0 comments/  61916 views/  5 favorites

A Gift Horse

By: maxicue



I never had been all that good at anything except searching out distractions to the dull pain of my relentlessly and unpleasantly bland life. Which was nothing since distractions were plentiful and were essentially within arms reach. All it took was a flick of the switch and sound and image of the TV flamed on. Not much of a flame, though. Not like staring into the camp fire, the flames an intricate constant flow of interesting shapes and smells and light and dark spears into the night. These were residual particulate that consumed nothing but time. Dull pain is prescribed dull distractions. The phone jangled a nerve somewhere sciatic and spastic jolts got my leg muscles contracting and lifting me to the cradle where the noisy phone lay. 

"Hello?" I said dully.

Silence and a click and a voice. Soliciting. It should be a crime. But it's a job instead. On the phone they don't solicit sex. It's the TV that solicits phone sex. On the phone its some money scam or other, pure and simple. You give us your name and address and access code and we'll take your money. I wish I could dam up the whole thing, but me alone was no match for the ocean of it. Just make a quick splash. I wish I could vanquish it at its source, but I was powerless alone to storm those enormous vault doors. Only create a dent maybe but more likely smash myself creating a mess of my face. There was no revenge I could be at peace with what with the poor clown at the other end stuck jostling people for their money so's to get a little more of an income. Commissions were not a way I could stand to make dough, what with it taking a little bit of a knack for it and, of course, practice. So I guess I felt sorry for the poor guy making a buck cause his employer sent him briefly as my distraction. Hung up on him. "Hi, have you trie..." 

No, not likely.

So when the phone rang immediately after I cradled it, I don't think I was ready. But I swept it up against my ear and mouth.

"Hello?" I said tentatively.

"Jack!" Uncle Charlie calling. He was the only one I knew in the city. He was well to do, stocks or commodities or some such. The kind of go-getter you gotta take a step or two back or you feel an intrusion on your space. It was probably a good thing on the job. I don't know, not having traded in intangibles for loads of money. Occasionally I made my bucks, my short term bucks, exchanging tangible goods for small money: books, records, food. 

"Uncle Charlie? How are you?" I said into the phone extra quietly, trying to make his side of the exchange a degree or two lower in volume and muscle. It wasn't completely effective. I could put the speaker a little closer to my ear but not quite on it.

"Fine. Fine Jack my boy. But most importantly, how are you?"

"The same." Meaning the same crappy job that kept me safely under a rented roof and filled up enough. Putting screws on some little motor for some contraption or other was something I was getting good at but didn't count for much. 

"Cheer up, son!" I thought about correcting him, being his nephew, not his son, being related one step away on my dad's side, only similarity is to an eighth the genetics that made up the puzzle that was me, but thought not. I expected something more interesting from him than from me. "You doing okay? I mean with the job? Everything okay?" 

"Pays okay," I said, and thought, tainting the reply: "and everything else sucks."

"I gotta proposition for you Jack. No favors here. Favors both ways so they make up for each other. I gotta deal set up."

"I don't mean to interrupt you here Uncle, but I don't see me selling those whatever it is you sell," I said, instilling even less confidence in him towards me.

"So don't interrupt. What I got is a proposition. It's a sweet proposition, I promise you. I have this place through...Well, that's a bit complicated. I'm going to give you a place for a bar. West Thirties. Got a pen?"

"Hold on," I said, "I'll look." I set the phone down without too much jarring to my uncle's ear, though as loud as he talked he probably could barely tell if I slammed it down. Not that I would ever slam a phone down on my uncle or anyone else for that matter. At least not at that point in my life. As I searched I thought things were going to change. Little did I know. I would soon learn more.

"10th Avenue just north of 39th. 3925 to be precise. It's over by the West Side Highway. How soon can you get there?"

"A couple hours?"

"You don't need to dress up. You don't need to clean up."

"An hour."

"Good. See you there."

Not much more. Hint with no key to the solution. In an hour. In an hour I would know more.

1.

After brief ablution, water out, solid waste out, water on, water in, as clean as could be hoped, I threw on my traveling duffs and took off to the nearest station to take the cross town train as far west as I could then legging it the remaining 15 blocks. I never did learn how my uncle came to own this particular bar. I figured it was a trade deal gone sour, and this was his punishment. It seemed to sag despite being within a hard greenish yellow stone building. It was probably the slight tilt of the sign. Bradley's. I never learned who Bradley was. Mr. Bradley or Bradley whoever. Probably got no pride from having this sign hanging. The place clearly was well distanced from the territory of success. 

I thought about knocking but saw there was no lock on the door. Eternally open. I stepped in. I still wasn't sure if the bar was open. It was empty. 

"Uncle Charlie?"

Out stepped a man that resembled Charlie as much as a ferret resembles a sloth. "You must be Jack," he said in a sprite manner matching the sprite of his persona: a quick darting mythic forest creature with an urban cast. A tough little old guy with a gleam in his eye. "Have a seat, Jack. Drink?"

"Jack and water. Don't worry about the ice." What I really wanted was a coffee maybe sweetened by some whiskey. I figured the coffee could be a toxic mud. So I risked the water. He poured a hefty shot and poured in water and placed it before me. A skinny man with a late middle aged paunch, he had a rodent's attentiveness. You thought the guy might bolt at any crazy opportunity. He slipped the cardboard coaster advertising some other pub under my glass swiftly, well timed.

I hadn't sat yet but was lured to the stool placed in front of the drink. Partly it was the drink. It was a momentum builder for my parched, well traveled palate. But the final push was provided by the little skinny middle aged man. "Sit." So I sat. I drank.

"Where's my uncle?" I asked.

"No your uncle's not here. Uncle Charlie's not here. Charlie your uncle is not here Jack."

"Okay," I said without comfort. The jitters are contagious. The old guy was infectious.

"Okay Jack. You must be wondering what the fuck's up. First let me tell you about the bar. You got time don't you? Course you do Jack."

"What do you know about me?" I asked this perfect stranger.

"Not a lot Jack. I know you are stepping into a whole new life and you don't know it yet. And when you do I'll know more about you. All I know from your uncle is you're ready for an opportunity like this."

"Sure. I got time." 

"Good." He said with a surprising, delighted chuckle. "Let me pour me some of that Jack too. Is it some kind of joke you preferring your name-sake? I guess I wouldn't offer it to a girl would I? Might think it was a bit rude. But maybe as a come on. Huh Jack?"

"I never have offered it to a lady. I guess I let the lady choose. Except maybe when we're at home and that's all that's left to offer."

"Well then I guess you're alright to offer it to her," he said with another light chuckle.

The silence that followed had him glancing at me and glancing off me at the room. I let my eyes wander behind him to the racks of liquor and the large mirror which paralleled the full fifty feet of the bar. It was placed along the right wall as you enter. 

It was a setup for a club and yes across the space was a raised floor for just such a purpose. But there was nothing on it or around it. It stood out straight and pale, a brackish white paint on it. I figured whatever had been attached to it, lights, sound system, whatever, had been stolen. It was a neighborhood filled with those looking for a quick fix. Hell, it was Manhattan where every neighborhood had its share of junkies looking for a quick fix. The junkies of this neighborhood would have an attraction for any material with mobility and a price tag capability. 

The space in front of the stage was cluttered with metal tables, squares and rectangles in a general north south direction but otherwise lacking any consistency, creating no sense of rows. The club was enclosed by bare walls and no windows except the one facing 10th Avenue, and that was painted an opaque white. The lights over the tables were six feet pairs of fluorescent tubes at front middle and back. 

The long counter of the bar had its own lights attached to it. The ad signs glowed a hazy red, but mostly it was the bar itself which illuminated its space. Right of three tap locations with three taps each were sinks, gleaming unexpectedly clean via the embedded halogen lamps above them. While dinginess overcame all that I surveyed out on the floor, the bar was sparkling new, everything was pristine. Which brought my attention back to the innately nervous middle aged gentleman who was about to tell me something. Finally.

"So what do you think?" he said. I was blank. He hadn't filled it in yet. He did a taut hard gesture at the bar and the surroundings. "What do you think?" No further along in being capable of answering, I continued blankly staring. He asked again, "What do you think of this place?"

"Honestly?"

"Please."

"Not much."

"You been a bartender?"

"Briefly."

"Good," he said with a smile.

"My uncle..."

"Forget about your uncle Charlie."

"If he advised you I'd be a bartender, I haven't had much experience."

"Forget about your uncle. Forget about experience. You'll have plenty of time to learn," he said with his chuckle. "Business couldn't be described as brisk. You're a smart boy. I'll give you six months. What do you make right now?"

"I get by."

"How much? I mean exactly?" He eyed me carefully, slowly raising a hand that had been hiding in his jacket pocket. In his hand he held a shiny silver pistol. He cocked it and laid it down in front of me at the bar. 

"Three hundred a week clear."

"So I'll give you six months. Six months here and a thousand a month and then you're on your own. We'll bankroll expenses. Any club expenses. You list them. Then you call your uncle Charlie and give him the list. Specific list. Specific expenses. Whatever it takes. He'll take care of it. But you got to get to a point to make this place viable after six months or you're out on your own. I mean, no more salary. Only what you get from the place. You get 50% of the take and any tips and that stays after the six months of salary. After six months that's all you get. Personnel is your problem. If you need bartenders, waitresses, talent, whatever, that's out of your pocket."

"What is this?" I asked. He had the gun resting on the bar. The gun wasn't a threat to me. It was a shove. I hadn't had a lot of shoves. Just moving along at the pace life seemed to contain within itself. I got to school on time. I did my school work with enough attention to it. I got to work on time and did the work expected of me. Whatever direction I stepped, it was one in which I could get by. Coercion hadn't been an issue. It was confusing. So my question wasn't defensive or the least bit frightened, just confused. Truth be told I liked the bit of a shove this little man was providing.

"The gun?" he said. "Don't worry about it. If you heed my instructions. If you do as I say."

"Which is?" I was truly curious.

"You run the place. Indefinitely. You keep it open all day and all night except when it's illegal to be open. Though who would notice?"

"What'd I do?"

"Nothing kid. Tell you what. You, I'll give you a short Sunday. Noon to midnight. Give you couple extra hours in the morning. Stretch your legs. Shopping. And a couple two hours at night for a bit of a rest. 

2.

