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MJ 4: The Nightlife Case

By: madam_noe



This is Marly Jackson PI's 5th case, "The Nightlife Case"

In order her stories are contained in:

Case Of the Missing Millionaire

The Violin Case

A Bad Case of Blackmail

Case of the Purple Rose

_________________________________________

I was in the middle of a dream. In it, my on again, off again lover Michael Finnegan and I were at a bar. The bar was the Purple Rose, an upscale underworld club run by Eddie Harwood, a small time gangster I'd dated briefly.

We sat in a booth with untouched drinks before us. Michael's black hair, prone to curl, was long and shaded his bright blue eyes. He wore a suit, something I'd seen him do all of twice in the 15 years I'd known him, and he glanced around with me at the mustard colored walls, dark wood paneling, and soft leather booths that made up the VIP room.

Eddie was by the bar, talking with Alabaster. Alabaster was a pimp turned heroin dealer I'd grown up with. He alone held the key to the truth of the night I was dreaming about, but Alabaster had left for France which had swallowed him whole, leaving no trace. 

Was this a dream? Why had I thought that? And why did I think Alabaster was in France when he was here? My brain seemed to fog in and out and something about this seemed off, but as soon as I realized it, the thought was gone.

Eddie was his usual self; a man very pretty with delicate-looking bones, exceedingly wide shoulders, and a stout build. He wore an expensive suit, his dark brown hair slicked back and his tanned face clean-shaven.

Alabaster was reedy thin, his skin café-au-lait, his long hair oiled and pulled back into a ponytail hanging down the back of his red velvet suit, his maroon fedora at a jaunty angle as he argued with Eddie using words I could not hear.

Across from us at another table was Stormy Michaels. Porn actress superstar she worked for Finn, was dating him, and fucking Eddie Harwood on the side while Eddie and I dated...and Eddie had knocked her up. 

She was tall like me, a nudge under six feet, but where my build was medium and my larger breasts natural her build was tiny and her breasts were the best money could buy, shown off in a strappy blue sequined dress. Her fake tan seemed to mimic my natural pale olive skin but her hair was bleached blonde. If I squinted I realized how much we resembled each other...if you were a drunk man with all your blood in your pelvis.

No wonder she kept nailing my ex-lovers. But wait a minute...she was dead. So was Eddie. Wait, what was that thought? I took a sip of my drink and didn't taste it, feeling a foggy headache grow.

I fought to clear it, and as I did a chill rose on my spine. Suddenly everyone turned to the doorway behind me. 

I turned around, movie-dramatic-point-slow, only to see a shadow without a face at the door. He was tall and he was short, he was fat and he was thin, he was young and he was old. I seemed to know who he was and yet there was no face, no coloration, nothing by which I normally recognized a person. "Smith!" I screamed and as I did, I heard the sickening wet sound of bodies, ripe with gore, hit a hard surface.

I turned back to see Eddie and Stormy on the floor, twitching and hemorrhaging blood from old bullet wounds. As I watched they began to rot, flesh melting away, but their hands still reaching out as their decaying throats gasped for air to fill lungs completely rotted away.

Oh, God, this was all wrong, and all right! I gripped my drink white-knuckled as it dawned on me that these people were all dead or gone. Of all the players, I was the only one real, but my brain still couldn't find the sum total of the meaning.

As if cued, Alabaster dropped too, bleeding from the shoulder wound Finn have given him just days after Stormy and Eddie had died and we'd been on Smith's trail. It had lead to, and died, at Alabaster, and I turned to see how Finn was reacting.

Finn's face turned bruised and battered. He sported a black eye and a fat lip, a blood trail coming from it. That was when it hit me like a solid wall of consciousness; this was how they'd looked two years earlier. 

Each bore the most serious wounds from that horrible time I tried so hard to forget. This was how they'd looked when this faceless shadow named Smith set me up to take the fall for two murders. Three technically as Stormy had been pregnant. I glanced at her rotting corpse and shuddered, praying not to see a fetus. Sensation washed over me, jerking my attention away.

There was fresh blood on my hands, flowing blood, but I felt no wounds. A slurping, slithering sound came from the floor along with scrabbling, and a low groan from Finn across from me. When I looked up all four were reaching for me, two whole human hands, and two of rotted corpses. Behind me the faceless Smith began to laugh.

I woke to my own scream and cut it off when I realized my phone was ringing. Not my cell phone, but the canny retro 1920's style I'd bought at a garage sale for my office.

It was my business line, and the clock said it was six a.m. I didn't have an apartment, slept in my office, so was used to this, but people knew not to call before nine a.m. as a general rule.

I flipped on the light and knocked the phone off the receiver stylishly and grumbled out "Marly Jackson, PI. Go," as I fumbled for my cigarettes and thought about the dream.

Many things had changed in two years. A year in court had made me better groomed: I'd cut my hair to my shoulders, wore contacts more often, and stopped chewing my nails and wearing men's clothes.

I still smoked like a chimney and drank like a fish, but not to the point of blacking out. That had been a mistake that had lead to my involvement with those two technically unsolved murders. It helped too to see my godfather and friend Buzz, a retired cop, die of cirrhosis from years of drinking, but just enough for me to cut back. He'd been a friend and a mentor, and I missed him enough to keep a photo of him, young, smiling, and uniformed, on my desk by the phone.

"Marly? It's Arthur," A high toned but smooth male voice said in my ear after a thick, pregnant pause.

I struck a match and lit my el cheapo cigarette, trying to place the name. I couldn't afford much; my legal bills were paid in free work to Montgomery, head of the Irish mob, which took up most of my days. My reputation chased away the high paying clients leaving me to normal PI shit cases and blackmail, none of them involving an Arthur. Life was like the old days, and they said you could never go home again.

"Arthur?" I blew out a stream of smoke and tried harder to remember. "I don't know any Arthur."

"Arthur Bowers," he said, and I dropped the phone and my cigarette which rolled to the floor, spilling ash and smoking itself out.

Life wasn't like the movies. Things did not always end neat and clean. At any time I could be recalled and retried for 2 counts of murder and more, that was my current shit. Arthur...Arthur was old shit. Same shit, prior day, if you will.

I collected the phone from the desktop where it had landed and slammed it down on the receiver before pulling a bottle of Jameson's from my desk and fetching my dead smoke. On good whiskey I wouldn't skimp or my few Irish ancestors would spin in their graves. I pulled straight from the bottle mindless of the early hour or the fact I was bleary eyed in a nightgown in my dirty, run-down office.

I wasn't there anymore, my mind drifted back over a decade into the past when I'd been a fresh-faced detective, selected for the rank from pure nepotism by my uncle Buzz.

I'd accepted it to get away from my beat partner Finn and a messy affair with him, and I'd been teamed with Bowers in homicide. Sometimes we had a third, but it was always Bowers and I.

He'd had a wife Liz whom I'd met and she had fed me many family style dinners at their house. Bowers and I were dirty, it was the only way to get ahead and make money in the CPD in those days. In current days I assumed little had changed, but back then in the eighties, it was rampant. The current Mayor Daley hadn't "cleaned up" the city yet and it was a blue collar town on the make, a pure harlot I loved.

Arthur had been pinned for an off-duty murder. Liz sometimes worked at the Admiral strip club for extra bucks and the story went she hooked sometimes, which I had doubted from the sweet woman I knew. Supposedly Arthur had caught her blowing a guy in an alley off Lawrence and shot him twice in the head.

The witness was another off-duty cop, one known as a boy scout, whose back window overlooked the alley. Bowers had been broke as shit when this went down, so had I.

He needed money for his trial, released without bail for being a cop with a clean-until-then record. He needed dough and needed it fast and easy, so he set out to rob a drug dealer and I was his second. I'd helped plan the job, run the radios and interference, believing in his innocence enough to take giant fucking career-wrecking risks for him. He was my partner, and that made him a friend, brother, and quasi-husband.

I had stood by him...right up until he and Liz had disappeared with the money we'd stolen. A cool million in cash and another 3.5-4 in drugs ready for the street. It tainted my career, left me stuck as a junior detective, kept me locked into a frustrated role I would ultimately run from to open shop as a PI.

Just thinking about what that had done to my life had my hand shaking as I relit the cigarette.

The sun was coming up, it was a cold spring night transferring into a cool spring day, and with a sigh I got up and put the coffee on, finishing my cigarette. I grabbed a shower and carefully dried my hair, selected a nice, tailored pantsuit that flattered, and put on makeup.

I looked good for a 35 year old alcoholic who was broke, overworked, and hadn't gotten laid in two years.

By the time the rituals of the morning were done and I sat at my computer checking emails and headlines, I pushed the call from my mind. That day I had some tracking to do for Montgomery, and that night I had a cheating spouse to tail and blackmail, though at most I'd get a grand. How far I'd fallen.

I owed Montgomery, a very scary older man, a cool million. He'd lent me his personal lawyer, the man who defended Montgomery's Irish mob, and I had emptied my bank accounts to pay him back. I'd come up short by over a million and after two years of working for no cash, just minimum wage for billable hours ticked off for each job and interest mounting, I was still short a million.

I found myself pulling up the internet folder I had on Michael Finnegan, my former lover. In name only for the last two years he'd been the head of Gold 'n' Rod, a porn company that did nicely. On the run, he'd let his assistant run the company, and the kid was good. 

Exonerated of all charges at my expense, he'd finally resurfaced a couple months earlier in Los Angeles, wooing some of the bigger stars coming off contracts with bigger companies like Vivid or Wicked. He was tanned, had grown his hair to a ponytail, shed a few pounds he couldn't necessarily afford to lose, and added a few tattoos. He looked suave and dangerous, more so than I remembered.

He was my first love. It had taken me fifteen years to admit it but back when we'd been two beat cops fucking in the car, I'd been in love with him. That's why it had hurt so much when I'd found out he had a wife. That's why it was sad that every time he re-entered my life post-force, it had all gone FUBAR.

