Guardian Angel
soppingwetpanties
Thank you migbird, who may understand Max better than me, for his thoughtful comments.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, merchandise, companies, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters in sexual situations are 18 years or older.
I was born and raised in the West End of Cincinnati, the proverbial "wrong side" of the tracks. But that's me, always struggling to avoid the short end of the stick, whether it's tangling with my superiors in the Cincinnati police department or wrestling with the bad guys I'm trying to put in jail.
I'm Maxine "Max" Pemberton, a detective in the Vice Squad. The West End has always been my stomping grounds, beginning as a small child and continuing all the way through high school. For most of my career with the police I've lived in the Royal Palms, a fleabag motel located in the heart of the West End. My guess is that I'll finish my career on this beat, that is if I live long enough to see my retirement.
The thought of dying on the job is no idle exercise. In my line of work you need to be on your toes every second. During my tenure I've been beaten up, stabbed and shot, all the while downing two pints of vodka every night to ease the pain of my wretched existence. There wasn't much in my lifestyle to contribute to a long lifespan. But being a cop, a long life wasn't high on my list of priorities.
Just think of me as a thrill seeker. No different than a free climber or a test pilot. Thrill seekers don't place a high value on a comfortable retirement. They want to live life running at full throttle, twenty-four seven. I got my thrills bagging bad guys. And in my spare time it was chasing pussy, and occasionally taking in a Reds game.
I'd describe my appearance as handsome, with a hard body and big breasts, but I don't have movie star good looks like my work partner, Lesley. She's got them, and a wife who's drop dead gorgeous as well. I claimed credit for the two of them being together. I met Alessandra a while back working a case and introduced her to Lesley. I knew it would work and it has. I wish I could have said the same thing about me, but my life has been an endless series of one-night stands and quickly crumbling relationships.
It's not to say my sex life wasn't good. On the contrary, it was fantastic. Right after I broke it off with Sky, I fell, or perhaps threw, myself into the arms of Angela, a bartender at the Landing Point, my station's main hangout. She was my kind of woman, wanting dirty, nasty sex without the expectation of a commitment. We both had the same goal in mind. And that was a quality fuck. Don't put down drinking and fucking if you haven't tried it. And Angela being a bartender at the Landing Point, she had access to good quality booze at wholesale prices.
That cut out my twice weekly trips to my local liquor store. I gladly traded my playful banter with Nigel, the clerk at the liquor store, who I hooked on Cincinnati Reds baseball, for better booze. Now the poor sucker had no one to commiserate with about the abysmal state of our team. Angela brought the good stuff to our fuck sessions, so I was downing Wild Turkey and Maker's Mark instead of rotgut vodka.
So my story took place about three days after I'd broken up with Sky. Sky was a junior detective in Homicide who transferred to Internal Affairs, working for Constance Munger, my nemesis in the department. Constance always had a hard-on for me, and now with a disgruntled Skylar Hobson at her side, my life was about to get even more difficult. IA was my kryptonite.
It was in the wee hours of the morning and I'd just had a marathon fuck session with Angela. I was going through my usual routine of a cigarette on the second-floor balcony outside my room at the Royal Palms. The Royal Palms was the quintessential seedy motel. Built in the 60's as a cross-country trip stopover, it was bypassed by a new interstate and devolved into a flophouse populated by the West End's pimps, prostitutes and druggies. Everyone who hung out there knew who I was and what I did so you might think it ironic that I turned a blind eye to what went on there. I didn't care about the small fish. It was the big ones I wanted. The small fish were struggling to make a living. The big fish were cashing in on the misery of the West End's inhabitants.
The small fish made up my informal network of informants. I protected them and in exchange they gave me information. In my business information was the coin of the realm. I was planning on hitting up Eddie, a wise ass pimp who plied his trade in the parking lot of the liquor store I frequented. He was plugged in to what was going on and was one of my best sources. My other reliable source was Bear, a man mountain of a guy who I rescued from a long prison sentence by backing up his claim of self-defense after he'd beaten one of his motorcycle club members to a bloody pulp. He served minimal time and gave me full credit for saving his sorry ass.
While I was standing on the walkway enjoying my post-coital cigarette I was nabbed by two of Jumbo William's thugs. Jumbo was just out of jail and was the heir apparent to the West End's drug throne after its former queen, Lily Chao, was executed gangland style. It was widely assumed by folks in my department that Jumbo had colluded with the Russians to take Lily out. I had no idea why Jumbo wanted to see me at that hour.