The old rat face man watched as I moved in. I installed my things in the apartment entered through the door at the far end of the bar, just after it curved to the wall. He left Sunday night. Caged me in , having acquired a couple locks and a noisy metal gate. I watched his last moves carefully. Maybe I would catch him. And I did. The concerned smile turned, when he turned away, to the smile of satisfaction as he checked off his agenda in his little wire rimmed note book. And a loud guffaw rang down 10th Avenue.

I looked into my hand, a thousand dollars in cash to last the month. Then I realized: Bills! No more bills. Expenses paid! A thousand a month clear was a substantial amount to my diminished expectations. 

That morning I began to examine my situation. Sitting at the new desk near the new bed, a furnished apartment with linen and everything, I pulled out my notebook/journal which I had thought I'd write in daily, but the last entry was the first and it had been written sometime mid-winter, and this being early fall, I would have to admit failure. Perhaps the first change in me was my success in using the journal. If I hadn't, it would have been much harder to write this. I began writing, exploring needs in my new predicament. What needed to be changed. It was potentially a lengthy list. 

I didn't get far in my explorations. Just after I jotted down the date, October 2nd I was disturbed by the buzzer noise emanating from the box attached to the left of the entrance door to the apartment. Someone was entering Bradley's.

The 8 a.m. to noon crowd was the largest. By noon I learned the first real job involved in the place: Bouncer. The devout alcoholics would reach their formidable limit of intoxication. They would either stagger around bumping fellow customers for a fight or pass out on the bar. 

Once I had extracted the last bar fly from the place, I returned to my apartment. Hunger held me back momentarily from giving deep thought to my situation. I found a yellow pages. I wondered who might be near enough to deliver, both restaurant and grocery. That's when the first idea for Bradley's registered. After calling a few places and discovering a couple who delivered, I went out into the club and searched for a portion of it that could be used for a kitchen. The thought of having to call out for food every day became the mother of invention. 

I discovered several doors at the back of the club. Two doors were behind the stage. They led to a wide hallway with a bench along the back wall and a cage whose door hung open impotently, the lock hanging broken from the metal door handle. The hallway led to another door which opened to the space that bifurcated the back wall with its passage to the back door. Along that passage were the two doors for the men's and women's rooms and then the big metal door which, with a push on the push bar led out to the alleyway. 

I was most interested at the moment with the door across from the men's toilet which led into a large storage space. This in my mind became a kitchen. While exploring its possibilities I heard the front door open. It was food. I paid gratefully, a memorable gratuity, so they would not mind returning with goodies in the future. I brought the food into my apartment, unloading the groceries in my kitchen and then eating the deli sandwich. It was then I made my list. 

1. kitchen, simple fryer and burners and oven and griddle and fridge and freezer and dishwasher and such.

2. cleaning to make the place shine: a little incongruity on these dusty streets.

3. keep the drinks cheap

4. think about the stage

5. don't drink the profits

6. some day make sense of this

7. make the best of it

8. what the fuck

And on and on. I learned the importance of paper. It kept my memory fresh. It kept me on track. 

Waiting on the supplies for the kitchen and their installation over the next month or so, I found the trends of the off the beaten track bar. Aside from the occasional alcoholic in the afternoon, after the barflies left to alight at some other tavern, the only other type of customer was the street transvestite. These women with cocks would arrive at nearly closing time already buzzed by some sort of intoxicant. They liked to perch themselves as close to the ex-stage as possible, which put them at the opposite side from my place at the bar. I served as waiter and bartender. 

This marginal clientele was not the big tip clientele one might hope for in a service job. I did appreciate the occasional large tip, but as my expectations were low, I never felt slighted. There was one gentleman, Don, who would sit with the "girls." He was a slim, sharp dressed and groomed handsome man with a bit of the cherub to his face set between the cascades of his long dark brown curly hair. Whenever he was there, he seemed to attract young beautiful women and leather jacketed fellows who would sit through a drink and take off. He was good for business. He also gave me humungus tips. A twenty on a five dollar tab. A fifty on a twenty.

By the time the kitchen had been completed I was getting familiar with the regulars, both the morning alcoholics who I would still cart off by noon, and the late night transvestites. I asked them about sandwiches and perhaps fries, hamburgers, fried chicken, gauging their response. I ordered accordingly and found I needed more. The occasional working alcoholic, racing over during break to partake, spread the news and the menus to his fellows. The food was proving a good choice and kept me fed as well. 

Some nights I was busy. Providing food and drink with speed and efficiency would have me walking a thousand quick paths from bar to kitchen to table and back. 

Sometimes I was actually happy when these goons started coming. A nasty word is goons, but they fit it. Tough guys would bring in some harried fellow. The tough guys totaled three, only just two at a time. 0ne day it was Big Louie with Anders the Hulk. Then Louie with Fast Freddy Junior. No shit, that's what they called him. He looked enough like the rat face guy to make me figure the name of the old gentleman who I guess was my boss. Then Freddy with Anders, and so forth. They were basically toting the poor harried fellow. And never the same one. They'd sit with the one that week and get the guy even more harried. Then off into the toilet and at some point which I never saw but figured out, out the back door. But they tended to their business at the slowest time, when no one was in the bar except them. If things had gotten messy, one of the goons would come back a few minutes later and clean. I'd offer a drink to these guys but they always respectfully declined. So if I was getting pretty harried myself trying to please a thirsty and numerous clientele, these men were a bit of respite.

3.

The busiest nights at Bradley's were those nights when the drags and the slick guy's entourage would be there. Nearing closing one of those nights, a Saturday night, the biggest night until then, a very pleasant young woman sat at the bar. She was unusual. She was not a reject, a shadow figure of the great society, like the rest of the customers. She looked college age. She had that clever distance I had noticed was common to the NYU student. What was she doing this far west?

"My brother Josy is one of those people over there," she explained.

"Oh sure. Joe. We've chatted. Interesting guy. Lots of stories."

"You call him Joe, and he doesn't mind?"

"I guess I like to needle a little. But they don't mind, because I'm consistent. I wouldn't want to insult one by calling another by their stage name. They're good. They all look as female as hell to me. They don't mind. I think they like it. Sometimes calling them by their Christian name it makes them relax a little. Get out of the show biz mode of the fakery. Their voices lower, and...I'm sorry. I'm babbling."


A Gift Horse



"Not at all. So what are you doing with this place? I saw you tonight run ragged by Josy and her friends and Don and his girlfriends. No help? Someone call in sick?"

"Tell you the truth, I'm the only one here."

"No shit," she said with comfortable vulgarity. "I'm looking for work."

"I hadn't really thought about it," I said, though I had off and on, deciding between greed and need. Maybe I was reluctant to get into that bit of business.

"I wouldn't ask for much. Food, tips, a little salary to make it worth my while."

"It's late," I said, looking circumspect, trying to decide on the wages and lingering over her pretty round face, the lovely pale skin and long ethnic nose and dark eyes and slightly frizzed brunette hair. I was contemplating her charm and enthusiasm. "Come by anytime Monday, and we'll discuss it," I said.

"Great. I'll be here. Anytime? How about six?"

"Okay." I handed her some money. "Buy us some dinner when you come by. Chinese or something oriental."

"Okay."

The pretty NYU student, Hazel was her name, proved a godsend. She helped with the serving so I could throw together sandwiches or tap out beer or pour the drinks. It was mostly on weekends and a couple nights. She had school to attend and studying. I wished she could be around at noon, too. I found out I could put together a fresh enough deli sandwich to be the best quick meal in the area. Though there weren't a lot of workers around that side of town, there were enough to keep me running for their lunches. 

One day a kid, would have been nearly graduating high school if he hadn't run away, stood at the bar. The boy was too young to drink. The boy was an amateur transvestite. He was awfully skinny. Even in his make-up, which did little to enhance his beauty but could not harm it, it being so radiant, I wasn't distracted from his fragility. I told him he was too young to drink even at this obscure establishment. I asked him if he wanted a job. He accepted. Connie was his name.

It turned out to be a good decision. He picked up on my sandwich making right off, and even added a couple extra items to the menu. The kid was sharp. He could be sharp as nails sometimes, which was a good thing for the scene. He was at once hard beyond his years and soft with flashes of childish glee. 

4.

It was half way through the salary months. Three more months and I would be on my own financially. It wasn't like the money was pouring in, but things had improved enough to make me think I would do okay, and even keep my two employees. 

Three months anniversary to the day of my captivity was New Year's Eve. Old rodent visited briefly. He paid me after I paid him, giving him the paperwork to prove his returns.

"You're doing a fine job," Fast Eddie said. "Any other improvements you let me and your uncle know. Keep up the good work. You'll find a little extra in your pay envelope. A little Christmas bonus courtesy of your uncle." There was that grin again, burying the chuckle he would probably let loose in the privacy of his limo.

I looked inside the white business envelope and counted out double the usual, two thousand dollars. I thanked him profusely and escorted him to his car waiting outside, driver leaning on the front hood taking a smoke. The driver quickly dropped it and was at the back door to let the rodent into his plush black Lincoln Continental limo. 

It was nearing midnight, and Bradley's not being the place to be to celebrate the occasion of the passing and gaining of a year, it was dead. I was staring transfixed by the bounty in the envelope. Suddenly the door opened and in walked Hazel and Connie hand in hand. After only a week working, Connie had Hazel's heart strings. Though they seldom worked together, it was a habit for Connie to hang out later with the older transvestites, picking up on their craft. But he was bored with their cool, and enjoyed conversations with Hazel better. They were living together, and to tell by the rosy cheeks and demeanor they both displayed, loving each other at the heart, and lower, too. And their minds too. They sat at the bar on bar stools. I ran into the cooler and pulled out champagne. It was Dom Perignon. What the fuck, it was an expense I didn't have to worry about. I unwrapped it and popped the cork with the loveliest of noises, a low robust exhaling of air. I poured the effervescence. With a "Happy New Year," we touched glasses and drank, and it was good. The champagne. The company. Extremely good. 

After several minutes of quiet sipping, me admiring the beauty of my two employees, Hazel decided to get something off her chest. With Hazel you could tell she was holding something back. It was like she needed to take a piss. Then she would let loose as bravely as could be with some brazen truth or other. 

"Connie and I want to try something," she said energetically.

"Don't let me stop you," I said.