That's why it killed me that he had skipped town and left me to clean up the mess of the murders of our ex-lovers by a man who did not exist. It ate me up to know that he had left me alone to face it.

I closed the web pages before I forgot myself and picked up Montgomery's file. Today I was looking into the past of a man who wanted a loan from Montgomery. I wasn't checking for solvency; I was checking for weak points Montgomery could use as leverage.

I went back to Google, the current best search engine-of-the-week (though I suspected it would go away as fast as Dogpile, its predecessor), and typed in his name. I was slugging through results for a different man in Toledo when the phone rang.

Two calls before ten a.m.; so, it was to be a banner day.

"Marly Jackson, PI. Go."

"Marly it's Arthur. Don't hang up! Look, I won't say I'm sorry but what if I could promise you three million dollars as a way to make up for it?"

I debated hanging up but paused. Two years ago cases worth fifty grand crossed my desk each week. These days they knew me by name at the food pantry. Plus, one million and I'd be free of Montgomery. Maybe I could move to another city, start over. If his story was 66% bullshit, I still had a ticket out of my current hell.

"I'm listening."

"Go to O'Hare. There's a ticket for you at the United counter. You have a flight tonight at seven p.m. When you land here it'll be eight."

"So a one-way ticket to the west coast paid for by the man who tanked my first career and taught me the art of passionless betrayal? I need some guarantee, or more motivation."

"Look I can't say much on the phone but you know the thing you're angry about? I pulled it off with 2 other people you didn't know about. We hid the prize until some of it got converted, you catch my drift? It's untouched, all of what we converted and I can promise you half of it and more, but these two guys...they got Liz. I need to get her back and keep the prize, and for that I need help. You're the only person I trust."

"It's been ten years, Arthur. I've changed, and I have more reason than anyone else alive to fuck you over, put a bullet in your brain, and walk away with the whole take."

"It's that honesty that tells me I can trust you. You say you've changed, well, so have I, Marly, so have I. I'll pick you up at eight, promise me you'll just meet for a discussion, and we'll go from there."

He hung up then leaving me staring at the phone. So...a possible job, a chance maybe for some revenge, and some high stakes cash. The old me would be plotting Arthur's murder, but the new me was already trying to figure out how this could go south.

I dialed Montgomery and got his secretary who informed me he was out of the office. "Tell him I'm working a case on the west coast and I'll be gone a few days to a week. Have him farm out the work he assigned me to some of his other guys. I'll have my cell."

What the hell, I could always reschedule my cheating spouse case. So I spent the day making arrangements and packing, then took a cab to O'Hare.

Just my luck; when I got my ticket it was for a flight to Los Angeles. My first thought was Finn was behind this, and if so, I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of any kind of reaction.

No matter how much I missed the bastard.

***

I touched down and got my luggage, feeling naked without my gun. I hadn't bothered with,, nor had I had the time to bother with the paperwork to bring mine with. I still kept my habit of comfortable shoes though these days I preferred sneakers to Doc Martens, and it made my tailored suits seem more like I was an office peon on her way home from a grueling trip than a bull dyke late to rugby practice.

I'd touched up my scant makeup and fixed my hair before landing, so now I waited with bated breath for Bowers to show up. How much had a decade changed him?

In walked in the same slim man I remembered, but his hair was no longer blonde, it was dyed dark brown, and cheaply so, shining purplish in the florescent lights. He sported a mustache with the same color and sunglasses that covered half his gaunt face.

He spotted me and immediately nodded, and I felt chagrined that apparently I hadn't changed much at all. Some women would have taken that as a compliment, but I felt it showed a lack of achievement. 

He waved me over so I tugged my two gym bags with a grunt and caught up. "Let's go somewhere we can talk," was how I greeted him and he just nodded.

He grabbed a bag and slung it over his shoulder. "I said come for a simple consult but you're packed for a long stay."

"I believe in being prepared for anything. And I did only commit to a talk, so let's skip the pleasantries and get to it."

As we drove he played tour guide, pointing out this place or that where somebody famous I'd never heard of lived, or ate, or shopped. I didn't own a TV, ignored newspapers, and had zero tolerance for pop culture.

The car smelled like a rental, had the presets of a rental, and the freshly vacuumed interior of one, but the keys hung on a ring with a Woody woodpecker charm. I tried to light a cigarette and he frowned, pressing some buttons and rolling all the windows down. The breeze made it impossible.

He pulled into the parking lot of a Denny's. Great; I'd flown 2,000 miles to eat at the same kind of diner I usually did. To be fair, back home dinner would be at the Golden Nugget, but same difference.

Once inside we took a smoking section booth in the back, alone save for a skinny Mexican busboy and a waitress who I assumed was waiting for her big break, and passing the time with caking on makeup with a trowel.

Her manner was as affected as her red bouffant, playing the role of 50's diner waitress, and we got a couple of hamburgers. To my surprise Arthur ordered his without meat, some kind of veggie patty that made me wrinkle my nose.

By unspoken agreement we didn't speak until the food arrived and then asked the waitress to leave the coffeepot and go away. At least Arthur doused his veggie patty with mayo proving he theoretically had a human soul.

I chomped on a fry and then decided it was time to get to brass tacks. "Start from the beginning. Why'd you run?"

"I got the money. I meant it when I told you I had a good lawyer lined up and needed it. But then things happened. All that fucking coke, I had to move it. I made the mistake of trusting this guy I knew, D-Bag."

"D-Bag?" I knew that name. In the months after Arthur had skipped town he'd crossed my desk a few times fingered in some murders. He too disappeared, and I assumed he was safely at the bottom of the Cal-Sag Canal.

"You know of him, I'm sure. He agreed to move them with this contact Joe 'Cherokee' Williams as our go-between. Cherokee apparently took off with the coke, or so D-Bag said, and when I went to check on a lead D-Bag broke in, terrified Liz, and took off with the cash we'd gotten."

I raised a brow. "You brought in a mover without talking to me...sounds like you were planning to double cross me from the beginning."

"It wasn't like that. I wanted to protect you. D-Bag didn't know about you; you didn't know about him. I made sure I was the only one who knew every step."

"And it ended up fucking you over. So we stole the loot and drugs, and then D-Bag and his friend 'Cherokee' double-cross you. If that's true, why didn't you call me? And you said they took the cash...what about the drugs?" 

Arthur's story was completely suspicious. His clothes, his build...nothing suggested he'd been living high off the hog, however. That was the only reason I didn't walk out the door right then and there.

"I couldn't, I'd put you through enough. Yeah, they got the cash, but they didn't have time to move the drugs. I grabbed Liz and knowing I couldn't beat the charges, we disappeared with it. Liz and I split up; I came here to make arrangements to sell the drugs, put them in a storage unit. It got hot, too hot, and Liz and I abandoned it.

"We spent some time in Mexico just trying to get by. Every day we thought about that money. We felt safe enough to come back here last month, Liz had made quite a few trips and she found a buyer. Current value for this shit is over five mill, and they say they can cut it and sell it despite the age."

"You let Liz broker the deal?" I raised a brow, trying to imagine having anyone in my life I trusted that much.


MJ 4: The Nightlife Case



He nodded and sucked down more coffee. I polished off my burger and thought carefully. "All right, you lined up a buyer, you felt safe enough to come back...what happened next?"

"D-Bag and Cherokee are here, Marly. They're here and Liz went missing. I think they took her, I think they took her because the storage locker was cleaned out and the security camera shows Liz driving up to it. They have her, Marly."

"What makes you think she's not dead and these two aren't in South America right now, living the high life?" Screw tact, I thought.

"This is ten year old coke and heroin. Shit is no good. Liz found a chemist, met him in some out of the way bar when he responded to a classified ad. Said there were maybe two people who could turn it useful and sell it. The other guy is in Europe or some shit, and Liz never gave me this guy's name. D-Bag and Cherokee need Liz alive to meet with him, turn this shit into cold, hard cash, and then they'll go."

I felt my blood turn to ice. I needed that money, needed it bad, but if I understood what he was saying, if I read between the lines, I was a hired gun to kill these two. He needed his wife and the drugs back, but D-Bag and Cherokee couldn't be left alive.

I had shot people, I had killed people, but it had always been ethical to my thinking. This was...nothing I could easily be a part of. "I don't do cold-blooded murder." I lit a cigarette and took a long drag while he studied my face.

Finally, Arthur shook his head. "It's not that. I need you to find them. I need you to find the drugs. I need you to find Liz." It struck me that his wife came third, but we were talking a shitload of money. "Whatever happens to D-Bag and Cherokee is up to you."

I slurped my own coffee and turned that over in my mind. Perhaps for this kind of money my morals could be...flexible. "How long ago did they grab Liz?"

"It's been eight days. They called me early this morning, right before I called you. Liz...Liz said she wouldn't tell them anything unless I was there."

Suddenly I realized what was afoot. He didn't know if he could trust his wife. She had been the one crossing the border, looking to make a deal. She was the one that had finally brokered it, and she was the one who grabbed the drugs. Had she double-crossed Arthur with D-Bag and Cherokee? The twists and turns were dizzying, but I knew why Arthur hired me; he had already betrayed me and I was the only one he could trust to kill all the people who had betrayed him; D-Bag, Cherokee, and his own sweet wife Liz. 

I thought of a cool three million in cash, and then I thought about being Montgomery's slave into old age.

"So when and where do you meet them?"

"They call me tomorrow with the location for tomorrow night. Marly, there's more. I didn't just stay in Mexico to avoid the cops, I did it to avoid the man we robbed."

"Wait, you said the money and drugs came from a storage locker used by multiple dealers, none of them big time."

"There was only one man we stole from." Bowers looked away, scanning the Denny's as if expecting a SWAT team to be moving into position. "Alejandro Javier."

My heart skipped a beat. Javier was a man wanted by the FBI and every major crime-monitoring organization in South America. He made my big scary mobster, Montgomery, look like a choir boy.

