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Archive name: dixon3.txt (M/g, rom, ped)
Authors name: Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld)
Story title : Dixon Park 3: The Hitman and the
Hooker's Daughter
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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002. Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story. You may post freely to non-commercial
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Dixon Park 3: The Hitman and the Hooker's Daughter
by Xainia Xanadoupolos (Address withheld by request)
***
A doomed-from-the-start relationship between an elderly
man and a young preteen girl. Like all such romances
since Romeo and Juliet, someone has to die!
***
The little girl looked up in mock earnestness at the man
who sat next to her on the park bench. "My mom says you
are queer!" Then she giggled. She pulled the skirt of her
summer dress up another few inches along her slender
thighs and swung her legs. She appeared totally unaware
of how sensually provocative the action was, but the wild
mischief radiating from her deep blue eyes convinced the
man that she really intended to arouse.
The look of surprise on his face was almost entirely
pretence. "Weird? Me? What's weird about me?"
"Queer!" corrected the girl. "Not weird! Homosexual!
Gay!" Linda giggled again. "Ponsy! But I don't think you
are." She corrected herself instantly. "No, I don't just
think it; I am sure!"
"Well, that's a relief!" exclaimed Garth Bartold. He let
his breath escape with a long drawn-out hissing sound.
"And what, may I ask, makes you think I am not gay,
queer, homosexual or ponsy?"
She gave the question serious consideration. "All the
time we have been here," she explained solemnly, "you
have not once looked at the men and boys who have passed.
And there have been some real bunnies!" She gazed in the
direction of a couple of men, bare-chested and in
abbreviated shorts, jogging towards them; they had been
round the circuit of the park twice already in the time
they had been sitting there.
She waited until they passed and followed them with her
lively eyes. Unconsciously, her fingers rubbed her
crotch. Seeing men like that did something strange to her
insides. It was the way their firm, muscled thighs moved
and how their powerful biceps flexed! "You showed some
interest in those women."
She pointed at a couple of late-teenage mothers walking
with baby carriages now in another part of the park. "And
apart from anything else, I've seen you looking up my
legs at my panties."
She stopped swinging her legs and spread them wide
instead. The hem rode another centimetre along the bare
flesh. She lifted a foot and rested it on the bench.
Another male jogger turned his head towards her, his eyes
fixed on her spotlessly white panties. She assumed he saw
what she intended him to see.
The pretence left Bartold's face. He frowned slightly at
the obvious interest shown by the jogger. She seemed
gratified by the situation. She loved to rouse men from
their usual lethargic, supercilious air of presupposed
pre-eminence.
He asked, "And did you tell your mother that I examined
your underwear?" He let his gaze fasten on the
unblemished white of the tight cotton triangle covering
her essentials. He was aware of a familiar stirring
inside him. He knew that he would be inside her if she as
much as hinted that she wanted it that way!
"God, no!" The girl sighed; it was a near-contemptuous
sound. "She would never let me come anywhere near you if
I told her anything like that." She let out another
lingering sigh. "Mom tells me things." She grossly
exaggerated the emphasis on 'me'. "It's like a crazy one-
way traffic system in the city in thick fog during the
rush hour at dusk; everyone hell-bent on getting home as
quickly as possible and mindless of anyone else."
The imagery was quite striking, Garth decided, and the
description remarkably coherent for one so young.
"It's never a real conversation," she continued after a
long silence, "but I don't really mind, because I only
half-listen anyway!" She was looking into the distance,
day-dreaming about the male joggers. "It is quite
flattering to have a man look at you in the way you look
at me sometimes. It's a kind of compliment, even though
my mom says that grown men should not even think of
looking at little girls in any sort of way." She
snickered. "I said that if they didn't look at little
girls, they might trip over them, or stomp them into the
sidewalk, but she never listens to anything I say!" She
became pensive again. She licked her lips at the approach
of another pair of mature male joggers. She waited until
they passed. "You don't look at Elise in the way you look
at me! Do you?" She stabbed the last question.
"Don't I?" He frowned. The pretence had returned to his
face. "Elise?" He knew the girl perfectly well. He knew
all the people who lived in the block, perhaps better
than they knew each other; it had become second nature to
him to know all he could about the people he dealt with.
"Elise?" he repeated. "Who is Elise?" His life had often
depended on his knowing people.
"She lives next floor down from us!" The little girl
smiled beguilingly and the man nodded as if to say, "Oh,
that Elise!" There were four families living on the floor
below. Her eyes sparkled wickedly. "But Elise is not
nearly as pretty as me." Elise was the only other girl of
comparable age living in the block. "Or as sexy!" And it
was quite true, compared to Linda she was downright
plain. And utterly devoid of any sexual appeal.
Linda had been with the man many times in the park when
she went there to play when her mother had clients, much
oftener than she had seen him at the luxury apartment
block where he lived next door. They met almost daily
this way throughout the long summer, and when Linda had
school to go to, they met at the weekends. Theirs were
the only two apartments on the top floor. Above was the
slanted roof, with a wide catwalk inside artificial
battlements, and a place for flying the flag on the
fourth of July.