"Well Jack," she took a sip of the delicious champagne. "Connie and I were thinking that...well...um...you see Jack, Connie, she's a...she's a poet, and...well...and I can play drums and bass and guitar...so I was thinking we could do some performance. You got the stage and everything...and you said you wanted to get some feedback...some thoughts on improvements...so...maybe with a sound system and some lights and maybe an effect or two we could do some cool shows here. Get the name around. Attract business, you know."

"Let me think about it," I said as I reached down into the pay envelope and counted out eight fifties, four each from the bonus money to give to them. "I got a little extra from my boss, so I thought I'd spread around his gratitude."

"Wow," said Connie. Not a boy to mince words. At least not in conversation. "You sure?"

"You two go play. What the hell are you doing here?"

"And you all by yourself on New Year's Eve? No way," said Hazel sweetly.

When New Years officially happened she gave me a kiss on my lips nearly as delicious as the champagne. And Connie gave me a kiss, to which I wasn't as open. We had a three way hug and I sent them on their loving way, promising to give thought to Hazel's proposition.

5.

I didn't see Hazel until Thursday night, four days later. By that time I had written out ideas for equipment for the stage. I asked her to add to it with anything she might want. I told her I wasn't knowledgeable about P.A. systems and such and asked her to research it further. Her happiness, as were any emotions she felt, radiated from her face. She kissed me with gratitude. Don't get me wrong, Hazel was a beautiful and desirable girl, with curves definitely in all the right places. I often admired as discretely as possible how her ass moved when she walked out into the tables, or how her tits bounced and her nipples occasionally stiffened when she walked back to the bar. But Hazel and I shared a different sort of relationship. Even beyond employer/employee we had become friends. Besides, I wasn't comfortable with the idea of pursuing her what with her working for me. If anything happened it could only dampen what I hoped would be a long term relationship. And with the beautiful women frequenting the bar, the real women that is, though it was not always easy to tell, I knew I wanted to be free to pursue any opportunities that might come my way.

Not that many came. Or any. I was not practiced at pursuing the opposite sex. So I left it more to chance. But being rather mediocre in looks didn't make for any attraction. Until the shows began.

The first night Hazel and Connie mounted the stage, lit up beautifully in blues and reds, Don, the handsome man, and his entourage of beautiful women and leather clad lads, were in the audience as were most of the transvestites. Both Hazel and I had invited them to the premiere of Bradley's cabaret. 

Despite being busy serving the fairly large audience of transvestites and beauties and rockers, I noticed the girl to Don's left was giving me the eye. She was a stunning blonde. Full breasts pressed against her tight blouse low enough to display ample cleavage. Her skin was a soft white. Her face, nearly as made up as the neighboring girl/boys, was startlingly beautiful, her deep red lips a cute cupid's bow. I thought at first it was wishful thinking. A man often projects his hopes and lusts on such a beautiful and sexy face, hoping beyond hope that he was the manly stud he always wanted to be. But her eyes persisted in catching mine. And when they caught, she would smile a sexy smile. A couple times I even saw the tip of her tongue sneak out the side of her mouth and cross her lips. Those times I nearly toppled. I finally approached her.

"Can we talk?" I asked, leaning down, breaking through my beating heart and short breath to whisper coolly in her ear. She nodded. She stood, taking my hand. I gulped down a thick wad of shyness while leading her to the empty bar. Like her breasts, her ass was soft and full, and she was long legged and her tight pants did nothing to hide their perfect shape. She sat down at the bar. I went around to the other side to get her a drink and to hide my rising erection. 

"Rachel." said the blonde.

"Jack."

"I really like the show." Her voice was forceful and committed. It was clearly a New York voice. Brooklyn I thought with how she transformed vowels. 

"What do you think of the place?" I asked. 

"It's got potential."

"A lot more low brow than what you expect."

"Not at all. You should see some of the after hours clubs they got running now. Real dives. But it don't matter. It's the vibes. It's the clientele. It's whatever you bring to the place. Like a diamond in the rough, sparkling sure, but with a whole lot more facets waiting to sparkle. Potential."

I had expected the warm warbling voice of the blonde bombshell circa 1955. Hers was not. But the harshness of her timbre and her Brooklyn squawk cut through her extraordinary beauty to give her face, her persona, a more comfortable normal human quality. I watched the layers of beauty shed to reveal the real girl. "After-hours clubs. I've heard about them, but I've never been."

"It's just like another bar with dancing and shit. You want to go?"

I had been leading her to ask. It had been four months since I had gotten away from this cage. Having a luscious creature be the one to lure me out sent tingles all over, especially at the base of my torso. 

It was the quickest close ever. 

When I closed the metal grid, it was the first time I had locked it from the outside. 

A late winter freeze was blowing down 10th from the north. Luckily she had called a cab ahead of time. Actually she had three come pick us up, the entourage, the transvestites and us, and the last one was waiting. We bumped cross-town to 3rd below 14th and stopped in front of a gray metal door. We hopped out and went inside. Another bar.

I would seldom partake from my own rows of liquor bottles, but at the after-hours club I was thirsty. Jack and water for me, and for my lovely company a Dubonet on ice with a squeeze of lime. I drained mine as she sipped hers. She set hers down and took my hand, guiding me to the small mirrored dance floor. It was wonderful watching her full, luxurious, sensuous body move to the music. She enjoyed it too, spending more than half the time dancing with her reflection. But then she would spin near me and I would feel the mild bulge of my constant tumescence slide across her soft but firm derriere or along her lower belly which jutted out just enough to stir me. I bent my knees for my crushed up erect flesh to make contact with that door to the portal my flesh so wanted to enter. The enzymes released by my immense desire made me dizzy. I felt I was in a tube of a chamber, no walls or windows, but a flowing flashing libidinous mist. I wanted this woman more than I had wanted anything. I wanted her to be hot and panting naked beneath me as I held her to my naked self and studied her soft skin and her curves and my loudly demanding erection piercing her and finding the golden palace of sin inside. When the song ended, we embraced and kissed and rubbed against each other at our hottest contact points, ignoring the next disco song. After a brief but exhilarating battle of tongues, she eased off, and I watched her sexy behind undulate back to the bar and her Dubonet. I ordered another drink, which lasted at least twice as long as the first.

The libidinous tube of aether slowly evaporated. There was Don and his entourage and a few new rocknroll faces. Again I watched as young people would sit with him and then quickly depart. From one cage to another similar one. It made me more comfortable. It made me want to return to my own cage. Might as well, I thought. Once she had finished her Dubonet, I took her hand and escorted her outside. The first aggressive move I had ever made with a woman. It proved encouragingly to be successful. 

The first night was a long sensuous ecstatic copulation. From six a.m. until opening at noon we shared our common desires with nary a nap. Her legs, her tender belly, the flesh of her breasts, the texture of her nipples, her soft cream face reddened by the exquisite delight, her vulnerable hole, dark wavy hair revealing her true roots surrounding the tender needy place where my manhood, electrified to its core by those damp hot slippery ever changing walls, danced the dance, pranced the prance of joyous penetration. Fucking a most luscious and responsive woman. She looked good, she smelled good, and she felt good.

She shared my bed for weeks. She ended up working as my new waitress, dislodging any ethical or moral ground vis a vis loving the employee. But the thing was it was not love. Not knowing the nature of love up until then, I thought it resembled love. But what it was was lust, at least on my part. To be in the presence, either naked and touching and conjoining or pouring her the drinks and exchanging money for her customers, of this extraordinarily beautiful and voluptuous creature was reason enough to sustain a relationship. Perhaps driven by her extreme libido to flight, she soon took wing to newer climes. 

But she left behind much to my life and the life of the bar. As far as the bar went, she attracted new clientele through her old Brooklyn friends as well as the local working class youth barely learning to drink at a bar who loved to ogle the beautiful sexy friendly waitress. 

And with the slow spread of the word on Bradley's through the collegiate universe of Hazel, she being the shy type with few friends to which she could share the Bradley's experience, and probably needing the extra impetus of being a performer, the place was getting gradually and significantly busier. Once a new group discovered the place, a bunch more customers would be added to my clientele. An individual from that group would bring another group, and so on. I was happy with the diversity. It proved lucrative. But what tied all these groups together was the attraction of strong drink for cheap. The only way cheaper to get drunk in Manhattan was to buy yourself a bottle, but that was far less social. 

By the end of our relationship and for awhile afterwards, she brought in more of a crowd for the weekend performances than Hazel. She proved an actress of incredible power and mesmerizing presence when, late at night near closing time, she performed recitations of nasty, brutal, lusty text with a sexy charming allure. She would bump and grind and shimmy out of her outfit until naked spouting character monologues, mining every double entendre or blatant obscenity to its deepest darkest hottest wettest core. Then she would take over the waitress tray to allow Hazel to step up with Connie and vis versa.

Her bravery and brilliance encouraged the transvestites to take the stage with their own outrageous stories, performances, taunts and jibes. Weekends, always being interesting if modest events, were becoming quite exhilarating successes. And word spread. And I began to hear of performers once outside the crowd at Bradley's who wanted a stab at this weird place. Professionals. Which meant a cover charge. Was I worried? A little. Except I now had an angel.

6.

Angela was Rachel's best friend, but that didn't prevent me from falling in love. Angela revealed to me, at first through the sips of friendship, and then, when the coast was cleared by Rachel, the full on swallows of love partners, what love was and what lust was. Make no mistake about it, Angela was a beautiful woman. The more I gazed at her the deeper the beauty. Whereas Rachel was nearly flawless and her flaws only distracted from her allure, each flaw I discovered in Angela made my love for her more thorough, more palpable, more pure. A mix of many races, she came out a mocha color. Mixed blood made her strong, resilient and wise. Wisdom gave her keen eyes in a face full of curiosity and full of resolve. There was a frailty though. A sensitivity reflected in her face and her body, how she positioned her body. Her body was accomplished muscles and not a lot of fat. And it was bent a little, her shoulders bowed a little to that which she had to face in her twenty-five years of life. A foster kid. Some of the pain she experienced in her unpleasant encounters with strangers who she was thrust into watching them playing fathers and mothers and doing a bad, sometimes a perverse nasty, sometimes a mean nasty, job of it would flash in her eyes. 