"So anyone who touches this money is fucked." This was a clear set up. He wanted me to find the three musketeers, kill them, get him the drugs. He'd sell them, undoubtedly double-cross me again, and leave me to take a bullet between the eyes courtesy of Mr. Javier.

I'd be lying if I didn't say there was an adrenaline rush, but this was going to be a tough one to stay a few steps ahead on. 

He nodded. "I figure we have seventy-two hours before Javier gets wind. Three days, starting an hour ago, to end this, make the cash, and get the fuck out of Dodge. 

"So, can I trust you?"

I stubbed out my cigarette and exhaled in one long stream. "The question is, Bowers, can I trust you?"

***

Bowers gave me ten grand in cash as payment up front along with a nice .357 much like mine, and a case of bullets. I didn't question where it came from as the bills were old, worn, circulated, and non-sequential. The gun was filed well, used, and likely hot. As long as it shot straight I didn't give a fuck. I used some cash to check into a cheap motel in a shabby neighborhood and get some sleep. In the morning would come the call and we wanted to be well-rested and prepared.

The dreams came, black and white and blood, and I woke again in a panic, uncomforted by the strange surroundings.

It was early but I got up, had a smoke and showered. I dressed carefully in a denim skirt, low kitten heels, and a tank top. I put my gun holster over it with Bower's gun and my windbreaker. With a little makeup and some earrings, I was set for the day.

I called Bowers cell and it went straight to voicemail. Feeling itchy and knowing it was early, I decided to have a little me time. The call was due at 10 and it was only a few minutes after sunrise.

First I rented a car. I paid extra and got myself a sweet little 'Stang. It wasn't nearly as sexy as Finn's classic but it was a convertible, powder blue, and sexy as hell.

I drove straight to a shooting range to try the gun out. I didn't really trust Bowers, not at all, but the gun was sound. A newer model than mine it accounted for the recoil so that took some getting used to, and my accuracy would be impaired, but I could still hit the trunk of a body if I needed to.

Then I did the one thing I knew I'd never tell anyone about. I had a file with me and put it out on the seat and drove, following the directions. It took me from East L.A. to the Valley and another hour to find a parking spot. It was nine, Bowers had not called me back, but I had a clear hour before go-time.

I walked to the small warehouse building, bright white like the others. Traffic was heavy and people only walked from their cars to stores, no one strolled the sidewalks like I was used to at home.

I found a good spot and pulled up the Times I had grabbed from the box by parking spot. It took thirty minutes of waiting in the hot morning sun but finally a black short limo pulled up to the curb and the door opened.

Out strode Michael Finnegan. He was 6'3" and wiry, with broad shoulders and ropey muscles. His coal black hair was long enough to be pulled back into a ponytail which just barely fought the curl to it, and his bright Irish Blue eyes were covered by chic sunglasses. He was tanned deeply and still the handsomest man I'd ever seen.

He'd also worked some kind of magic. He had killed Montgomery's two daughters, women Montgomery wanted dead, but Finn had beaten him to the punch, normally a killing offense. Somehow he'd bought his way out of trouble and now that he was free of any suspicion for murdering his girlfriend and star actress Stormy Michaels he was emerging back into the spotlight, a place Finn was born to rule.

He was surrounded by people but I couldn't see them. I stared, mouth watering, heart pounding, palms sweating. Oh, God, my body would never stop wanting him, my heart would never make up its mind to love or hate him.

He looked lean and chiseled, renewed. I myself felt more polished, but compared to him I had changed very little. A little makeup, contact lenses, a trim, and high heels were all cosmetic things. Something about Finn seemed darker, leaner, more dangerous. 

Before he'd always been an affable guy with a ready smile and a naughty joke, but now his smile was shallow, cool, his face laser-focused.

Suddenly he stopped before getting into the car, his hand on the roof, and swept that gaze across the street. I jerked the paper up and felt my heart hammer. What would I do if he came over, or called my name? I wanted to slap him, scream at him, bite him, screw his brains out, and cry on his shoulder all at the same time. It would always be like that between us; I knew I should never have come.

Then I heard his door slam and the car pulled into traffic. I lowered the paper and watched it go, wondering who he was going to see, where he was going to go.

In the end it didn't matter. He was a porn king in California and I was a super-low-rent private dick in Chicago. Michael Finnegan had arrived; he'd made it out of the muck. I had one more job to complete and I too could exit stage right, alone.

Story of my life.

***

Ten a.m. came and went with no call. I left Bowers two more voicemails but it went straight to voicemail, not even ringing. His phone was off, which meant he had a voicemail from Liz, D-Bag, or Cherokee, likely. 

I'd scribbled down the name of his hotel and rode over, getting there as the post 11a.m. checkout-cleanup was gearing up.

At the desk I was told Bowers had checked out last night, but, surprise, surprise, he'd left a package for me.

I took it, tipped the clerk a small amount so I'd be remembered favorably but not clearly, and walked back to my car. My temper was boiling and my stomach was growing; I went through a drive through at Carl's Jr. and pulled over into the shade to chow on my grease and see if I'd been left a bomb.

It was small but somewhat heavy and rattled with a dull thud. With a deep breath I tore it open and found a cell phone...with a post-it on it.

"Liz," I read aloud, and shook the box. A car charger fell out and I put it in the cigarette lighter and plugged it into the phone.

I let it charge as I finished my late lunch and when it beeped it was done, I turned it on. There were a few unlabeled numbers and I began with the one called most often.

"Hollywood Gateway Motel," a pleasant female voice called. I hung up and tried the next.

"Pizza Hut," a cracking teenager said, and again I hung up.

I went through a few but none answered "D-Bag's evil lair," or "chemist who can recycle old shit for high cash," or even "likely meeting spot for chemist interviews away from prying eyes and ears."

On my eighth try a silky smooth, deep male voice said "Coon Saloon," and I knew I had it.

"How do I get to you from the four oh five?"

***

The story usually followed along the lines of more and more questions emerging with the progression of the case. For once, it seemed not to go that way. This seemed easy...too easy.

I left a final voicemail with Bowers and headed up to the Coon Saloon. I left well before sunset but traffic in L.A. was something out of a horror film. After two hours and several considerations of homicide, I made it out of the city and headed for Angeles Crest Highway.

By the time I found it the sun was sinking ahead of me as I followed it west towards the tiny town of Camp Wilson, noticeably missing from any map I found at 2 gas stations along the way.

After an hour of scant traffic on the hilly highway I found a widening with a few buildings, the largest of which bore the name Coon Saloon in paint on paint, the only lit sign proclaimed Miller High Life was sold there.

I parked the Mustang between an old Bronco and a Tundra pickup that had seen better days. I was sweaty, my hair was threatening to frizz, and I was glad to have a suit jacket to cover my pit stains.

As I stood examining my lipstick in the side view mirror a young man strode inside with a large .45 on his hip. I patted my .357 and smiled. Hell, at least I packed like a local.

Inside it was the bar that time forgot. If they ever made a movie set in a typical 80's country bar, the Coon Saloon was perfect. All the signs celebrated cowboys, horses, and bulls, no nod to skiing or anything that was the actual lifeblood of the area.

There were a few tables and chairs, a long bar, and in the back a pool table and a juke box. At the pool table the young man who'd come in was shaking hands with a slightly older version, likely a brother.

At the bar was a couple, older alcoholics, and a gruff looking middle-aged man in trucker chic watching the lone TV playing a Bulls/Lakers game.

A cocktail waitress was polishing her nails at the end of the bar, and filling bowls with popcorn was a striking man. Something about him looked familiar, but I couldn't place it.

He was slightly tall, 6' even or 6'1", had long hair that was light brown but sun-streaked blonde, and his skin was tanned like honey, stretched across gym-toned muscles. He was good looking in a generic actor sort of way, not pretty like Finn had been before oddly a broken nose turned him stunning.

Damn it, my mind screamed, why did I have to compare every halfway attractive man to Finn? That was not why I was here.

The bartender was the first to glance at me and I made my way to a stool and sat. Alcohol and bars were my old friends. I was drinking less since my old tendency to blackout-drink had landed me in the middle of two murder investigations, but I hadn't stopped.

"Whiskey, neat," I said with a slight smile, hopefully just enough to seem friendly, not eager.

He pulled down a glass from up top and a bottle from down below. "Car break down?" He was the owner of the silky voice that made my mind think of cool sheets.

"Nope," I shook my head and set my purse on the stool next to me. "Actually I was headed here."

He raised a brow and quirked his lips, bringing out the ghost of a dimple in his chin. "You the one who called?"

I nodded.

"Meeting somebody?"

I took my drink and slapped a twenty on the bar. "No. I'm a private investigator, looking for a woman named Liz Howard," I carefully used the fake name she and Arthur had been going under. "She disappeared, lived in Mexico. Stayed once a month in L.A. and for some reason came out to this place regularly. Tall woman, my age, athletic, bottle-blonde, tan, pretty. Remember her?"

"Liz?" he asked slowly, drawing her name out the way men often did with statuesque blondes. A light flickered in my mind and I had to wonder if she had come there to visit him. It would just be the perfect fuck-up if there was no chemist or deal, and Arthur, D-Bag, and Cherokee were all chasing a ghost. "She came here to escape. Bad marriage, I think. Was in just a few days ago. When did she go missing?"

"Two days ago. Were you here that night?"

He nodded, his eyes as intense as his mouth was grim, strangely enhancing his masculine beauty. "That night she came in, put two bucks in the juke box, drank four beers, seemed to be waiting for someone. Sometimes a guy would join her, tall thin, white, nondescript, a bad tipper, but he wasn't there this time. 

"When she left, she headed for the Bluff Inn, or so she said. She left her car here and thought she'd been drunk and caught a ride with another regular, Charlie," he indicated the trucker, "but she didn't call the next day and the Inn said she'd never checked in. I figured she'd met somebody and split."