Below there were four other floors with similar
dwellings, either three or four of them to each floor,
and at ground level there was the office, the security
guard's kiosk and the much smaller apartments where the
security men, the caretaker and the office lady lived.
There was also a basement laundry room where Linda played
when it rained and where one of the security guards
occasionally came to tickle her and feel her up.
He once stripped her and stuck two fingers into her until
it hurt and she started to cry, and he gave her
chocolates and some money. It was only rarely that the
laundry room was used for its proper purpose, never more
than once a week; most people used washing machines and
tumble driers in their own apartments. Even the rotary
clothes lines on the lawn at the rear of the building
were only rarely used.
Garth Bartold was a hit-man. Lucille Mayflower, Linda's
mother, was a high-class hooker. Garth was at the stage
in his career where he could pick and choose his jobs,
and mostly he chose not to work; he did not have to - he
had made his pile and the block of luxury apartments was
not the only thing he had to prove it. He only made hits
now as special favors to extremely important, selected
clients. The people he did hits for were supposed to be
anonymous, but he always made a point of finding out all
he could about them before he actually completed the
assignment. His precautions had paid rich dividends.
Lucille, for her part, had always made a point of picking
and choosing her clients, and now, like Bartold, she was
seriously thinking about retiring altogether. Among her
current clients were a couple of Republican senators, a
Roman Catholic bishop and a few priests, the professors
of moral philosophy and chemical engineering at the state
university, a few businessmen and a heart surgeon from
the general hospital in the city who was also a devout
follower of a famous television evangelist with whom he
had made many public appearances. Rarely now did she have
more than one client per day. She felt an increasing
obligation to spend quality time with her daughter; these
feelings, however, seldom found actual expression, and
simply remained as good intentions. Anyway, Linda
preferred the man's company.
Garth Bartold shifted uncomfortably on the park bench. He
rose. "Come on, let's walk and talk," he suggested. "I'll
buy you lunch." She nodded agreement. "And after lunch
I'll take you deep into the woods and rip your clothes
off and make mad passionate love to you."
"There are no woods in Dixon Park," she reminded him as
she fell into step. She tittered. "It will have to be
some place else!"
Their lunch was the kind Linda loved best. Garth bought
the food and drinks from the cafeteria in the park where
they made up picnic baskets for customers. They ate their
fresco meal at one of the tables in a grotto secluded
from the rest of the park by a high cypress hedge.
Occasionally, joggers on the circuit took a break there,
and businessmen sometimes sought to 'get away from it
all' with their 'secretaries' within the close confines
of the isolated grotto. And, of course, the park rangers
made regular visits.
They had the place to themselves; a couple of teenage
lovers rose and left as soon as Garth and Linda entered
the grotto with their picnic basket. Bartold said that
they didn't have to leave on their account; the pair
looked sullen and not in the least as young lovers
should. The man shrugged, Linda looked pleased and laid
out the contents of the basket. She played the little
mother, pouring coffee into his plastic cup and wiping
crumbs from his chin with a napkin and fussing around
him. And she chattered continuously.
"How come you never married?" she demanded, and before he
could collect his thoughts to answer, she declared, "I
think that's why my mom thinks you are gay - because you
are grown-up and single. She says everyone should be
married at least once by the time they are thirty. And
there are never any women calling on you." She paused for
reflection and breath. "But you never have any men
callers either. Only the caretaker, and he doesn't
count." She prattled on, much as Bartold imagined the
girl's mother spoke to her, with no expectation of any
intelligent response.
Garth had made his first official hit while he was still
in a junior high five hundred miles from Dixon Park. The
small-time crook who hired him tried to welch on the
deal, then tried to blackmail him. The second hit was a
lot easier and gave Garth much more satisfaction, and,
coincidentally, no-one ever tried to sell him short
again. The lesson he learned from the experience was that
the professional exterminator must, before all else, keep
a low profile. Suddenly Garth Bartold dropped out of the
dating scene and entered his senior high as a complete
nonentity who passed unnoticed even by teachers.
He hardly missed the sexual part of his growing up,
because the available material at the time never really
appealed to him. He had employed the services of a
thoroughly vetted hooker, later in life, and far away
from home. It was because of the pressures of his kind of
work that he had never married. He could as easily be
killed as he killed others, or be arrested and sent to
prison for life. But how could he explain these things to
a child?
It was an extraordinary fact, and one that worried him a
lot, but the only person he had ever felt a real sexual
attraction for in his entire life so far was Linda
Mayflower, the eleven year daughter of a professional
whore! The kid had everything he looked for in a female
companion.
Right, she was nowhere near being fully developed, but
she had long, slender legs, indications of breast buds
that would never grow out of control, a really pleasant
face with revealing eyes and a mouth that had been
designed for kissing. French kissing! She had long hair
that was a dream to stroke, and velvet soft skin,
especially on the inside of her thigh and on her chest
and abdomen. She was intelligent too, and seldom talked
the kind of puerile rubbish he often heard from the lips
of other youngsters. She was well-mannered and always
treated him with respect enough not to try to lie to him.