Maybe my peaceful nature, as lackluster as it may have been, was her bond to me. We were very different. Her difference fascinated me and made me listen. Her thoughts were often challenging. She had the type of paranoia that reminds one of the maxim about it being true. What if it's true? They are after you. Is it paranoia? 

Our lovemaking was sublime and generous. It was deep, deeper than any physical penetration. We were shaken by our oneness. 

But it was our conversation, just sharing experiences, that first played the strings of my heart, a slow and gentle and intensely beautiful ballad. We first met at the after-hours club one Saturday night. Rachel, Angela and I were sitting together. This was the first time Rachel sat at a table with me. Usually we sat at the bar or danced or I sat at the bar and watched her dance or sit with Don and his entourage. It was my first inkling of the value of their friendship. When they talked they shared their Brooklynese with the grace of a harmonic duet. Listening to them highlighted the humor and roughness of their accent. When Rachel went off to dance with her incredible reflection, Angela and I talked. Once we broke through our strangeness to each other, we found talking easy. And listening. I didn't have a lot to say, but she did. From her lips to my ear was a diverse parade of insights. Only the lustful tug of Rachel, sending me into that libido cloud, could draw me away from our conversation. 

After seeing her again at the club a couple Saturdays later, and continuing our far reaching discussions, it had become all one type of moment: her and the club at the table while Rachel danced and schmoozed. So when she walked into Bradley's Monday afternoon, wearing the quotidian outfit of an office worker, black suit and white blouse, and sat at the bar with me her bartender, it was a completely different experience. I did not recognize her for a beat or two. But when she smiled at me, I smiled back. My angel. I poured my very best old blended scotch, splashed in some water and gave it to her. On the house of course.

"I really like you, Jack," she said quietly, touching my hand, holding my hand.

"I really like you, too, Angela," I said. She knew Rachel had flown off to roost on a different, perhaps better branch. She must have known. She must have seen her walk out under a different man's arm. I did not notice her there at the club at that late moment. I did not notice anything except the departure of my sex kitten. With of all people, Anders. How do you compete with a hunk like that? You don't. She wanted it big and hard and all I had was soft and pleasant to give, with the occasional hard yet tender.




A Gift Horse



Angela leaned forward. I leaned forward. We kissed, squeezing hands tight enough to not let anyone or anything break us apart. 

"You want to work here?" I asked.

"I do," she said, and it did not bother me the reverberations of that phrase. Married at the bar to the barmaid. "I want one thing from you. Promise me you'll keep listening to me, and even if what I say seems a little harsh you'll listen to it and give it thought and maybe do something about it."

"About what?" 

"About the bar you've got here. About what's going on. I don't want to get too far into it now. I don't have the answers now. Mostly suspicions. But if I do become a bit of a gadfly, will you listen?"

"I guess so."

"Promise?"

"Promise." We kissed again. "Promise."

"Good. I love your naiveté, Jack," she said with a sad gleam in her eyes. She would be saddened further by naiveté's loss, her crusading and thus unavoidable duty to totally fuck it up. I do not think I changed her. I know I made her happy. But I do know she changed me. She had planted a chrysalis in my brain which she would keep healthy until the butterfly of awareness, of a previously absent cognitive ability, broke through and transformed me. I should have noticed when she talked of her day job and revealed bits and pieces of it which illuminated the place of work as being suspicious in its intentions. She had an agenda, a cause. Amelioration was her battle cry. 

After an hour or so she broke the conversation, "I should go change."

"You don't need to work here tonight," I said, although I was thinking I did want to see her. I wanted to see her all the time. 

"I'll go change into something comfortable and come back and we can talk."

"I'd like that," I said immediately. "Just a second." I reached behind me and grabbed a fifty out of the cash register. "Go buy us a nice meal if that's okay."

She waved away the bill. "Let me take care of it," she said, and I nodded. "Don't get too impatient. It'll be two three hours. Okay?"

"I won't," I lied. I was impatient the second she was out the door.

She returned, a softly electric moment like the static crackle of flannel. She was in fact wearing a cotton outfit. She dressed purely for comfort and it made me want to nestle inside those clothes like they were cotton sheets covering our nakedness and get comfortable. 

She returned each night of the first week of our blossoming relationship. Two nights she brought delicious food she cooked herself, a stew and some lasagna. Two nights she brought restaurant food, also good. She capped off these lovely visits on Thursday with a picnic array, sandwiches and potato salad and some crisp white wine all taken from a basket and placed on a checkered cloth she hung over a table. A quiet intimacy prevailed, like we were picnicking in a land all our own and not the bar noisy with wood, tin, glass and music. She sat in my lap. We shared the heat and the proof of my excitement for her for the first time. Our soft and gentle kisses were given over to hard passionate ones with tongue battles resulting in growth and tweaks and twinges where she sat. I could have ravaged her right on the table if it had not been too public there in my bar.

I had to wait until Friday. That night she came dressed for her new role as waitress. I had wondered what she would do to match the allure of Rachel's revealing skirts and plunging or unbuttoned neckline. Her version was tight. Leather pants and a leather vest were tight enough to reveal the skin beneath. I discovered her fetish and my own. I could not take my eyes off her. I could not help touching her shoulder, her side or her chest. And despite the appealing choices before me, Hazel, Don's entourage, only she thrilled me. I was in love. Her aura had blinded me to all others. Luckily my intense obsession was thrilling to her as well. If I had sustained that level of attention to my angel for more than a few days, she would have probably melted away under the heat of it. I would have burned up our love. But I soon learned to know her presence was there without my watching her. Her aura filled the bar. 

By closing time that Friday night I pushed everybody out and locked up. At last there was actually no one else but her and me. For the first time I left the cash in the drawer uncounted. There was no drawer. There was no bar. Only her and me. 

I brought her through the door to my apartment and began to peal away the sweaty leather to reveal her nakedness. I knelt before her body in devout reverence. I took her lick by lick as she offered herself to me. She was my wafer of flesh and I was hers. We devoured each other. My tongue was playing with her soft dark pubic hair, moving slowly down to the puffy hot lips when she pushed me away.

"Oh God, Jack, fuck me," she said suddenly and fell back on the bed. She wrapped her long lean legs around my ass. I sunk my hardness into her narrow viscous passage, my hands finding a perfect purchase on her flared hips. Despite my filling her up completely over and over again, my cock easily slid in and out. She was as ready for me as I was for her. A week build up could do that to anyone. As I pummeled her for several minutes, I was ecstatic. I thought I would have exploded from the heat and desire immediately, but instead kept ravishing her. She screamed out her orgasm, returned to her sighs and pants which climbed to another scream. 

Finally my balls were at maximum pressure, and the extreme need to explode in pure delight was taking over all thoughts and feelings. Somehow I asked, "Is it okay if I..."

"Yes, oh yes, please."

So I pulled her onto me as deep as possible and jittered and shook with passion. My seed sprayed inside. Mixing with her love juice, we created a flood of sticky liquid where we were conjoined.

Later I would learn she could not have babies, the result of a particularly abusive "parent". When she told me, she didn't cry. Her muscles held back the emotions with a steel tightness.

The slow calming down from our peak of pleasure stopped abruptly when she slid out from underneath me. "God I must stink. I'm a sweaty mess. How could you stand my smell."

"I love your smell," I said to her lovely naked backside as she headed to the bathroom. It was a delicious sight. I could watch that sight forever. I felt myself already beginning to harden.

Her head turned back to me. "That's a good sign. I love your sweaty body smell too. Come on."

My naked body followed hers into the bathroom where we shared a shower. I explored her from tip to toe, enjoying the journey. Her exploration of me was less thorough. Holding my face and staring into my eyes was what she favored most. As I sat down in the tub and she straddled me and fucked me she held my face in her hands and stared, only closing her eyes when another orgasm transformed her body into a rippling electric beautiful lean mass of flesh.

A few weeks later I acquired the cabaret license. I had Angela at the door collecting, letting the regulars slip by and being a provocative first impression to the increasing flow of newcomers. 

The receiving of the cabaret license coincided with the final installment of my pay. Mr. Ratface was as pleased as I was with the increase in profits. 

"You got a lot of chutzpah kid. Very creative," said Fast Freddy. "Not too busy in the afternoon still, though?"

"Between two and eight it's pretty slow," I said.

"That's fine. Don't make plans. You got enough on your plate," he said, placing the sidearm again on the bar. 

"I was thinking about pu-pus to attract..."

"No. Never mind. Okay?"

"You're the boss," I said, carefully and slowly grabbing the envelope and glancing inside. 

"A little something extra. A reward for a job well done." He had tripled the amount. "Spread it around, kid. Make your employees happy."

"Will do," I said. And I did. Hazel and Connie were very pleased. Angela was suspicious.

7.

Ignorance is bliss. At least it was for me during the months that followed. So few of us really understand, or want to understand all the intricate mechanical workings bringing about our reality. All the creature comforts, the general ease of day to day existence is based on the intellectual and physical work occurring somewhere else, somewhere invisible to us. Any vision of these sources would make us uncomfortable. Do we want to see the suffering which occurred to create the threads of commerce, the clothes, the air heated or cooled, the meat we eat? We want to be comfortable.

So in my velvet cell, I was comfortable. Comfortable in a New York sort of way. I was energized by my business. I was a success and felt success for the first time, and it was good. The distance from the regular scene, most of the hipster action was crosstown or uptown or downtown, gave room so my scene could expand. We carried on beyond legal hours and were not harassed about it by police. 

As time went on the performances on the weekend became more and more provocative. From the lascivious stories and their teller's, i.e. Rachel's sexy movement, the evenings became more naked. Rachel would be naked by the end of her story, masturbating to orgasm Others would illustrate stories or sing nasty songs as couples, fondling each other, undressing each other. Licking, sucking, fucking each other. Boys and girls, girls and girls, girls and boys, boy/girls and boy/girls, girl/boys and girl/boys and every combination possible. No animals though. There was some girl's dog once, but I had to put my foot down before that went too far. The performances weren't provocative. They were wonderfully obscene.

We always kept these events as the last of the evening. If one wandered in on a normal Friday night, one would be a witness to some cool new band, maybe noticing the odd clientele of pretty leather boys with naked chests or girls barely concealed under their strips of spandex or the beautiful women who seemed too tall, their wrists too thick, their presence too feminine. More than likely noticing them. But the non-regulars would be given the semblance of an evening having ended before the real show began. Not that they didn't get their money's worth. We booked some fine shows. We could pick and choose. Those in the know wanted to be a part of a weekend at Bradley's. Of course the night lasted into morning for all the action to happen.