I had scant descriptions of Cherokee D-Bag, but Cherokee would be easiest. "The bad tipper, was he a man who looked like a white boy playing Sitting Bull?"

The bartender smiled finally, and it struck me as slightly odd. "Someone like that would have stuck out. No, this guy was vanilla, bookish looking, like he should be wearing glasses, but he didn't. White, thirtyish, younger than her. They seemed to talk business, he'd write and she'd gesture. They always left in separate cars, and he never took the same one twice."

Bookish? Calm? That was definitely not the notorious D-Bag. If anything, it sounded like Arthur, but he and Liz wouldn't meet here separately.

"She mentioned once to Kelly," he pointed to the cocktail waitress with newly blood-colored nails, "that she was married and it was rough. Other than that she never said much."

"She seem like she had a lot of money to you?"

He raised a dark brow. "Wouldn't you know that?"

"Why would I?" I needed to hear how he'd arrived at that conclusion.

"If she really is missing, I assume her husband hired you."

I finished off my whiskey and set the glass down for another pour. "No, actually. See I'm looking for...something else, and she just happens to be a possible link in my case. Could be a dead end, figured it was worth a shot."

Finally he lifted a corner of his mouth, close to a smile. "What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't. Marly, Marly Jackson." I held my hand and he took it with a firm grip of his own, and gave me a respectable shake.

"Hank Mobley, I own this establishment."

"Hank, could I grab another whiskey, and then you said he car was out in the parking lot?"

He poured for me, the twenty sitting unchanged. "Actually it's out back. She left the keys in it and I didn't want to risk anything, so I moved it back there by my place. You really an investigator?"

I pulled out my wallet with my ID and his eyes noted my gun. Not with reproach but with respect, and I found myself studying him as he read my ID like an altar boy in church.

The unnatural blonde in his hair, the length, and the carefully calculated muscles said this was a man of low intelligence. The set of his face, his posture, the softness of his deep voice spoke volumes. He seemed to be a man who had on the surface given up on a dream, likely that of on-screen stardom, and had done so too young, too early, and at the behest of another.

A touch of mystery was always a welcome thing to a PI.

"Here," he finally passed back my ID and turned around to the cash register. He opened it and pulled out some keys, very clearly a rental car company. "Take these. Somebody should call Hertz."

"Why didn't you?" I asked, standing and sliding the twenty closer.

"Keep it," he said solemnly.

"You've been a big help, call it a tip then. Why didn't you call anybody when this woman disappeared into thin air? What were you waiting for?"

I only believed him because he didn't smile. "You," he said after a long pause.

Unsure of why that made something low turn over inside me, I chose to pay closer attention to my spidey sense. I'd go look the car over, check out the Bluff Inn, and when the Coon Saloon closed, Hank Mobley had some serious questions to answer.

***

I felt like I was running in circles. Liz's car was sterile, clean. Hertz was abusive when I called them, making me hang up on them. The Bluff Inn told me Liz stayed there sometimes, only when drunk, and always alone. They did add it was Mr. Mobley himself who walked her over most nights, but cast doubt on my suddenly formulating theory when they said he did that for all out of town drunks, as well as lushes in the doghouse.

I asked about D-Bag who's real name was Dominic Monahan, and Cherokee. No hits at the Bluff Inn, but a guest who appeared to fall under the "local-lush-in-the-doghouse" category slurred he might have seen a man like Cherokee pass through a few days prior in a dark car, possibly a sedan,, possibly a coupe, maybe a Ford or maybe Japanese.

Real helpful.

I went back to the Coon Saloon but sat on the back stairs. It appeared Hank lived upstairs with a separate entrance and so I waited, smoking, trying not to think of Eddie.

Eddie had owned a large club that made a lot of money and housed a lot of illegal activities. He too had lived above in an apartment with a separate entrance.

And the last time I'd climbed those stairs Eddie and I had been long over, but for our final dance I found his dead body in a pool of blood inside.

I'd smoked what felt like half a pack and though it was late summer the night was cool and I was wishing I'd brought more than my windbreaker.

"You could have come back inside the bar," Hank said beside me, materializing like a ghost. I jumped and dropped my cigarette.

He bent to grab it but he was lightning fast and picked it from the ground, and hogged it for a moment to light his own cigarillo before passing it back.

"You're welcome," I said testily.

He smiled again and it didn't touch his eyes, merely showed off blindingly-perfectly white teeth. His eyes seemed guarded, judging, and tired.




MJ 4: The Nightlife Case



"I'll cut straight to the point. You said you'd been waiting for me. What did you mean?"

To my surprise his eyes dropped over me the way most men size up an unknown woman, appraising. If his eyes had held a light of humor, I might have taken it for a pure line. As it was, I wondered if I'd get straight answer; if he even knew what he'd meant. 

"I think it'd be best to come inside, if you're willing."

Never had I been that much of a fool; I nodded yes but brushed my windbreaker open to show my gun on my side, holster unsnapped. 

He brushed past me, radiating warmth, and being only human with a strong weakness for manflesh, I checked out his ass in his jeans as he climbed in front of me. Yup, suitable for either bouncing off quarters or chomping on it like a horny madwoman.

He unlocked the door and let me into a sparse, neat, but true man cave. The floors were scruffy wood covered in cheap navy rugs; the walls were wood paneled like a cabin and the paintings on them were vivid depictions of wild nature. There was a pull-out couch from the 70's, a milk crate table with garage sale lamp, a low, scarred dumpster-dived coffee table, and a similar scarred wooden stand holding a modern and snazzy looking television.

A small high counter denoted a postage-stamp kitchen, and three close-bound doors demarcated a bathroom, a bedroom, and likely a linen closet.

It reminded me of my first apartment in college, and screamed mystery. Hank Mobley was not the kind of man who should be living like this, I thought. He should have a surfboard, pictures of him with a bevy of women, modern artwork and overpriced matching furniture.

Come to think of it, he shouldn't be named Hank.

"Welcome to my little abode. Want a beer?"

"Your name isn't really Hank, I it?"

He opened the fridge and leaned through the small passage-way. "I'll take that as yes, you'd like a Heineken too."

The sound of tops being popped and clattering to Formica rang out and he came through with a loose swing to his stride and his button-up shirt slightly undone at the top and pulled from his jeans.

He saw me take inventory and smiled a real smile as he passed me a beer. "Hey, it was a long day and you already ogled my ass."

I sat down on the couch uninvited and it almost swallowed me whole. I didn't respond, just leveled my gaze on him and took a swig of the bland, generic beer.

He sat beside me, disturbingly close. He seemed to radiate warmth, and the smell of cleanser, stale beer, and beneath it something like sunshine. He was just so much more...real than I was used to, it was disturbingly enchanting.

"My name is Henry Lucas Mobley, but around here everybody calls me Hank."

"Fair enough. So spill it. I need to find this woman Liz. I have reason to think she may be in danger."

"I thought you were searching for something else and she was just involved," he damn near smirked.

"If you must know what I am truly after is something that only she knows the location of. Her husband did hire me, he's an old...acquaintance. Look, it's complicated but in short, Liz is the key, other people are after it, and lives are at stake.

"Liz's trail dies here, with you. When I asked why you didn't look into things earlier you said you'd been waiting for me. What did you mean?"

He casually and completely unselfconsciously slung his arm on the back of the sofa behind me. I didn't relax into it nor did I tighten up and away. I merely chugged more beer and waited.

"Liz is a haunted woman. You could see secrets in her eyes, and the way she conducted herself...she was scared, she was alone, and she was seeking something. Whatever the hell she'd thought she'd find in this hole in the wall is beyond me. It was a matter of time before someone, a cop or a PI, came looking for her."

Here was the part where in normal conversation I'd ask why he was there, why he worked there, if he truly owned the bar, and if he did why did he have the insanely perfect teeth of a male model or actor?

I could have done what I could to feign an interest in this man but I was reasonably attractive, I was lonely, and I was horny as hell. All signs pointed to happy complacency and so I merely turned, cupped his head, and kissed Hank Mobley as if I truly knew what the hell I was doing.

It was pleasant; he tasted like beer, his smooth vanilla tobacco, and a tang unique to him and him alone.

I normally tore through the preliminaries but two years of celibacy had made me rethink my approach. I realized I missed all the things Finn used to force on me; the touching, the kissing, the closeness, that slow exploration.

Some people called it making love but I preferred to think of it as taking the scenic route.

Either Hank was of the same mind or he was good at reading me. It didn't matter, he mirrored me. One hand of mine cupped his head, one of his cupped mine. We angled our heads, slanting our mouths back and forth, across, slowly, tasting one another. I'm sure I tasted of stale cigarettes, cheap beer, and the Luden's cough drops I'd taken to chewing as a vain attempt to cover the cigarette breath.

I maneuvered enough to set my beer down between a seat cushion and a back one, and used my free hand to grab onto his shoulder. Hank shifted slightly and I felt his hand on my ribcage beneath a breast. Not a perfect mirror, but something like a magnifying one.

I couldn't tell you who began to slowly pull off the other's clothes first; his mouth found the slow slide along my jawbone that turned my brain into jelly, and by the time he nipped at the spot beneath my ear he was magnificently bare-chested and I was struggling with my holster.

He merely chuckled and pushed aside my clumsy attempts and unsnapped it properly. It slid off and fell to the navy rug with a dull thunk. I helped with my tank top and went for my bra but he stopped me.

Once more his mouth found mine and this time it was like a direct hit, no teasing slides, just what felt like a command I was only too happy to obey.

His hands now teased my breasts through the shabbily practical green cotton and the sensation drove me insane. I had almost forgotten the hot shivers, that keening anticipation that filled me and pushed my consciousness outward, expanding into pure need. I felt greedy and wanton and let my hands stroke down that carved chest into his loose pants.

