He can be as hard as you need.
All characters are adults.
*****
I knocked on Opal's motel room door, no response, knocked on it again, then a third time. Nothing. I phoned the room and got the same results. The desk clerk told me she left. I wasn't surprised. "Que sera sera," was my attitude about most things. I drove across town to my place.
The Airstream was empty, too. Ruby was gone along with her stuff. "Something happening here, what it is ain't exactly clear: Buffalo Springfield, FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH, 1967," the old song popped into my head. I went to bed and awoke later looking up into the face of Ruby's daughter, Pearl, standing in the doorway looking back at me, and another deputy I didn't recognize.
"Why'd you run momma off?" Pearl asked, as she unbuttoned her blouse, pulled it off, and hung it on the door knob. I looked at the other woman to gage her reaction to Pearl.
Pearl had long, stringy black hair, black eyes, five-two tall, one-hundred sixty pounds, and wore too much mascara. Her hair was too black but her ass was plump and perfect for fucking.
"Who the fuck knows, she was here when I went out this morning, and gone when I got back," I replied, watching Pearl remove her holster and shoes. She looked octoroon, though her father looked white enough: Pearl looked a lot like Mariah Carey if Carey's hair was black. "Ruby probly cucked him," I thought.
Pearl removed her pants, pulled down her panties, climbed on the bed, then crawled over and straddled me. "You gonna call her?" She asked as she wrapped her fingers around my cock to guide it into her mouth, but leaned forward and kissed me first.
"No."
"Homey don't play that game, huh?"
"Nope," I replied as I cupped her ass with my hands and pulled it and her gash to my face to wallow my face in.
"What in hell are you doing?"
"Checking to see if anyone filled your bun with jelly already," I lied.
"You know, you are such an insensitive asshole! I was gonna share a secret with you but now I don't think I will."
"You're pregnant," I said.
"How in hell would you know!" She frowned down at me as she turned around and pressed her warm cunt against my face.
I pulled my mouth away from her long enough to say," You look pregnant."
"It's your's," she cooed and turned her head to look at her partner. "You're welcome to play, too." The woman started undressing.
I looked at Pearl, "How do you know?"
"Cause I don't let nobody fuck me bareback but you, son of a bitch! Not even my husband."
"Is that why your momma left?"
"You're the first I told, she doesn't know. Are you excited?"
"Horny," I replied. She slapped me hard.
"You take the prize for bastard!" She growled, then squirted my face when my tongue made her orgasm. "I don't know why I even fuck with you," she said, wiping me with the sheet. "Now fuck me, and make me like you again." She lay on her back spreading her legs across the mattress. "What you waiting for Sylvia?" Pearl asked her partner.
"I want you when he's done," Sylvia replied.
"Not before you get a load of baby juice to take home to daddy. I'll cut you some slack, you can eat me while asshole fucks you." And that's what happened. Sylvia was drunk as a lord and a fuck swamp when we put her in a cab for home.
The next morning Pearl got up, put on my robe, and went outside to get a fresh uniform from her car. She was sore and walked gingerly. I was up and making coffee when she returned. I looked outside and stared at the white Crown Vic parked across the street.
"What you looking at?" Pearl asked.
"A whore in a mini skirt walking the street," I said. Pearl looked.
"Must need some crack to be out in the rain. What did you think of Sylvia? I think she likes you. Can I tell her it's OK to come around and fuck?"
"Sure."
"Mostly she likes women; I bet she gets more pussy than you do, mostly the one's we catch shoplifting, and the one's that get knocked around by their old men," Pearl said. "Why do yuh s'pose women wanna fuck after fights? I want you to souvenir her a kid."
After Pearl left for work I cranked up the Willys and went for a ride; the Crown Vic followed me. I stopped for coffee at the Quickie Mart. The Crown Vic parked, waited for me, and followed me again. It's Ford's windows were tinted and concealed the occupants.
After I got my coffee and fueled the Willys, I drove east. The Ford followed me far enough back to look inconspicuous. But a plain jane Crown Vic is almost always a geezer, a taxi, or a cop. "Can't be nothing else," I thought. Thirty miles later, at the county line, the Ford was still behind me, and made the turn when I turned south on County Line Road toward the phosphate mines.
Phosphate ore is mined by huge draglines and hauled to a processing facility where the ore is converted to pure phosphate pellets, loaded aboard trains, and hauled to the port for shipment to fertilizer plants around the world. I was going to an old mine closed decades ago. Most buildings were covered with Transite, a heavy corrugated acid resistant board made of cement and asbestos. The same toxic shit house shingles were made of in the 1950s.
I drove the Willys onto the mine site and followed a trail through the under-brush to the old plant. One of the old warehouses was open, so I drove inside, parking as far from the entrance as possible. The Crown Vic stopped and parked by the fence close to the highway.
The Ford's occupants got out of the car, looked around, talked and scratched their heads, then hiked the trail to the old warehouse. They stood by the door holding pistols and looking in till their eyes adjusted to the dim light. I waited till they became confident enough to come inside, each following the walls to the back of the building, to avoid silhouetting themselves with the back-light from the door. When they were close enough I shot them. Later I loaded their bodies into their car, drove it to a pit on the plant property, and set it on fire.
I'm not what you'd call an industrial strength thinker, I rarely thought about killing or anything else, if someone was a threat I took care of it, then took care of the consequences.
I ain't cold hearted neither, I probably have more awareness of feelings than most people, but feelings never obligate me to be paralyzed or be careless. So I don't talk about my feelings, just like most of us don't talk about yellow traffic lights or stinking garbage. Nuthin wrong with Mr. Spock. Feelings and thinking don't get in the way of action. When I step in dog shit I clean it off.
About dawn my cell phone chirped. I opened the case. I didn't recognize the number. "Hello?" I said.
"I'm at the bus station, come get me," it was Opal.
The bus station was encrusted with winos, inside and out, Opal looked anxious around them. I double-parked and loaded the Willys with her stuff.
"I suppose you're surprised to see me," Opal suggested.
"Nothing surprises me," I replied.
"Don't you want to know why I came back?"
"Not really," I said. "I wanna know what you want."
"I want to know what you had in mind when you asked me to work for you."
"Did you eat breakfast?" I ignored the question.
"I don't usually eat breakfast," she replied.
I looked at her and thought, "a grifter won't give you the right time, even when she's standing beside a clock."
I took her to the Night Owl Diner where I ate most of my meals. Melissa Drake was our server. She serves me most of the time, if she's around. Melissa and I go back a few years. She was a friend of my youngest sister and always broke. She fucked me for money, and we're kinda-sorta friends with benefits.
Melissa was an attractive gal but crazy as a shit house mouse. Her hair is colored mouse brown, too, in a shaggy 'mom style' bob with blonde highlights. Come to think of it, her mouse is brown, as well. She was five-five and one hundred fifty pounds, with a medium size rack that pushed against her uniform like they wanted free. She's thirty but looked older, her husband was a younger man up at the state prison. She had three kids from as many men. My tips were a decent portion of her pay. She made a few extra bucks fucking me when her rent was due (what are friends for). I stuffed a bill in her apron as Opal and I left.