But it meant little sleep, especially sharing a bed with Angela who kept me up most of those short nights. If we weren't fondling or fucking, which perhaps because of my youth or because of the energy pulsing in my veins from the club and from my love for Angela, were energetic bouts of love making despite my lack of sleep, our talks would cut through the night. She was a whet stone sharpening my thinking. And nothing made me tired. I was thriving on my environment, on the ever expanding club which seemed to be a creature in itself, expanding and contracting and expanding a little more. Bradley's innards held my interest. And Angela and love did wonders for me, too.

Within that very comfort was the cause of great discomfort. Angela seeking the truth in the city of careful lies was probing into the depths from which all comfort derives. And those depths reeked of the putrid flesh left in the wake of corruption. It was a strange investigation. Proof of dangerous goings on were on display in the afternoon, with Anders and friends performing disposal work, the most cynical disposal, human beings. Angela seemed to ignore this, and even avoided it by being away often during that time of day. I had never been too thrilled by these mob brutalities, and she only made me more sensitive to their possible purpose. Maybe because they were so obvious, and she was an investigator by profession, always looking carefully and cleverly under the lid to examine the refuse sliding by, the goons weren't interesting. Too easy. Also these were friends, family to her and Rachel, and were thus perhaps immune to her prosecuting glare.

One night it came to a head. That day she had come in at the tail end of a disposal, and I noticed her reaction, a sort of slap in the face that made her turn her other cheek and head swiftly into our apartment. Later, I escaped the floor for awhile to give her a kiss to her neck, the only place available since she was preoccupied with the computer monitor. She turned her head and our lips touched. I loved those lips, their softness which would harden with passion endeavoring to send me over the wall of erotic bliss. This time we just touched lips, a greeting, an acknowledgment of our relationship. She returned to the screen.

"What do you know about your uncle?" she asked as she stared into the electronic screen filled with words.

"What I told you," I said. There was a lengthy pause I felt needed to be filled. "Except personal stuff."

"Personal stuff?"

"Yeah, like visits. When I was a kid we'd visit the New York relatives. It was always a big event, seeing some show or eating at the Carnegie Deli with my Uncle Charlie. We'd stay at his house upstate. A beautiful house in Croton, upstate, near the reservoir. A house built into the landscape like Frank Lloyd Wright might do. A disciple actually created it. All sharp weird angles and switches on the ceiling. Great house. But as far as knowing what was up outside of his family life, I don't know a thing except it has to do with trading. High powered trading. And I don't know what my uncle has to do with this place."

"You told me," she said.

"It's a gift horse, Angela."

"Yeah." Her answer was a mystery. She gave me no clue as to how she felt about my gift horse. "Family."

"I guess. But we're not all that close, my uncle and me." The silence again was pervasive and again needed to be filled. "I don't know why he set me up in a bar where people disappear out the back alley."

"You shouldn't talk about it."

"Do you think they kill people?"

"I don't know, Jack."

"You don't want to know."

"Do you?"

We were on the edge of a fight that had been brewing since the afternoon incident, though its particulate was of an aged tea, all those moments looking away. Talking about it made us nervous, and my tingles were below the belt. As proof my flesh was rising. I began sliding the tented fabric of my jeans against the back of her chair, enhancing the stimulation. I leaned forward, wrapping my hands around her small firm breasts barely hiding behind her soft cotton blouse, and kissed her. Her lips were hot, in full agreement with mine. As our tongues tangled I reached under the blouse to cup her breasts and rub the nipples on my palms. She slid to the side enough for her to feel my rising firmness against the base of her spine. As I rubbed her, I was pinching and twisting her nipples. Released from the kiss, I licked her neck and nestled my lips beside her ear.

Suddenly she broke away from my embrace with a force that sent me toppling onto my ass. She swiveled the chair to face me, spreading her legs, bringing her skirt up to her hips, letting me see the sexy frilly panties she wore hiding the damp fragrant fissure of bliss. I sat up so I could take hold of the edges of the panties and slid them down her perfect leg, sliding slowly as a caress lingering on the firmness and length of her thighs, over her bony knee and down her sensitive and curvaceous calves and over her lovely feet.

Once off I made my full frontal attack. Over the sweat of her inner thighs, my tongue tasted the change of flavors as it neared the blissful hill and the narrow entrance to the cave wherein all life derives and where all my pleasure derived. Inhaling the scent of her excitement was an aphrodisiac appetizer. I whipped my tongue around and around those lips then down to her puckered hole, getting it to join the hot wet and sticky act, my nose pushing into the top of her fragrant viscous pussy. I returned to the main event, sliding my tongue in and out of the labia, firm vigorous thrusts making it known my intentions, as she let me know with her sighs and her rocking into my face that she enjoyed knowing it. 

Her sighs were broken with frozen moments, precursors to orgasm. I knew it was time to play at the cap to the entrance. My tongue squeezed and rattled the nib of hard flesh at her sexual center bouncing it around like a clapper against the bell that was the rest of her angelic body, and she rung. Then my lips surrounded it and I sucked. 

"Ooooh, unnh, oooh, darling take off your pants," she sighed, pausing throughout her demand to respond to her nearing orgasm. I continued the exquisite loving molestation while pealing away the layers of clothes in one bunch to let my proud manhood bounce out at last released into the air. I didn't care how silly I looked bouncing my ass off the floor to make room for the jeans and underpants. I was at last free, open, ready to have her impale herself. And she did.

"Oh God!" I sighed as I felt her firm wet writhing hole envelope my cock, and she sighed a sigh to match mine. It was a slow descent. The tulip head played a moment at the apex of her entrance before her hand guided it and the rest of my rigid length of flesh slowly, sliding it along the tight walls up inside her. Once fully and perfectly together as one, we pressed ourselves bone to bone and gently rubbed. Then she began a rise and fall with her strong thighs which continued the slow pace, and I felt the nudge of the walls narrowing, each rise squeezing me. After about ten strokes she quickened the pace, hooking onto an engine of will which was her inevitable climax. I coaxed it closer by slipping a pointing finger above my cock and inside her, rubbing at the textured flesh behind her pubic bone. She coaxed me by reaching behind her to carefully hold and sift through her finger my sack of balls. Our libidos went into overdrive. She was pounding against me from above. I was pounding into her from below. Then she came, a crescendo of sighs and then silent and still, her head leaning back as I kept pounding away. When she returned from her complete bliss, her face and her chest flushed red, my continuum of thrusts took her up there again, and she was gone. I mashed our pubic bones together again, feeling her twitching flesh as my flesh twitched back. Finally, with my long lean hard-on still well embedded in her, she draped herself from head to toe over me. We kissed. Our tongues danced together. 

I carefully turned her so she was under me, took her firm fleshy sexy ass cheeks in my hand, holding her slightly above the ground, and drove deep and hard and pumped fast, my rigid flesh filling up then emptying her cave. We kissed and licked each other's mouths, and I studied her beautiful blissed out face and I was in complete love and I had to let go and give her my essence and the hot liquid filled what was left of the space in her cave, which wasn't much. My toes curled. My body vibrated. Pure, unadulterated, loving pleasure. The peak of feeling.

I had discovered knowledge could be bliss, too. Knowledge created out of investigation provided a carnal knowledge which was enhanced to an extreme, intoxicating, addictive pleasure. 

After laughing at the abrasions from fucking on the floor, I pulled myself together and reentered my club while she returned to her work on the computer. I couldn't wait to close. To be inside her and to be beside her on her journey of exploration and investigation seemed the perfect thing. Courage, I discovered, is an aphrodisiac.

8.

So Angela and I wired the alley and wired the bathrooms. And it was kinky.

Going through the many shit and piss scenes to find the gems was worth it. Along with the business transactions Don had with remarkable regularity, which was the first time I actually knew he was dealing, though I strongly suspected, he would have occasional personal transactions. Angela copied all the good parts, making up a couple tapes for future copulation. 




A Gift Horse



We would watch Don enter with a gorgeous blonde or black hair vixen. They would snort from his spoon. Then she would either take off his clothes or take hers off. Angela liked to see him naked. He did have a good body and an impressive member, but I preferred the parade of gorgeous women unveiling. The girl would hug, his cock nestled between her thighs where he could slide along her pussy lips but not inside. The hug gave them a highly charged sensual contact, the friction a pleasing way to get to know the stranger. Invariably their embrace ended, and he would be sitting on the open stool of the toilet while the young woman would be on her knees giving him a blow job. 

Angela and I would begin our voyeur fuck sessions emulating the action. We would stand naked in front of our bed and slid our bodies against each other. She pushed me down on the bed, my head lifted up by a reading pillow. She would kiss, lick and suck my head before sliding it deeper into her mouth, her lips riding along the edges of my shaft. Before I got very deep, I turned her around for a sixty-nine. I would penetrate her pussy with my tongue, stroke it in and out, then push her lovely ass down a little so I could watch the video. I was tonguing her crinkled hole most of the time because it was where my tongue could reach and I could still see the monitor. She continued her sucking of my rigid pole, pausing for breath or to catch a moment of the sucking on the screen.

Fun for both Angela and myself was when Don, much too rarely, fucked these radiant creatures. He would hand her a condom which she pealed and rolled down his extra large throbbing cock. The image resolution of the spy films was good except the color wasn't great, but I could imagine the yellow rubber covering the purple head of his extremely excited member. Some of the women straddled him face to face before guiding him inside. Others, which were my favorites, would bend back and he would guide his rubber covered cock inside. Angela liked those moments too. We could see much more of what was happening, what they were feeling. We could see both their naked fronts. 

My favorite twosome was a petite well curved blonde who sat on his lap and jiggled her 34 C breasts as her blonde pubes slid up and down above his lengthy member. She leaned forward, holding a coat hook, and he held her there. Then he buried himself deep. He pumped hard and fast with long strokes. I could tell he was stroking her just right because she lost her grip and slid her hands along the toilet stall door, moving the hands around wildly. When she brought one of her hands to her full pussy and stroked her clit, he lifted his stiff wet member out of her, seeking another entrance inside. He found the backdoor and slowly entered. Her face contorted in intense pleasure/pain. She continued to stroke her pussy with her little fingers. Once Don had achieved full entrance, and he was fucking her asshole hard and steady, her face expressed pure sexual bliss. He pounded her deep and fast and stopped. She hung loose. Her orgasm had come. He had reached his. Angela and I could tell it was a good fuck.