I felt heat and heartbeat and finally that magically soft skin stretched over a hard length. He felt average but thick, and I thought of how tight I'd be after such a long time, and the dark thought washed through me like a hot wave.

Urgency gripped me and it must have telegraphed through my kiss because suddenly we were moving, a jumble of limbs. Never breaking contact clothes were tugged down but not off, and our teeth clicked together, our tongues mashed. I didn't care, I was surrounded by him, his heat, and I felt a need in him that echoed my own bottomless pit.

I heard the foil packet rip and conscious thought was a cold streak of relief before surrender to the great deep ocean of desire.

My shorts were at my ankles and I was on my back so he used the shorts to jackknife me. When he entered me he felt fucking huge. At first I felt just female; filled, slightly violated, yet melting, warming, accommodating. I was satisfied by his grunt, by the keening hungry need I felt. 

Quickly it flashed through my mind how little we had spoken. Why should I feel guilty, I thought, but I did. Then his large, rough hands reached up, braced on his forearms, to capture my breasts. He gently squeezed, thumbing my nipples until I gasped, and then he began to move his hips is a swiveling figure eight.

All thought shut down and I grabbed his arms, clawing at the muscles as my own hips sought to mash us closer together. The cool night disappeared in a haze of sweat as my muscles tightened, my nipples hardened, and my pussy clenched riding the climb to orgasm eagerly.

When finally I reached the shimmering pinnacle and screamed d out wordlessly, that was when Hank let go and began to thrust like a madman. My own haze of afterglow disappeared beneath the crushing march and desperate grab of his own pleasure.

There was always something cold in that moment for a woman, when a man has so focused on her pleasure that his own is far behind. Not much of it is ever made in society, but nothing else on earth makes a woman feel so alone.

Were I riding him, teasing him, controlling Hank's pleasure I would feel the most powerful being on the planet. As it was now I felt like a mere receptacle.

He finished growling like a rabid bear and at least in that unguarded moment there was some redemption.

He did not collapse on me which was great, my legs had fallen asleep. Instead he pulled out, sat down, and helped me to sit up. All this before he pulled the condom off.

Without speaking we pulled our pants up, I tugged my shirt back down but left my bra loose, and pulled out my cigarettes, lighting one.

"Could I?" he asked, motioning to my pack.

"Sure." I gave him one and passed the lighter. I'd had more casual than intimate sex in my life but I hadn't had any in two years. That was the definition of a soulless fuck, yet what bothered me the most was that it didn't bother me.

At times like this I wasn't so sure I liked Marly Jackson.

"So tell me what it is exactly you're looking for," he said, blowing a showy smoke ring.

I couldn't say why, but the whole tale slipped from my lips. Arthur, the first robbery, the double cross, Arthur's tale of betrayal. Through it all he smoked, fetched us some water, and seemed to consider it all.

When it was done, he shifted on the couch as I lit a third cigarette. "Marly...Arthur is planning to kill you. You have to know the endgame here."

I blew out a column of smoke. "I know. But who says I'm not planning to kill him?"

"Why hire you? He could have come here talked to me himself, learned about her meeting this guy. Why hire you?"

"Why are you so interested?"

He leaned back and smoothed his already-smoothed-back hair. "Don't read too much into it, but I like you. I would rather not see you get your head blown off."

"Sweet of you. My guess, my real guess at what's going on?" I waited for his nod before taking another puff and then explaining. "I think Arthur and Liz planned to double cross me from day one. I pulled the job and they were going to take the cash and drugs and split town, leaving me holding the bag. The only problem was, and always has been, the drugs. They bring in D-Bag and Cherokee to convert it into cash only to have the lowlifes skip out on them with the cash, and somehow they managed to hold onto the drugs.

"Liz and Arthur dump the drugs and look for a mover. They can only find one back in the states and when Liz makes contact she sends out a red flag. Not only did Cherokee and D-Bag find it, but the man we stole from originally, Alejandro Javier.

"My guess is Liz and Arthur split up. He was supposed to draw Javier on a wild goose chase and she was supposed to make the deal and evade Cherokee and D-Bag. Now she's gone missing and Arthur doesn't know if they took her, killed her, or if she threw in with them.

"I think he hired me because he knew I would likely kill Liz when I found her, as well as Cherokee and D-Bag to get at the money. I think he hired me because sorting through all this is taking time, and by the time I find her the drugs will be cash. I work as the hit man and bag man.

"However I think Arthur disappeared for a good reason; I think he has Javier's men on him, and he's waiting for me to emerge victorious with his cash, and everyone dead. And then I think he plans to double cross me again, disappear with the money and leave me to take the fall with Javier."

He let it roll over in his mind and I stubbed out my butt. 

"Fuck," was all he said.

"Exactly."

"I still don't get it, why not just kill Liz and the others himself?"

"Hard to do that while evading the kind of heavyweights Javier will call up from South America for this."

"How did he know that you wouldn't find Liz automatically and instantly?"

I finally fixed my bra and raised a brow at him. "He must have looked into it, knew you were here."

"So?"

"So...you're pretty, and I have a well-established weakness for pretty men."

He wasn't the first to frown at me calling him that, nor was he the first to say that he would help me on this case.

No, Hank was not the first man to fall for that.

***

We slept in his bed. Somewhere between cuddling like an awkward drunk hook-up and like two adults simply sharing space, it was strangely relaxing. 

We hadn't talked after he'd agreed to help me. I didn't ask why he had, I assumed it had more to do with money than my irresistible charms. Instead of talking, we'd spent the night drinking, smoking, fucking.

It was the strangest interlude I could remember. After the slow-building vicious fuck we'd become teenagers; making out, petting over clothes, a kind of slow burn that by the time it became the worship of a mouth on genitals we'd both been ready to burst. 

I woke first and made use as best I could the bathroom. I was dressed and had the coffee pot going when he woke.

"Good morning," he stretched, yawning, his long hair barely tangled and his skin darkly golden against his white cotton sheets.

I would always hate people like that- perfectly pressed, posed like they were actors in a movie and had spent hours getting the makeup, wardrobe, and lighting correct. I was frumpy, and always would be. My brain darkly flashed to Michael Finnegan, my ex-lover who like me rose rumpled in the morning and was a thousand times sexier for it.

I pushed the thought away and found some granola bars to go with the coffee as he hopped in the shower. When he came out I was on my second cup of joe and Mr. Perfect swaggered with a pristine white towel riding low on his hips held by one hand. He was like a fucking walking Abercrombie poster.

"So last night you agreed to help. No offense, but exactly how can you help me?"

He dropped the towel and I saw that despite our best efforts the night before to complete satiate our bodies, he was halfway happy to see me.

I jerked my gaze away, trying to get into game-mode. Time was slipping by too fast.

He laughed and I heard the jungle of a belt buckle as he slipped on jeans. "That guy Liz meet with? I didn't tell you the whole truth. He paid a couple of times...with a credit card."

I almost spit out my coffee. "Why didn't you say something!?"

"I had to see if you ere following Liz to kill her or not."

"I have been sent to kill her...so?"

He slipped on a dark green tank top and pulled a hair band from his pants, forming a ponytail. "I don't think you will. Come on downstairs with me, let's find the slip."

***

Two hours later it was almost noon, and I was holding hank's hair back as he vomited into a shopping bag. In between disgusting heaves he was cursing loudly enough I was shushing him.

I wanted to go back in the room and search for clues, but I couldn't leave any trace behind and Hank was in no condition to be back in a motel room with a dead body, nor could I leave him alone on the balcony where any guest or maid would overhear him.

"Shut the fuck up! If someone calls the cops who do you think is going down for this? Do you realize I'm not the only person in the world who likes pretty boys? Plenty of rapists and murderers in prison share my tastes."

His eyes glanced up at me through a dark fringe of lashes. He still looked a bit green and the combination of that very feminine look at that nauseated skin tone brought out grudging maternal instincts in me.

"Come on, cheer up. It's just Cherokee, a 'bad guy.' Jesus Christ, work with me here, Hank. You said you wanted to help and we're on the trail of big things and bad people. What did you expect?"

"I've never seen a dead body outside a funeral home, ok?"

I blinked at that. I'd been a cop for years, a PI, had killed people myself. I'd grown up where people died on the street commonly. So standing at the Sunny Shade Motel in the hot midday sun, smelling the stale tang of blood, and seeing a post-rigor corpse with an exit wound the size of a cantaloupe meant this must have been a Tuesday. I checked my watch and indeed it was.

"Sorry Hank, but I thank you for the help. You can either trot back home and trust me to mail you a check, or if you want your cut of the cash, you're going to have to man up."

Good, he was pissed off now. I took the puke bag from him and tied it off, stepping back inside the room to grab more and tie it inside.

The television was on, showing Cherokee had ordered a porno and it had expired. He was naked on the bed, the top of his head missing and the front mutilated by a bullet wound. .38 hollow point it seemed. Blood was everywhere, his clothes were crumpled on the floor, and sadly I noted he was well-built. Hard to tell with his head wounds if he'd had a nice face, but he had a nice dick.

Jesus, I needed a vacation, I thought with a shake of my head.

"Don't touch anything, just keep guard."

Hank nodded at that.

I looked through the suitcase; it was picked clean of anything but clothes. No watch, no wallet. I only knew it was Cherokee because the idiot had registered under his real name.

The garbage showed a coupe of used condoms, some Chinese food containers, and a pair of women's pantyhose. In the bathroom the conditioner had been used and there was the plastic cover of a Lady Bic razor.

Nothing, no blinking sign of where they had been going or where they'd come from. No sign of D-Bag, and no for sure sign that the hose and razor belonged to Liz and not some whore. I was guessing, however, a whore would shave there and leave her hose.

I went to the phone and grabbed gloves from my pocket. With tissue over the phone I picked it up and hit redial. Sadly the phone didn't do it, damn switchboards, but the TV remote showed a check-out option.