I was dressed in a bathrobe and nothing else when I was snatched. It was 2 a.m., and instead of being in a warm bed with a naked and horny Angela I was sitting in the back seat of a hulking black Escalade. It still had the new car smell, though it was masked by the stench of the awful aftershave the goons flanking me were wearing.
Jumbo Williams. Former All-State tackle in high school followed by a promising collegiate career cut short by an ugly knee injury. He was a big dude and bad to the bone. He ran the drug trade in the West End with an iron fist before I busted him and while he was in the can Lily Chao took over. I had a romantic interlude (or two) with Lily before she was offed by the Russians. It was only a matter of time for Jumbo's crew to seep into the voids left by Lily's death.
Jumbo lived in the West End. I knew where and assumed that's where the car was headed. Jumbo owned the entire block surrounding his childhood home where his widowed mother still lived. Mrs. Williams didn't take shit from anyone, including Jumbo, so everybody had to be on their best behavior when they were around her. Other than his mother and his younger sister, Jumbo didn't give a shit about anyone else, especially me who sent him up the river. There was a small chance that I was going to die, but I figured it was small because my abduction was witnessed by the night owls at the Royal Palms.
And there were night owls aplenty at the Royal Palms. There was so much criminal activity there that someone was always on the lookout. I figured I'd get returned to the Royal Palms with the same fanfare as my very public abduction. If Jumbo wanted me dead, there were many more elegant ways to accomplish the task then using his body men, who were non-thinking muscle. I sat back and enjoyed the rest of the ride in a very nice leather seat. I had nowhere else to go being dressed in only a bathrobe.
I pulled my robe tight together as the driver had the a/c on full blast. Both guys in the backseat were leering at my tits. I'm relatively well endowed, and a cheap cotton robe did almost nothing to hide what I had underneath. I knew they wouldn't do anything to me. Jumbo would cut their nuts off if they did. It was just creepy knowing that two gangbangers could have their way with me, but for Jumbo. No different than two chained Dobermans.
"What do you want from me?" I asked the driver as the Escalade pulled out of the Royal Palms parking lot.
"Shut the fuck up," the driver snapped back. The two men in the back chuckled. The man on my left had a gold front tooth, and it flashed when he opened his mouth. Apparently they all thought it was funny having a police officer in their car, practically naked.
"Fuck you asshole," I said in a defiant voice. "Do you know what the penalty is for kidnapping a police officer?"
"What part of 'shut the fuck up' do you not understand?" Mr. Gold Tooth said to me, forgetting the manners his momma taught him.
He was nice enough to back up his taunt by cuffing me on the left cheek with the back of his bony paw. The smack turned my head and the gaudy diamond studded ring he was wearing cut my lip. I tasted my own blood and decided to anoint the floor of Jumbo's ride with a spit wad of blood mixed with saliva.
"What the fuck did you do that for?" I shouted.
I think Mr. Gold Tooth instantly regretted hitting me. I imagine he realized Jumbo would notice the damage.
"Sorry boss," he said quickly, offering a tissue to me. "It's a reflex to mouthy motherfuckers like you."
I was a mouthy motherfucker and maybe for all the shit I gave Jumbo and his crew over the years I deserved it. But I would get my recompense for that slap somewhere somehow.
"Stupid cunt," the driver muttered, though loud enough for me to hear. Those were usually fighting words, but I decided to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the trip. Dental work was expensive.
After winding our way through the West End we finally hit Jumbo's street. It was lined with a neat row of well-kept houses with armed guards posted at each end of the street. There were three shiny new black Escalades parked in front of the house, with one blocking the driveway. Two men, clearly packing, were standing guard at the top of the stairs of the covered front porch.
The Escalade blocking the driveway pulled backwards, allowing our car to drive up the driveway and into a garage in the back yard. Mr. Gold Tooth opened the door and pulled me out by the collar of my robe.
"Let's go," he said. His buddy, who sported a gaudy tattoo on his neck, came out his side of the car and took one of my arms.
They dragged me to the front of the house and up the stairs to the porch.
"What's up Stick?" one of the guards asked Mr. Gold Tooth. The guards, like Stick, were wearing identical black leather jackets. The guard had a jagged scar on his left cheek and looked at me like I was his next meal. He recognized me, but couldn't place me.
"Meetin' with the man," Stick said casually, though there was nothing casual about hauling in a cop in a bathrobe in the middle of the night.
Then it dawned on the guard where he'd seen me.