By the time of the girl's orgasm I was well ensconced in Angela's lovely strong cunny, my arms reaching around her, my hands holding her dangling little breasts and squeezing them, my mouth kissing the back of her neck. I was humping her good, with her kneeling in front of me as we watched. 

Sometimes we would come with the couple. Other times we let the video begin another sequence, my cock slowing inside, elongating the incredible pleasure we were sharing. I would stop and feel her twinges and I would twinge right back at her. It was our most intimate fucking moment. Once the scene heated up again I was plunging deep and hard and with as much love/lust intensity as I could muster into her quim. She was moaning and sighing along with the moans and sighs of the lovers rattling from the speakers, and along with my big grunts of pleasure. 

One night our lovemaking continued. I took out my member from her pussy and slipped it inside her asshole. By the time I was fully inside I was sliding four fingers up and down and around her pussy, one stimulating her g-spot, while my thumb played with her clit. It all clicked for her. She stiffened and collapsed on the bed, my cock and fingers feeling the myriad vibrations of her orgasm around them. My fingers felt the liquid make them especially slippery as her cum bubbled over them. After two more deep drives inside her from my cock, my hand firmly grasping the tender swelling top to her great container of pleasure, I was stilled by my orgasm, my seminal liquid spurting into the depths found at her back door. Her liquid orgasms flowed together with mine to proclaim to the world that sex is most definitely wet.

What would drive us over more often than not were the threesomes. The first was two girls and Don, which I liked and would get me close. I loved watching one girl lapping at the connection, the cock sliding in and out of the cunny. The second though, with two guys and this long lean dark hair beauty between them, sucking Don's cock and being fucked by some coked up character doggy style with no protection was super hot. When they all were cumming, Don's cum showering over her back as she bent her head down, if Angela and I hadn't cum yet, or even if we had, we would be cumming then. It would be the ultimate explosion. We rocked the thick stone walls with the thunderous joyous moans of our orgasms.

But it was the spying and the monitor which also showed the goings on of the goons. And that was unexpectedly odd. One thing, we could never hear. When the goons had the poor chump in the toilet, the toilet would be flushing when they talked. And the faucet would be running. They didn't talk much. Mostly the goons would be twisting and turning the guy's limbs to the point of breaking but not breaking. 

The camera attached to the alley showed more coercion on the part of the boys. The poor victim was shoved against the wall again and again. One goon, usually Anders, would hold his face, pressing the back of his head against the brownstone wall. The poor middle aged man had no history of defending himself. He would hang there taking the abuse. Then, most mysterious, the goons would disappear with the man through a back door, two metal doors wide, to the adjoining building which spread back farther than my club to form a dead end to the alley. The double doors were at the center of the dead end wall.

"We have to get in there," said Angela. "We have to find out what's going on."

Angela, braver and cleverer than I, found a way in. At first it was to listen. She staged an accidental meeting. Flying out the apartment door backwards, presumably exchanging last words to me before splitting the club, she bumped into the victim. Somehow she threaded between the goons so she could collide and drop into the victim's jacket pocket her listening device. I watched the transaction/accident with as much surprise as I thought would seem natural to me. 

Needing to relieve Connie so he could finish his day out of the bar and kitchen, I couldn't listen in on the thugs and victim. It was slow, no one was in the club except employees, goons and a victim, but I felt I needed to be around in case of sudden customers and to ready everything for the evening. 

I was still busy when Angela returned from her escapades. She smiled and signaled towards the apartment door. She had to make the signal twice, because I was so turned on by her presence. She looked sleek in her tailored reddish orange business suit. She was unbuttoning her blouse between signals. So many times she made me want to fuck her in plain sight in the middle of the club. But I had to shake a no. I had to be busy at that moment. She looked disappointed. I shrugged my shoulders. I knew I was disappointed. She smiled. I loved her. Still do.

An hour or so later she was dressed in crazy red spattered white spandex, looking incredible, but serious. She was near tears.

"My god Angela. What?" I said.

"We have to talk," she said. I had to read her lips she was so quiet in the loud room. Luckily Connie was there to cover my butt, working effortlessly with the waitress, his lover, Hazel.

Once we were safely inside my apartment, once I had closed the door, she crumpled to the floor. I lifted her up and brought her to the bed.

"Rewind the tape. Turn it full volume. You've got to hear," she said quietly. I obeyed.

After the bathroom and the alley, which again seemed to serve little purpose accept to hear the guy say yes a couple times while scaring the shit out of him, we heard the doors open. It was quiet. A door closed. Quiet walking. A door opened. The guy was tossed inside. We could hear the flesh and bones bang against the floor. The door closed. We heard the screech of springs as he sat on a bed. And then a voice.

"Hi," she said. 

"Oh my god, who are you?" said the victim, obviously startled. The sound of the springs continued as he shifted around nervously on the bed.

"I'm Irma," she said. I heard a voice one would associate with a dumb moll. I envisioned her blonde, cute and voluptuous. "What can I do for you?" She rolled the words seductively around her mouth.

"I...I...don't feel very...um...presentable.

"Well, let's see what we can do about that. Take off your clothes. Go on." Footsteps and the floor sighing as she must have kneeled between his legs. "Let me take care of the lower half," she said, unzipping him and the springs announced adjustments made which allowed her to pull down his pants. "Ooh, poor thing, a lonely hang dog. We'd better perk you up."

The bed got noisy and his breath steadily climbed as she proved good at her job. Her cute Betty Boop Brooklyn whine continued. "You want to fuck me darling?" More sighs of the bed springs which began a vigorous steadily building rhythm matched by the groans of the two occupants. They were loud. Everything was loud. Why hadn't I heard such noise before through the walls? As she bounded on top of him, it could only be thus since the springs never squealed in a way that would convey him turning over, she whispered breathlessly, "Make me cum, make me cum darling, you feel so good, you feel so hard inside me, make me cum," and so forth. I imagined her pulling the cum from him. Not wanting the fuck to last. It wasn't for her to cum. It was all about the victim who finally did cum with a long thrilled moan.

"Very nice," said the blonde. Her body arose from the bed. Here. Your jacket. Put it on. And zip up. What's this?" The sound was rustling about the microphone. She had it in her hand. "Hey boys," she yelled in her Brooklynese that meant business. "Hello? Hello? Fuck you," she said directly into the microphone.

"Oh shit," I said.

"Yeah," said Angela, quietly.

We heard the door open and the boys were back. "Look at this," said the blonde.

"What is it?" said a voice that had to be Anders. 

"Stupid. It's a microphone," said a voice we knew was Fast Freddy Junior.

"Don't call me stupid in front of Shirley," said the not so bright Anders.

"Stupid. Here," she said, slamming the microphone into one of the goon's hands and stomping out the door. "Take care of it." She slammed the door behind her.

"I thought her name was Irma," I said to Angela, who shushed me.

"Sit down," said Fast Freddy. We heard the bed squeal. Then we heard two blasts. Then, "Thank god for plastic bed covers. Shit." He realized he was still being heard by some unknown, because the sound snapped, sound of breaking, and was silent.

"Two things," I said to a shivering Angela. I wasn't too steady, but was bringing up my coldest thoughts to hide my emotions. "First, it's not our fault the guy was shot. Second, we have information. We finally know what the fuck is going on." I finished too loud. I couldn't hide the fear and pain I felt from witnessing a murder.

"I know that girl," said Angela quietly.

"What?" I said with my usual wit.

"Shirley. I know her. Rachel knows her. She liked those mob studs. Got her a bad reputation, the mistress type, you know, slept around. Now these being proper catholic boys, they'd not even not marry her but treat her like dirt once they had gotten off. I always thought she was nuts, being so much cleverer than most of the thugs. But I see she moved in. She's a big shot."

"She's a whore," I said it. 

"With no heart of gold," Angela said. We shared a laugh that lasted way too long and ended with tears. "But she's in control. It's her place next door."

"A madam."

"Maybe. Something. We got a find a way inside. We got to watch. We got to find how she gets inside."

"And how come we never heard any of that before. There were fucking gun shots."

"I mean, the place is padded, sound insulated, you know," said Angela.

I nodded my head. "Weird shit," I said.

"Fucking weird," said my love quietly. I held her in my arms in bed until her emotions had sapped her and she was asleep. I returned to the busy club, which Connie and Hazel were happy to see. Not that they were relieved of duty. There was more than enough work for three. 

The club was different. The long blank wall on the opposite side of the club from the bar which I tended to ignore loomed like the vibrations of a Rothko painting.

9.

When Angela told Rachel about Anders being a killer, Rachel wasn't shocked. She knew her boyfriend was bad and stupid, and she still loved to fuck him and even talk with him from time to time. But when Rachel heard about Shirley, she didn't like it. Her and Shirley had a definite falling out. And yet she didn't think Shirley even realized it. Which was perfect for the stake out. Rachel staked it out most of the day and Angela watched through the night. They would be walking by casually, heading for Bradley's or away and there would be Shirley at her secret entrance. That was the plan. 

Rachel happened upon her as she left the place. The entrance was another building on 39th street which somehow was joined to her 10th Avenue building. They chatted each other up. We were pleased by the warm reception Shirley gave Rachel. But she didn't admit her occupancy next door. When asked as discreetly as possible about why she was in that particular neck of the woods, she was visiting a friend and was heading home. She got in her dark green Lincoln and sped off. 

Over the next eight days, Angela kept a discreet stake out on that door stoop, finding out Shirley's timing. Most of the time Shirley was inside. When she was out, she would be gone for a few hours during the late afternoon and evening. She would return and stay. 

Unless someone was always inside, Angela quickly realized that Shirley was mostly alone. At least by late evening. Once business had been transacted the visitors would depart. In that eight days only another girl one night stayed over. She was from the old neighborhood. Actually she had been from the richer neighborhood next to theirs in Brooklyn. And she was known for her lesbian tendencies. 

We decided on an approach together. I had finally acquired a bartender, a nondescript fellow dull enough to be trustworthy. So I had a few evenings off during week days. I took the evening off. We figured her pattern so that we'd know when she arrived. And when she did and was at the door, Angela shouted, "Shirley!" The game was afoot.