I picked it up and went to check out but entered "Review Bill" first. One call had been made from the room and it was a local number. I pulled out my small steno pad and pen and jotted it down then exited the menu and set the remote down.

"Come on, let's go."

Hank gave one last nauseous look to the room and followed me down the stairs to my car. Once inside I drove to the truck stop back by the highway and told him to wait there. I bought 2 sandwiches, a six pack, some chips, some mouthwash and a travel toothbrush and paste set.

From the payphone I called the number and a cheery woman informed me it was the Winter Wonderland Dutch Cabins motel. I got the address and directions and wrote them down before returning to the car.

We drove without speaking, listening to the classic rock station play "Don't Fear The Reaper" until I found a picnic spot. I pulled over and handed him the mouth care supplies. "Here, clean this up then join me in the shade."

He went off to the bathroom building and I set up our makeshift picnic. When he emerged he looked slightly less like his shirt and golden boy sat down across from me. 

I cracked open an Anchor beer and passed him a ham sandwich and chips. He stared at it like I'd presented him with a camel head and a spork.

"How can you eat at a time like this? And eat shit like this?"

I rolled my eyes. One downside to pretty boys; they had to work for that figure and it usually meant seaweed and juicing. I ate like a fifty year old ex-marine and just grunted.

He took the beer at least and took a pull that emptied half the bottle in one impressive go. "So what happened?"

"Common bullet, a .38 hollowpoint, no weapon there. Close range, looks like it happened after sex. Two used condoms in the trash corroborate that. The pantyhose, a razor cover, and the porno suggest that Liz was with him, and Liz was in fact, screwing Cherokee."




MJ 4: The Nightlife Case



Mottled rage flashed across his features, before quick schooling from his acting years covered it. "What if he raped her?"

"There was no sign of a struggle and it was wiped clean. A rape victim panics, doesn't wipe down things. The condoms only had his DNA on it, the pantyhose are useless. This looks like premeditated sex and premeditated murder."

Something in his gorgeous eyes suggested he was a child and I'd just told him there was no Santa Claus. Shit, it dawned on me, had I misread this all along? Was I in fact sitting there eating with Liz's lover?

Was he "helping" me to throw me off her scent? Jesus, it was too much. Liz and Arthur had betrayed me. Had Liz been betrayed by D-Bag and Cherokee, or had they betrayed her and Arthur? Had she betrayed Hank, or was he using me to betray her?

I wanted this case over. I wanted that money, I wanted people dead, and I wanted to be back in Chicago where I could buy my way to freedom. And then maybe I'd use the rest, move to a little tropical island, and forget about my life.

I made a decision then; I could ask Hank straight out, or I could just assume he'd betray me, go along with it, and kill him if I had to.

It wouldn't be the first time I'd killed a lover, and sadly, I doubted it'd be the last.

***

The motel was further north and it took us three hours to get there. Nestled along the coast it was an old tourist spot, geared towards those going north to ski. In the summer heat it looked like a theme park; cabins sprinkled around a fake glen as if costumed actors would sign in and dance around singing corporate melodies.

On the way up Hank made nervous small talk. I'd learned that he'd been an actor and had done a couple of TV shows in the late 80's as a young man but his career had backslid into athletic modeling for magazines. He'd learned I liked classic rock and preferred to drive manual cars and shot semiautomatic guns.

It was plain to see he'd come west for adventure and had ended up inheriting a bar in the middle of nowhere. Either Liz r me had been the first stranger to blow into his life and offer adventure, and it was no surprise he jumped at it. We'd had to s stop once so he could call the waitress and tell her to put p a closed sign at the bar, and not expect him back. There was something in the way he said it that sounded like a true, forever goodbye, and for some reason that made me absentmindedly fondle my gun.

Now we were tired and hot and it had taken major flirting from Hank with the female clerk to let us know that the only guest there was a woman fitting Liz's description.

No Peter Gasser though; that was the name on Hank's credit card slip. That name was a dead end on the man behind it, we could only theorize he was in fact the so-called chemist who was going to make Liz and Arthur's dreams come true. However a quick credit check showed Gasser's last charge had been to pay for the room Cherokee had registered his own name for, and had been murdered in.

Over the drive I had begun to think Hank was Liz's pretty boy, and she had skipped out on him and was quite possibly on a fun little murdering spree with this Gasser.

It was nothing but an endless web of betrayal and I no longer gave a shit. I wanted the money, that was all.

Hank was shaking when we approached the cabin where Liz was holed up. He went to knock but I put a hand on his chest and felt his heart hammering.

"Wait. Are you prepared?"

"For what?"

"I don't know just what Liz is to you, but we may find her gone, we may find her dead, we may find her being held at gunpoint by D-Bag, or we may find her standing over D-Bag's dead body. Whatever it is, are you prepared."

He jerked a nod which told me he wasn't, so I made him get behind me, drew my gun, and knocked.

The door swung open. Shit, I mentally cursed, never a good sign.

The tang of more recent blood hit me. Cherokee had been past rigor, so dead the night before. When this body came into view it was unnaturally stiff, in full rigor, dead since the morning.

The room was tossed and the body was clothed. It was Liz. She looked like she had those years ago, slightly older, but still trim, still a babe. Now a dead babe.

Hank saw her and dropped to his knees, choking on a sob. I didn't do anything for him aside from tossing him some napkins and muttering something about DNA.

I had my answer; Liz had been his lover and something had gone horrible wrong.

I put on gloves but tossed the room frantically. With Liz dead here was where the trail of the money ended unless Peter Gasser suddenly became a real boy.

I wanted to scream when I found nothing other than clothes and toiletries suggesting Liz had either been on the road longer than Arthur claimed, or she was planning to run and break a lot of hearts.

I saw no evidence that she'd been kidnapped, but nothing of money. I wanted to shoot my gun into the air outside and scream. She'd been killed by the same caliber Cherokee had, but that told me too little.

Hank was still sobbing when I grabbed him and dragged his limp, broken-hearted body to the car. I had to wrestle him into the seat and slam the door, slammed mine, and peeled out of there.

"FUCK!" I screamed as we hit the highway.

Hank sobbed louder. Sick of the noise I slapped him and he choked into silence.

With one hand on the wheel I drew my gun with the other and pointed it at him. "Talk fast, and try the truth."

He squeaked so I pressed the gun into one finely molded cheek. "I said talk!"

"L-Liz was special to me. She came into the bar a year ago. She told me the story. She and Arthur came west with Cherokee and D-Bag and then the money and drugs disappeared. She didn't know who had it but she was afraid for her life.

"I know Peter. He's a mover in the drug world, I got her in contact with him. She was living under an assumed name in LA and came up to meet him at my place where she was safe. He found no trace of the drugs being moved ever, but he told her last week he'd found them."

"Bowers said he had them in storage."

"Bowers lied. He gave that bullshit story to Liz that D-Bag and Cherokee had taken the cash and that he still had the drugs, but when Liz tried to check he beat the shit out of her. She left him and that's when...that's when I found her, or she found me."

That every word out of Bowers mouth was a lie didn't surprise me, but I didn't trust Hank either. Liz always had a taste for bad boys, it seemed...just like me.

Christ, two years out of the game and the first man I fucked was a liar and a thief. I put my gun away while I calculated how much longer I had to keep him alive to get what I wanted.

"Peter Gasser. Find him."

"What, now?"

I peeled into a sharp turn in front of a truck earning a loud honk and hank's screech of terror, pulling the Mustang into a gas station.

"Now."

I watched him walk to the payphone and drop in coins. I watched him talk and rolled down my window in time to hear him say "threesome, ten o'clock. Got it."

He hung up and walked back to the car like a man walked to his own death. I suppose I felt like the grim reaper; without remorse, only focus, but still it bothered me. He wore his heart on his sleeve but he'd been so cool and collected the night before. Perhaps seeing his lover's brains all over a headboard had truly shaken him up.

"Where to now?"

"He can meet us in north L.A. at ten."

I checked the dash. "We've got six hours and with L.A. traffic...we'd best head out now."

"I'm sorry I lied," he almost whispered as we pulled back onto the lonely highway.

"I'm sorry you're still lying," I replied tersely.

He just looked out the window.

***

We got there early enough it would be ridiculous to wait at the Big Boy restaurant Gasser had picked. Across the street was a cheap motel, the Desert Sands, so I got a room and hustled Hank in.

Because I didn't trust him I kept the gun on him while he peed, and cuffed him to the bed so I could take a piss.

When I came out he was cuffed and pissed-off. I was angry too, angry that all this lying and chasing my tail either was keeping me from the money, or simply reinforcing the mirage of what could turn out to be fake money.

There was no answer when I dialed Bowers, other than a note that his mailbox was full. He was still missing.

I stripped off my windbreaker, holster, and tank before Hank gruffly asked, "what the hell are you doing?"

"Raping you," I calmly replied. It was sick how much I enjoyed saying that, and somewhat relieving when his dick jumped in response.

I stripped naked and crawled on the bed to him, undoing his buckle and pulling down the zipper. Commando still, how nice. I tugged his pants to his knees and used one hand and some spit to quickly work him to hardness.

He glared at me, obviously caught in a debate. He wanted me, for some reason, but he didn't like it this way. From the night before I knew he was a gentleman in bed caring, even a touch romantic. The terms that never described me as a lover.

"Stop it," he finally said just as he was rock hard.

I glanced down at his cock and back up to his eyes. "You know you want it."

"So much death today, I can't-" he closed his eyes and swallowed thickly. "I can't do this."

Adrenaline would help. I picked up my holster from the foot of the bed and pulled the gun, taking off the safety. He opened his eyes and hissed at the gun like a wet cat. His erection bobbed stronger.

"Yes, you can, now shut the fuck up."

I mounted him then, my finger guarding the trigger but the gun was still in his face. Something about the pure control, the fact that this was easily debatable rape, turned me on.

