the floor with the thrusts of his insistent cock, and then again in the middle of the cabin, with the ebony giant standing on his feet, in a semicrouch, and Folsom suspended in air, legs jutting out on either side of the African's hips and the king pumping Folsom's pelvis up and down on his glistening sledgehammer. And finally, with the African flat on his back on the bed and grinning up at Folsom as the American straddled his pelvis and did a long, vigorous pole dance on his engorged cock.
Later that night, as the ship was nudging into the suburbs of Amsterdam on the Amstel canal, Folsom and Ralf finally met up and went back to Folsom's cabin, where Ralf fucked him three ways from Sunday in relentless, deep-assed thrustings on the table, the floor, and the bed, tossing used condoms left and right all night.
It was at the height of this debauchery that Folsom realized that it wasn't the orgiastic death that he sought and now was receiving in perpetual ejaculations. It wasn't an ending of anything; it was a beginning. Ejaculation gave life, not death. He would never forget Brad Roberts and what they had together, but Folsom no longer sought to mourn by seeking death through sex; he could now fully rejoice in life through sex.
He wondered how hard it would be for Ralf to get a Green Card for U.S. residency. Maybe with his help, if Ralf was interested.