"Hi, Shirley. This is my man, Jack." 

We exchanged hellos. It was a polite greeting. I noticed what a cuty Shirley was and how piercing were her eyes when she chose to look into mine. Green eyes amidst the tangle of red hair and a pale milky face. Not the blonde bimbo I had imagined except for her shape. I barely had a chance to survey her body and see its voluptuous quality. The large well shaped ass and the large well shaped bosom were easy to look at as they moved inside her tight black blouse and tight green skirt.

The timing was good. We had caught her entering her house, so she couldn't make excuses. She invited us inside. When not watching the wonders of her ass moving in front of me, I noticed the elegance of the hallway, done in a rich dark wood and only dimly lighted. She led us into a kitchen well supplied with state of the art pots and pans and stainless steel fridge and stove. We sat at the large table in the center. It reminded me of a servant's table, where at least eight maids and butlers would eat while the master of the house would be served in a long dining room with a long dining table full of eccentric family and guests.

Only this wasn't one of those elegant mysteries. We sat at the table as Shirley prepared cocktails. Shirley and Angela reminisced about their old days in Brooklyn, talking about school mates and the such. The conversation continued as we sipped the fine scotch and water, Angela sitting beside me while Shirley occupied a seat across the table. I drained the last of the scotch, the ice rattling in the glass as I set it down. And then the kitchen began to roll before my eyes like the nausea preceding a drunken vomit. But there was no time to vomit. The kitchen quickly disappeared. No this was not an elegant mystery. We might as well have been in some sleazy dive trying to make time with a suspect. The suspect had slipped us a mickey. 

I awoke, the sound of screaming banging around in my throbbing skull. My vision was like being underwater in a murky lake where the sediment slowly sinks away but the thick water atmosphere remains. I was able to see the source of the scream. Angela was cumming like she had never cum before by my manipulations. Shirley was tonguing her. Her face was between Angela's thighs, moving up and down with great speed and aggression. Her hands pulled Angela's nipples and twisted them. They were both naked. It was the sexiest thing I had ever seen. I stood up from my chair, discovering my naked pole jutting fully engorged in front of my naked body. I somehow glanced around the room. It must have been the kind of room where the poor man had been killed. It was small. A padded cell. Enough room for a queen sized bed and a small wooden chair. It was brightly lit, probably for a camera to film the events occurring inside. I didn't look for the spying lens. I looked at my beautiful love being tongued into oblivion by the voluptuous pale skin redhead. 

I walked beside the bed, my cock bouncing near Angela's face. She took hold and pulled it into her mouth. She sucked and licked it within the frenzy of her multiple orgasms. Shirley crawled off the bed. I replaced her between my lover's long narrow thighs, the head of my cock replacing her face, substituting for her tongue. I guided it inside. Angela was hot and sopping and open. She screamed out her pleasure as my cock sank in easily, feeling the myriad sensations, the flutters and contractions of her ongoing orgasm. My hands held her hips, my fingers deeply massaging her firm ass cheeks. My back curved enough to allow my lips, tongue and teeth to lovingly abuse her nipples. Meanwhile I pumped hard long firm strokes with my incredibly engorged penis. It was throbbing, my head was throbbing, my heart was throbbing, she was throbbing everywhere I made contact. The whole padded cell seemed to be a throbbing world of orgasmic flesh. 

I saw the flash of red hair which topped Shirley's pussy as she lowered it onto Angela's mouth. I watched Angela slip her tongue inside and wiggle it around. I continued fucking her. I felt the heat and the quivering texture deep inside her. Reaching a high plateau of sexual bliss, my balls feeling full beyond their means, I felt like this would last forever, like I was not meant to cum. Her moans continued, though muffled by Shirley's pussy. 

"I want you to know Jack. This is your last time," said Shirley quietly. She spoke just loud enough to be heard above Angela. I realized I was making no sound except the deep breaths from the exertion. No panting. No sighs. "I'm sorry for that. I like you Jack. I like Angela. I know you two were happy. But Angela is mine now. 




A Gift Horse



"You have to realize Jack," she continued, pausing briefly to close her eyes with apparent appreciation of Angela's tongue. It didn't effect her voice. "It's both your faults. You know the unfortunate mishap. You know what I'm talking about. It was easy to discover the source of the bug. We have our devices, too. We saw you installing the cameras in the alley. We weren't worried until you got inside. We didn't think you were clever enough. I had to calm my associates. They wanted you both dead. But like I said I like you. And I especially like Angela. In fact Angela and I are going to be seeing a lot of each other from now on." She smiled and licked her lips and sighed. My unrelenting fucking remained unabated. The grimace on my face as I suckled Angela's nipple was purely sexual. I was hearing her every word, but I was still inside the giant throb of sex.

"Yes I know Angela is the clever one. It is her strong suit. It enabled me to save your lives. I'm not going to tell you what's going on. It doesn't matter. There's nothing you can do about it. Not a thing. So I give you your darling Angela to covet or fuck or love for one more moment." 

She urged me to lift up my torso. She kissed my lips, her tongue slithering quickly inside. Her tongue slid down my neck and played with my nipples. I felt my orgasm building. The tongue lowered slowly until it played at the place where my cock and Angela's pussy were merging. Her fingers reached around to play with my balls. One finger sank inside my anus. And I erupted. I wailed out my orgasm. My hands still gripping Angela's hips, I held her against me with all my might. I wanted my entire being to enter inside her and stay. But all I could keep inside her and for only moments longer was my giant load of sperm. Once ejaculated, my cock quickly softened and slipped out of her saturated hole. 

I stared into Angela's wide sad eyes as if my life would end if I couldn't see her and she couldn't see me. All I could see were those eyes. The rest was still covered by Shirley's fabulous ass. I didn't care how fabulous it was. Tears ran down my face. Angela's tears slid out sideways and pooled in her ears. 

The door opened. I should have done something at that point. Something heroic perhaps. Instead I stared, unmoved. The prick of the needle of the syringe pouring oblivion into my blood via a vein in my neck was barely felt. Then I felt nothing.

10.

Once the murk subsided, I found myself naked in my own bed. Through the liquid haze my sight slowly panned across the little apartment until it stopped at the computer monitor. It was quiet, cold and gray. Maybe it was all it would ever be without Angela captaining its visionary space. I struggled, hung over, empty, to the chair before it. I turned it on. I began to type. My head felt like a spike was wedging it open with some unknown hammer. Perhaps it was God's hammer. I stopped typing. I didn't care about myself. But I had to eat. If only to record what had happened, to fix what had happened, I needed sustenance. 

Though it tasted like nothing, like cotton, I managed to swallow a large sub Connie had prepared earlier that day, or whatever day it had been. Two days ago? Longer? The thought of the bar flashed through my brain. I trusted the new bartenders. I didn't care though if they filched me, if the money was gone, if they closed up due to my absence. It just didn't matter. I downed a large bottle of water. My head cleared. I began to type.

Hours later, finally done, I looked at the computer's time and date. Two days had passed since I had entered Shirley's home. Who knows how long since I had last seen my lost angel, Angela? It was midday, just afternoon. I called my uncle.

"Jack? How's it going, kid? How's everything going at the bar? Heard you've done terrific."

I found the hangover still lingering as Uncle Charlie's voice boomed into my ear. I bravely kept the phone against my ear. "Listen Uncle..."

"I know I should have come by. I've heard you've done terrific work. I should have invited you up for a dinner or Upstate to visit your Aunt Martha. Been busy. You must be busy too."

"I gotta talk to you Uncle Charlie. It's about the bar. Well not the bar. Next door. There's..."

"Jack!" Charlie exclaimed, then quieted. I could hardly recognize the voice being from the same source. "Never mind about next door. That's not something you should..."

"There's something fucked up going on there..."

"Look, kid. We are not going to talk about next door."

"But my girlfriend's gone!" I said, the sobs rushing out from my constricted chest. "She...We...were there and she's still there and she's...I don't know...she's trapped."

"I can't talk about it. And you shouldn't either." His voice returned to its bombast, "There's plenty fish in the sea, young man."

"Shit, Charlie, I love her. Not only that but I think she's kidnapped. It's fucked up."

Again Charlie had his quiet voice. "I'm sorry son. Just believe me. There's nothing...we won't talk about this anymore..."

"But Uncle Charlie..."

"Look," Charlie said, then paused. His normal voice returned, "Gotta go kid. Keep in touch."

"But we've got to get the police..."

"No police. It wouldn't do anything. Believe me. Forget it. Forget her."

"Click," went the phone, and to the dial tone I said, "I'll never forget." I finally hung up.

I decided to mull it over. I needed to jump into the routine of the bar. I walked out, seeing relief in the faces of Connie and George, the most recent bartender I had hired. I let George go for the day and worked the slow afternoon bar. Connie watched me most of the time. He knew something was wrong. He asked a couple times. I couldn't say anything. He asked about Angela. Tears emerged at the corner of my eyes and dried there. I didn't talk. He probably thought she'd left me, and I had gone on a binge. It's what I hoped he would think. I knew I couldn't get anyone else involved. I knew I was on my own.

So I mulled as I pulled the tap and poured the drinks during the slow afternoon. I was a dull machine, unable to make contact with any of the regulars. All I could do was get their drinks and make change. The mulling was effective. I realized Uncle Charlie was right. Otherwise he wouldn't have mentioned it. I couldn't call the cops. They were paid off. I knew a couple myself that gave me the wink when I poured them bourbon or vodka in the Styrofoam cups most days. Their fake coffee. They'd even witnessed Anders and Fast Freddie Jr. in action, and though I noticed maybe a twinge of embarrassment, I could swear they nodded to each other. New York City is built on those winks and nods and the cash that flows beneath them. Without it, without the structure of corruption, the city would probably tumble into a chaotic mess.

Who could I talk to? Angela was the only person I could trust. I didn't want anyone else involved whether I could trust them or not. Rachel was the only other person who knew about the killing, and she was too much involved with Anders to be completely trusted. And Connie and Hazel, well, I could no more put them in danger than I could shoot them myself. Then I thought of Angela's place of employment. They may even have known about our little investigation. Unfortunately Angela was never willing to divulge her source of income. She took pride in her secrets. She told me she just wanted to protect me. I wish she had protected me and herself from all this shit.