The sane part of me knew that he was aroused, that his objection had been emotional. He filled me nicely and I began to grind on him, mindful only of my own orgasm. My mind was curiously blank beyond the feel of my own tightly muscled body writhing, the rasp of his pubic hair against my clit. It felt very animal and yet highly evolved, and on that though the tendril of orgasm wound tight and exploded, sending me over with a hoarse shout.

I dismounted and he goggled at me. Reaching for my cigarettes I set the gun down and shrugged. "If Gasser has a good lead and backs up your story, I'll finish you off."

"And if I am, as you've accused, still lying?"

I lit the cancer stick and leveled my gaze on his. "Then I finish you off."

***

Peter Gasser was tall, thin, had white-blonde hair and glasses. From far away he looked like he was nearing fifty but up close you saw he was closer to thirty.

He strode in awkwardly, a faded denim jacket too heavy for the summer heat hiding a gun without a holster.

He slid into the booth across from us and I jabbed my gun into Hank's ribs. "You must be Gasser."

He nodded. "And you are? Hi, Hank."

"Marly Jackson. Before anyone else says anything tell me, Gasser, about the money, the drugs, and Liz Bowers."

Gasser's pale blue eyes followed the line of my arm and he likely guessed what I was doing to Hank, and that it wasn't friendly. He frowned but showed no nerves, a refreshing change.

"I have connections. I know a few cookers up by Hank's bar, stop in time to time. He tells me about a year ago he knows this broad, Liz. She's looking for a shitload of heroin and other drugs. Claimed her husband and she had stolen it but then he lost it. I knew about the heist back in Chicago, it was a legendary job on Javier, even the big man himself asked around about it.

"Anyway, Liz showed me enough to know this was for real. I was helping her to find it, I know how to convert it to cash and I'd be getting twenty percent."

So far so good, surprisingly it held up Hank's latest version. "Why was your card used to pay for a dead man's hotel room?"

"Dead man?"

"Cherokee, his brains were blown out."

Gasser noticeably paled. "He...he worked for me. I'm the business end, he's the muscle."

"And what about D-Bag...know him?"

Gasser shook his head.

"Well Liz's husband...here's the short version. He says he knows where the drugs are and that Liz has been brokering a deal with you. He said Cherokee and his buddy D-Bag kidnapped Liz to try to get the drugs. Only Cherokee and Liz are both dead, D-Bag is thin air, and there is no sign of any drugs or money. Which means you're my only lead."

"Au contraire. Trust me, if I had the drugs I would be in Aruba right now. I'm going to tell you where you can find them, however."

"Why's that?"

He pulled a business card from his front jacket pocket and slid it over. I took it with my free hand and examined it. It simply said GASSER on it with a phone number.

"Call me when you find it. I'm the only one who can move this shit without Javier catching wind. You want cash? Call me. My fee is still twenty percent."

"So where do we find it?"

"I don't know what is going on, Miss Jackson, and just who is lying or why, but Liz Bowers had me spend a year chasing my own tail. The drugs have been here in L.A. the whole time. Bowers has it, he's been selling it off piecemeal a pound here or there. Javier showed up in town two weeks ago and I think Bowers is scared. I think he's tying up all loose ends. Notice how anyone who's actually seen these drugs is dropping dead?

"I think this will come down to you or Bowers. Keep my card, I expect a call from one of you- whoever wins, soon." And with that Gasser walked out with his awkward stride, cool as a cucumber. 

"Any of this making any sense to you, Hank?"

"You're asking me?" 

I looked at him, nose to nose, and shored my gun up. "Fuck. I hate these cases. Everyone's betraying everyone else and none of it makes sense. In short, I would expect everyone beating down Gasser's door."

"Not if nobody has the drugs."

At Hank's soft words my body seized up. I barely got my gun into the holster as I shoved him out the booth. Grabbing his arm I hustled him out the door with our waitress chasing us with our unpaid bill.

We jumped in the Mustang and I peeled out of the space but stopped at the edge of the frontage road.

"What the fuck!?" Hank yelled. "I am sick of nearly dying every damn time you put it in drive!"

"What does Gasser drive?"

"Red pickup!"

I spotted one turning from the frontage onto the expressway and I burned rubber to catch up. He was a mile ahead but it wasn't Gasser I wanted, it was the dark Buick three car lengths behind him.

I pulled up abreast expecting to see Bowers but it was none other than D-Bag. He was the same skinny shit I remembered from the old days, still had the snake tattoo on his cheek and forehead. And he still had a gun.

"Get down!" I shouted and raised mine. Hank gasped and ducked low as I slammed on the breaks. D-Bag's shot went blind, and I slammed on the gas, caught up, and thought like a cop. Through Hank's open window I shot out the driver window then dipped my car back and sideswiped his rear quarter panel.

D-Bag went spiraling off the road and I screamed across his lane to follow suit.

You'd think there would be flashing lights or horns like in the movies, but no one seemed to pay any attention.

"Stay in the car!" I screamed at Hank when we came to a stop.

I took my gun with me, kept it naked and ready, and stalked back to D-Bag.

"You cunt-ass bastard! You and Bowers used me to find Gasser, didn't you?"

"Hello there Detective Jackson. Oh, you've been kicked off the force, haven't you?"

"Where is Bowers?" I didn't care for catching-up or idle chit-chat.

Like a film villain he just laughed. "Fuck you," I said and pulled the trigger. His head snapped back and blood sprayed the interior.

With the top half of his head bloodied all that was visible was that stupid grin. 

I wasted no time, opened the door, pulled on gloves from my pocket, and lifted his ass up. I grabbed his wallet, went around to the passenger side and grabbed a few receipts from the glove box.

I sprinted back to my car and put it in gear, jamming it back onto the expressway and almost sideswiping a minivan. That got me a horn and several fingers, even from two kids.

"What just happened?" Hank murmured.

I felt a little bit guilty. Everything that night pointed to the truth. Sure he'd hidden some things from me, but his second version was playing out to be the truth. I reeled it in; didn't want to get too touchy feely.

"Fuck, I'm sorry about before. Next time, you can tie me up, but right now we're close, so fucking close to it."

"What do you mean? What's going on!"

"First off, ignore everyone else's story. Seeing D-Bag confirmed what I thought when Gasser left.

"Bowers had the cash and drugs all along. He was using D-Bag and Cherokee tomove the drugs into cash piecemeal. He's had years to do it, and everything went fine. He hid it from Liz, he hid it from D-bag and Cherokee likely. My guess is through Cherokee he got in touch with someone who could move the drugs. Someone other than Gasser and he moved it. My guess is Liz got suspicious, confronted Bowers, and they fought. She split, found you, and when you introduced her to Gasser she thought he could track it.  

"I think Bowers was content to leave it alone until Javier showed up. Anyone who has touched this is dying. My guess is Bowers didn't know where Liz had gone or who she talked to, and he hired me to find out. He used me, and while I was finding Gasser through you he killed Cherokee and Liz. He was sending D-bag to kill Gasser, and then you and I would be next."

Hank paled at this for a moment then curled his fist and slammed the door cursing like a sailor.

"It's the only way this makes sense," I added when he calmed.

I swung the car towards an exit and he shook himself. "Where are we going, Marly?"

"We need a new car, and then we're going to find Bowers."

"A new car?" he asked as I pulled up to a closed used car lot.

"We're going to steal one. Get out."

I parked and shut it down, left the keys in it hoping someone else would steal it. I grabbed anything of mine and stuffed in my duffel bag, then slung it over my shoulder.

"Wait here and hide if anyone comes past. Can you make any animal sounds?"

He made a shaky birdcall and I nodded. "I'm going to go get a key from the office, whistle that if any security or anybody comes in, got it?"

He nodded.

I left him there and went to the office. I had my set with me and picked the lock. It was an old, aging dealership, no security on the door, but another lock to pick to get to keys.

It took ten minutes but I found the key for a Toyota Camry, a car that would easily blend in, and I trotted back out.

"Hank?" There was no answer. I walked to the shadows where I'd left him and the Mustang...both were gone.

In the hot night air I saw something flutter on the ground. Bending down I saw it was a tissue stiff with Hank's dried tears. Written on it in pen was a simple message:

Marly, sorry. Scared. Find me when done.

Well, shit. Now I had to get to Bowers before he got to Hank. And I could only hope Bowers still had the money on him.

If he didn't, I didn't know who I was going to kill first.

***

I found Bowers in the last spot I would have thought; in the same fleabag motel his wife had stayed at. 

It had taken me all night on the phone going through the papers and receipts I'd found on D-Bag but I found him.

I pulled in, reloaded my gun, slapped my face to wake me up, and got out. I climbed the stairs to the room. Kicking the door in was something they did in movies and only resulted in broken feet, so I knocked on the door, faked a Mexican accent, and announced "Housekeeping?"

The door opened and then I kicked it in.

Bowers had been expecting something; he'd been holding a gun. However when he'd gone sprawling it skittered across the room and he was flat on his ass clutching his nose which was bleeding and likely broken. 




MJ 4: The Nightlife Case



I kicked the door closed and loomed over him. "The game is up. I know why you hired me, and yes I found Gasser, Liz's drug-connected friend for you. I know through me you found Liz and Cherokee, faster than I did. You counted on Hank to slow me down, and he did, but thanks to him I figured it out. You may have gotten Liz ad Cherokee but blew your boy D-bag's brains out on the highway and Gasser is free to go.

"Where's the money, Bowers?"

"I don't have it."

I stalked to the bed, grabbed a pillow, and put it over my gun. He understood and blanched. "Wait! Yes, I hired you to find Liz, Cherokee, and her contact for me, but also the money. The money is still out there."

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up! There are so many lies, so much betrayal my fucking head is spinning! Where is the money?"

"Liz played us all for fools! Even that drug connection! Okay, I sold it all but the last batch worth fifty grand. She was meeting with him to try and find my real connection, and she did! She took the money, it was all set to go!

"Javier came into town and she took off with it, thinking I would take the fall. I went into hiding and called you for help."