Once Harry, the night bartender arrived, and I told him I was okay, not to worry about me and other such bullshit, I slid back into my apartment. I entered into the computer and got little out of it. Except for our investigation next door, in which she had given me the password, everything else she was working on was protected in such a way as I could not get inside. I looked around the edges, dumped files, e-mail. Nothing. Damn her. No hint of her place of employment. 

I grabbed a yellow pages, and perused the Private Detective listings. I looked for an office nearby. Not too nearby. I figured someone too close may have been infected by my particular neighborhood corruption. I found a listing and lifted the phone. Then the paranoia deepened. I must be tapped by now. I gingerly set the phone down, not wanting to hurt the ear listening in I guess. Tearing out the yellow pages listings, I grabbed some cash and a jacket and raced through the bar and outdoors. 

After several blocks, I walked into a coffee shop where there was a pay phone. After ordering a blt and a coffee, finishing off the sandwich in a few seconds, I brought the cup to the phone, fed it and dialed. 

I asked for background. I didn't want the connection to be too deep with the cops. Five calls later a woman answered. I liked her voice. All the others had either been gruff or too connected or both. She understood my concern for background, admitted she had never been a cop (the ones who did were proud of it, which I could understand) but said she'd been at it for five years and was good. I liked her confidence. And her voice was warm and deep and steady. Soft and sensuous like a warmed up pillow. It was nearing five o'clock, so I knew I had to be clear to her the urgency of the situation. I could imagine her about to walk out the door when the phone rang. I had heard impatience in some of the earlier voices. She was a tiny bit reluctant. I heard it in the pause, the sigh, and the way she said yes. I told her I'd hurry.

The cab bumped me up to the West 40's, and let me out in front of a nondescript old office building. I called her office, MMJ Detective Agency on the door phone, and she buzzed me in. I entered and rode the clattering little old elevator to the fifth floor, got out and searched for her office. I spotted the lit window down the hall. The door opened into a waiting room with an empty desk. No secretary. Standing in the doorway of her office was my detective. 

"Mary Margaret Jones," she said with a smile, her hand raised to shake mine. I paused to take her in. She was a lovely woman, big, tall, over six feet, with skin like creamed coffee. I couldn't tell her shape. She dressed comfortably and deliberately without accentuating curves. Probably wanted to avoid making her gender an issue in her business. But her smile was most attractive. I could swear I felt a flash of excitement we shared between her dark brown eyes and my weary blue ones. I thought that was fucked up timing for such a reaction. I even had tingles in my balls and a slight penile expansion. I finally walked over to her and raised my hand.

"Sorry. Jack Newman," I said as I shook her hand. It was warm and soft and nearly as big as mine. We looked at each other eye to eye. She was my height and I had a few inches over six feet. I glanced down to check for heels. Her shoes looked comfortable and had heels as high as mine.

"Come on in," she said and gestured to a nice old arm chair which I found firm and high. When she sat behind her desk, we were still eye to eye. She obviously wanted her clients at an even keel with her, neither below of above her. Despite the danger of divulging my crazy story to a perfect stranger, I couldn't have felt more comfortable. I had wondered how I would broach the subject, was a bit concerned about breaking through the tension and the confusion as well as what I could and couldn't say. I knew it would be a lot easier than I had feared.

"So what's the problem?" she asked.

"I need to know where a friend of mine worked."

"You mean a background check?"

"No. She, uhm, technically still works there. I mean as far as work knows."

"You want to know where she works now? Not where she is, where she lives?"

"I know both those things. She lives with me, or, well, she used to." I felt guilty saying that to her. It was a complicated emotion. I was attracted to Mary, which was weird, and weirder still I wanted the feeling to be mutual, but I was telling her I had a girlfriend and I was willing to pay her to find out about this woman who I obviously loved. But the good thing about this screwed up feeling was it kept my despair at bay. 

"If she left you, I hate to say this, it may be that things didn't work out. And if she didn't tell you where she worked, maybe there was a reason."

"Well yes, there was a reason. It's complicated."

"And you say you know where she is?" asked Mary. I could see the realization of what I had said changed her. Reluctance became curiosity. Her intelligent eyes stared into my blurry eyes.

"Yes. Yes I do. Unfortunately."

"She's not dead is she?"

"No, thank god. I'm pretty sure she's not. I hope not."

"And all you need from me is to find out her place of employment?" 

"Well yes. She worked for me part time nights. A waitress at my club. Bradley's. But mostly, you know, nine to five kind of thing she worked at some sort of investigative agency, some sort of whistle blower type agency which I guess got into some heavy stuff, and she didn't want me to know much about it. She never told me the name or location."

"So what happens when I find out about this place."

"Well I, well, like I said, it's complicated."

"Look, Jack, this is how it works. I need to know as much as possible. I need to know the truth. Not just to, you know, solve it, but to justify my solving it. I have to trust you as much as you have to trust me."

"Okay. I want to tell you everything. And maybe if I do, you could turn me down. I wouldn't blame you. It's not any ulterior motives. It's basically to find a way to get Angela back. But to do that means to get into some pretty dangerous areas, to step on some sore toes which have the ability to retaliate, well, lethally. Whatever you do, whether you help me or not, this has to stay between us. For your own safety. I like you. I hope to hell the feeling I get from you is true, that I can trust you."

"You know I feel the same. I don't mind telling you I have gotten some pretty strange people walking through the door asking me to do some crazy stuff. And the way this is starting, its as far into crazy as I think I've heard without being, you know, like obviously insane. But I like you. I trust you. I can tell you're upset. Everyone who walks through the door, I mean, if it's a personal problem, and not some guy's business to collect people, well, they're upset. But it's deep. I sense real fear. I hope it's not paranoid. Can I tell? I don't know. This is what I think. You tell me every detail of the situation you can manage, and through the details maybe I'll know if I can do it. Okay?"

I told her everything I could remember: from the phone call from Uncle Charlie that started it all to Fast Freddy's involvement, to the clientele, to the performances, to Rachel and Anders and the gang, to the video cameras and bugging, to the killing, to Shirley and of course as much as I knew about Angela. I ended with my last conversation with Uncle Charlie. The kinkier stuff I left out of course. But otherwise it was a complete description leading up to and including the events which had taken Angela away.

Several minutes of silence followed my narrative. She was frozen, stunned. Then she made some notes. Her eyes looked deeply thoughtful. They radiated intelligence. She pulled a piece of paper out of her desk.

"Contract. It stipulates retainer, expenses, cost beyond retainer, what you get from me. I take a thousand up front. Covers four days work. I keep it if it ends in less than four days. If it lasts beyond that I charge two hundred a day. Expenses are extra. Can you deal with that?"

I pulled the cash out of my pocket and counted out a thousand. "Great," I said. I signed the contract.

"This is what I see. We need information on Angela. We need to crack the computer. We need someone else."

"The fewer the better. There's danger..."

"Savita is a genius. She's a hacker with style. I've known her since forever," said Mary as she stood and strapped on her pistol, a shiny scary looking automatic as if it was an essential part of her anatomy. "Let's go." Putting on her sports jacket, she slipped the bills into an envelope and slipped it inside her inner breast pocket.

11.

I followed Mary outside her 44th Street office building and into a cab. We headed North to 101st Street near Lexington. She led me into her apartment, a modest, though for the City good sized, one bedroom. During the trip she told me her plan. It was crazy, just like everything else in my life.

In the apartment she stripped down in front of me, getting to her slip. I had a glance at her body at last. It looked spectacular. She showered quickly as I waited on the couch. I saw more of her body as she passed by me only in a towel. Better and better. When she emerged from her bedroom I was in awe. She had on tight spandex pants and a tube top that ended above her navel. Her body was rippled with muscle. Her thighs were large and rippled down to strong knees and calves. Her stomach was tight and clearly muscular. Her breasts pushed the tube top out several inches, barely containing them. They hung strong and firm. No need for support. The nipples were a quarter inch presence on each breast, etched out beneath the shirt. She returned to the bathroom, keeping the door opened. She lifted her hair and pinned it above her head. Just lifting her arms up made me hard. She carefully applied her make-up. A bit garish. She had transformed herself into a party girl. The plan was beginning. Once she had grabbed a long leather coat and found a spot under it to best conceal her pistol, we were off.

We headed South, all the way down to Soho. I waited in the cab while Mary ran into a Cyber Café. A few seconds later she was pulling a thin, short, beautiful dark hair woman with a complexion from the Indian Subcontinent. Her clothes were black and frumpy. Her hair was disheveled. She had that old dark Goth look. Her face and ears were decorated with studs, a couple in her eyelashes, one in her right nostril, one below her bottom lip. I imagined one in her tongue. The thought of it turned me on. I had heard stories. Little did I know. 

Once the taxi took off, Mary and Savita performed a long lingering kiss in front of me. Not until it was over did Mary introduce us. A few blocks later, in the East Village we climbed out.

As Savita showered and changed, I sat on the couch in her railroad style apartment. The place was dark and spare, nothing covering the walls of the dingy apartment. While Savita washed and changed, Mary kept up a monologue with her which gave her the rundown of my situation and the crazy plan Mary had hatched. When they walked into the living room, again I was in awe. Savita was decked out in a darker spandex, but hers covered her from above her breasts down to her feet. It was so tight I knew she wasn't wearing anything underneath. When she spun around I was breathless. Though her curves were subtle, they were there, especially her high hard ass, and they were perfect. Her naked arms were lithe and graceful. She was absolutely gorgeous. 

To get into the spirit of the deception, we began to party. Though it was early, we found a club that had a few other people and a half full dance floor. For the next four hours, we drank and danced. We were careful not to drink too fast, but by the end of our partying we drank down four cocktails apiece, and the drinks definitely loosened us up. I was slow getting into the dancing, enjoying the sight of the two beautiful and different ladies perform sensuous pas de deux to the thumping club music. Eventually I made it a manage a trois. The drinks and the erotic excitement of moving our hips, sliding our bodies, letting our faces touch, was making me more and more daring with Mary. Our sexual centers moved closer and closer to contact. She seemed to reciprocate the interest in touching. By the end of the night my lump of desire rubbed against her hot damp slit. We were slowly dry humping on the dance floor. I felt the slim body of Savita pressing against my back, her slim little fingers exploring my chest, stomach, thighs and finally my hard cock straining beneath my khaki slacks.