"Why all the lies?"

"I was going to do it to you, okay? I was going to let you find everything and leave you for Javier."

"Does he have my name?"

"Yes! But if we get this money I'll split it, fifty-fifty, it's enough for us both to leave the country, get to where Javier can't touch us."

"Where is the money? Where is the fucking money1?"

"Her brother has it!"

"Who is Liz's borther?"

"I don't know! His real name is Andy but I can't find him!"

Suddenly I froze. 

A brother who looked like Liz (tall, athletic, sun-blonde)...

A brother who would be searching for her (and would take off the first chance he got once she was found)...

A brother who would cry hysterically to see her dead body...

I shot in my rage. Hank. All this time Hank had the money. Hank used me to find his sister, and when we were too late he took off the first chance he got.

When the red haze of pure rage cleared Bowers was dead on the floor. I was panting heavily but retained my wits. I tossed the room and came up with fifty grand in a backpack...the last batch had been moved, apparently. I took it, but there was no sign of the rest.

Made sense as Hank had it.

I ran back to the car and though I knew it was foolish, I drove back to the Coon Saloon. Javier had my name and unless I could get him his money I'd be dead, and he'd find me soon enough.

They were all dead but Gasser, but in the end he didn't matter. Hank, I had to get to Hank before he did something really stupid, or something really smart.

I pulled into the Coon Saloon at eleven a.m. and it was dead quiet, no Mustang in the lot. I looked into the windows and no one was inside so I went around back and climbed the stairs. Inside was emptied. I left the door open from where I'd broken the window and reached around to unlock it. Clothes, toiletries were gone, everything removed in a hurry. A giant safe I'd mistaken in moonlight for a nightstand was open, empty.

I sat down on the bed and cried. There was still hope, still time to find Hank-Andy, whatever his new name might be, but at that moment I had a trail of dead bodies behind me, one of the world's most powerful drug lords gunning for me, and a measly fifty grand to show for it.

"You're a hard woman to track," a smooth baritone said from the living room. At the familiar voice I jumped up with my gun.

In the front door he stood like a horrid vision of my past come to life. But Finn was different; longer hair in a ponytail, the beginnings of a beard neatly sculpted for a Devil's chinstrap. His blue eyes matched his shirt and despite the hot promise of the day he wore a full suit.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

He closed the door behind him and leaned on it, locking it. I kept my gun up as he sighed. "Marly, Marly, Marly...I've been following your every move. When you landed, I knew about it. When you came to visit me at work and pussied out, I knew. When you left your hotel and Bowers I lost track of you, but finally caught up. They found the Mustang at LAX, there were still a couple of gas receipts in it you missed." 

"Finn, I don't have time to explain what's going on. The short of it is that there are millions of dollars that belong to a very bad man, everyone else who knows about it is dead, and I've been left to take the fall. You don't want to be standing too close to me when the snipers come."

He laughed then, a rich, intoxicating sound that was quite like cool satin sheets on hot bodies. I really, really wanted to shoot the patronizing bastard.

"Marly, who do you think Javier came to L.A. to see?"

That made me start. "What!?"

"He's an investor in Gold 'n' Rod. He brought me up to speed. All you have to do is tell me who has the money and you'll be free to go."

"I don't believe you. Javier wouldn't send you."

"I intervened. I'm saving your ass, Marly. And I asked for the privilege of this little conversation. And I must say, aside from your puffy eyes you look wonderful."

"Fuck you."

"Who has the money?"

I sighed, nothing to lose. "Liz Bowers, her maiden name is Droste. Her brother Andy Droste has been living under an assumed name. Henry Lucas Mobley aka Hank. This is his place. He has the money. You might best find him by talking to this guy." I pulled out Gasser's card and tossed it to him.

Finn looked it over and slid it into his jacket. "Want to tell me from your perspective what happened?"

I was exhausted and finally put the gun down but left the safety off. "In short it was one big fuck you. Multiple used me to find multiple things, but in the end it was all one big setup to disappear with millions and leave me to hang."

"Javier will take care of it, don't you worry your pretty little head over it."

"Go fuck yourself, Finn. You know, after you left me high and dry to face two murder charges I couldn't pay my legal bills. I'm in deep with our old pal Montgomery. I need a million to get free, and this case was my ticket out. I'll be enslaved to Montgomery for all time. Death by Javier would be a blessing."

Anger boiled up and I dropped the gun. He was a full six inches taller, much better muscled, and in the end meaner, but I was way more pissed off.

I pretended to kick and he moved to sidestep and twist, so I punched him in the kidney. Finn roared and tackled me, but I didn't go down without a fight. I kicked and bit and scratched but all too soon he had me pinned, both my wrists in one hand, and his legs between mine. The fucking bastard slapped me.

I calmed then and stared into his eyes. "Some day I'll kill you."

He smiled Satan's smile. "Sweetheart, you already have."

I'd been expecting it but still fought it when he kissed me. Finn...he was the first man I'd ever kissed. When we'd met I was barely out of college, and before it had been boys.

Finn had always been a man, always talked, walked, kissed, and fucked like one. No one would ever know my secrets so well, no one would ever play me so expertly, and no one would ever break my heart.

A part of me knew this was madness; we could never be together, but for these fleeting moments. And on the thought I kissed him back, slid my tongue between his lips.

He didn't let go of my wrists and instead went under my shirt. His kiss was brutal, his rough hands were gentle. He stroked and teased and cajoled, fingertips barely brushing the undersides of my breasts. By the time he palmed one I was mad for it, moaning and writhing, arching up to grind my pussy against his growing erection.

He bit my lip and drew blood. Ahh, just like old times. I bit him back and returned the favor and he pinched a nipple so hard I cried out.

Finn nibbled harshly down my cheek to my ear, making me shiver madly. I struggled to get free and he just laughed. "Marly, I've got you and I'm not ready to let you go. Relax babe and I'll go easily on you."

"Fuck you," I grunted out as he lowered his face to my exposed breasts.

"Have it your way," he cooed and bit my nipples in turn.

I cried out and whimpered and he rolled off me. I was picked up as he climbed to his feet and he slammed me against the wall, grinding into my ass.

"I hate shorts," he said and jerked mine down and off. He pinned one arm behind my back with one of his and I heard him open his zipper. So I wouldn't even get a look at that amazing body.

Two meaty fingers sank into my pussy taking away conscious thought. I heard the slick sounds of my arousal ring out and then he cursed.

Finn sank into me viciously. I was aroused, sure, but still tight. I felt his knees hit my the backs of my legs as he knelt, and eventually his whole impressive length was inside me.

"Marly..." he whispered like an endearment, and then he fucked me like a crazed machine.

I cried out, grabbing futilely at the wall. It felt so right, it felt so wrong, my body and mind were torn. Then he swiveled his hips slightly and my lust-crazed body won out.

I reached back with my one free hand brought his face close to mine, trying to turn for a kiss. Instead he bent down and bit my shoulder, hard enough to break skin.

That drove me wild. He let go of my arm and shoved his thumb in my mouth. I knew this game and sucked, laved it until it until it was sopping wet. He removed it and seconds later he was screwing it into my ass.

I almost swooned with pleasure feeling the burning slide of his cock inside and out, and now the fullness of that thick thumb. A man of true talent his other hand snaked around to press the heel of his hand against my clit and the motion of our fucking rubbed me.

He resumed biting me and my nipples scraped the drywall. It was dirty, it was soulless, it was filthy, and it felt so goddamned good I thought the top of my head would blow off.

I came with a scream that would probably draw cops, and then his hoarse shout of triumph drowned me out, ending in a beast-like snarl.

We collapsed into a dirty, sweaty, stinky pile. I knew I was bleeding from the bite marks and I didn't care.

"What does this mean?" I asked, too tired and satiated to care if I sounded like a whiny female.

"That no one can fuck you like me." He kissed me, pulled out, zipped up, and went to wash his hands. I redressed and gave up on staunching the slight trickle of blood.

"I meant with Javier."

"You're safe. Go back to Chicago." He dried off and walked to the door, unlocking it and holding it open. "And Marly? I'll be watching."

With that he left and I stood there stunned, unsure.

That was when I realized the bastard had taken the backpack with the $50,000 and my gun.

I broke everything in the place before I left, cursing the day I met Michael Finnegan over and over again.

***

One month later a knock came at my office door bright and early. I pulled myself off the couch, belted a robe, and answered to the silhouette of a UPS driver.

"Sign please."

I signed the electronic doohickey and he passed me a padded envelope. Curious I patiently waited until I emptied my bladder, poured coffee, and brushed my teeth before opening it.

I poured coffee and tore it open. The padding was mostly bubble wrap inside, but there were only four papers. The first was a cut out from a newspaper in Mexico with an English translation pinned to it. The picture was unmistakably a dead and bloated Hank.

"Unknown man found dead off the coast," I read from the translation. The details didn't matter, that Hank was dead was all that did.

The third piece was a receipt written in a scrawling hand that all property had been returned to a Mr. Alejandro Javier.

After that I paused and with a shaky hand lit a cigarette.

The final piece of paper was Finn's square all-caps script. It simply said "Call Montgomery. Now."

I took a drag and figured what the hell. I dialed Montgomery and got his personal secretary.

"Marly Jackson. A friend told me to call Montgomery this morning."

"Hold please."

Seconds later Montgomery came on the line. "I got a call from an Alejandro Javier, Marly. He just wired me your total owed. We have come to an understanding that you are free of your debts, and I hereby release you."

Stunned the cigarette fell to the desk before I recovered. "Thank you, Mr. Montgomery. Call me if you ever- need anything," I finished after he hung up.

I picked up the cigarette and relit it. The flare of the lighter showed me there was writing on the backside of that final slip.

I turned it over and read aloud, "Javier wired it for me. You're welcome, I love you."

And this was why I'd never, ever be free of Finn.

Damn it.