As soon as he set eyes on the child, when her mother
first viewed the apartment in the company of the
caretaker, the office lady and one of the security
guards, he sensed trouble deep inside him. Linda was
eight at the time and, although they met only in passing
when Lucille was introduced to him, the eye contact
between man and child had been as ominous and as filled
with innuendo as if she had leapt at him, wrapped her
long skinny legs around him and kissed him full on the
lips.
He knew for a fact, in that split second, that he was
going to fall stupidly, idiotically in love with this
delicate little blossom, and that he would make every
effort to take full possession of such a desirable
property at the earliest opportunity. But he vowed that
he would never force the issue; he would take his time
and allow her to initiate any advance. And make any final
decision that had to be made.
Garth silently and carefully tidied the table. The
returnable items he packed in the wicker hamper, the
litter he dumped in the trash bucket. He sat down again
and gazed his fill at the little girl, now reclining on
top of the rough timber table as if she were a
photographer's model. She made no attempt to rectify the
fact that her thin dress had ridden up to her hips. The
man confirmed his previous opinion that the child was
blessed with an extraordinarily beautiful body.
"Do you really like looking at me?" she demanded. It was
as if she were able to read his mind. "Do you really
think I am pretty? Would you really like to make love to
me?"
"Yes I do, yes I do and yes I would! But I think it's
time we were getting back." He studied his watch. "Your
mother will be wondering.."
"She has a client, remember!" interrupted the child with
conviction. "You know she's a prostitute, don't you?" She
said it as a matter of fact.
"I know." The man's answer was brusquer than he intended.
"But I don't think you should go around advertising the
fact. Saying things like that to just anyone you meet
could court trouble."
That was one of the things she liked about this man: he
never talked down to her, he treated her like an
intelligent human being and he always seemed straight and
honest with her.
"You aren't just anyone, and I wouldn't mention it to
anyone else." She swung her long legs round to give him a
full frontal view. "I think I'll be a prostitute when I
grow up."
A sudden sadness swept over the man. He muttered, "Not if
I can do anything about it!" He wanted to take her home
and set her up on a pedestal. No he didn't! He wanted to
take her home and take her to bed. He reflected on the
fact that she had never been over the threshold of his
apartment. In a way, he was scared to have her to himself
on his own home pitch. He wanted her fervently, but he
did not want it to be a violent or selfishly motivated
possession; he wanted it to be a mutually agreeable and
satisfying experience.
Again it was as if she read his mind. "I thought we were
going to make mad passionate love!" she exclaimed. "I
think I would like that!"
He laughed. He looked around. "Here?"
"Why not? It's as private as you can get in Dixon Park."
She followed his scanning of the enclosed space. "It
isn't the optimum location for intimacy, not exactly my
boudoir, but it'll do!"
Again he was impressed by the child's facility with
language. She had once told him that she had been
answering the telephone for her mother and taking
engagements for her since she was five. He could well
believe it.
"Will you kiss me, then?" she asked when he remained
silent. He leaned towards her and pursed his lips. She
turned her face away. "Not like that! Yeeeughhh!" She
grimaced grotesquely. "That how my mom kisses me." She
made it sound like some kind of corporal punishment. "I
want kissed in the way that young couple were kissing
when we came in here?"
Quite without warning she threw her arms around his neck
and kissed him full on the lips with an open mouth and a
hyperactive tongue. Their teeth clashed. Almost as an
instinctive reflex, the man felt for a breast that was
scarcely yet there. He felt her tiny nipples hardening at
his touch. Her hips began to vibrate and rotate.
His hand dropped to caress the inside of her smooth thigh
and worked upwards to rub the crotch of her panties; she
was soft and wet under the fine fabric. He broke the
kiss. He pressed her back to lie along the picnic table
as his fingers explored under the gossamer thin material.
She splayed her thighs and he brought his face close to
her most secret places and noticed the bruises, one clear
thumbprint in each groove on either side of her pubis.
Approaching conversation from the far side of the
hedgerow broke the spell. Garth lifted the child from the
table and brushed down her dress. He spoke in a funny
voice. "Vee shall continue zees some ozzer time at
anozzer place!" And Linda giggled.
They met on the bench in the park at the same time on the
following day.
"Another client?" he asked as she approached. She nodded.
When she sat close to him, he asked quietly, "Was it a
client who gave you those bruises on your groin?" She
blushed, deep scarlet. She seemed reluctant to reply. He
grunted, "If you and I are going to get married someday."
She jerked her head round. "You're way too old for me!"
"We should start off on the right foot." He ignored her
objection. "OK?" He was not smiling. "And I say that the
right foot to start with it the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth. OK? No secrets from each
other. OK?"
"What do you do for a living?" she asked unexpectedly.
"What job do you do when you go away from home for a week
at a time? How do you make your money?" She was not
smiling either. "I think if we were to get married, I
have every right to know where my next meal is coming
from!"
"Touchee!" he exclaimed. This kid was bright. He like
bright kids.
The jogging track seemed busier than usual. Mostly men,
but some women, some dressed in the scantiest of kit,
expressions of grim determination to enjoy their
particular brand of sadism written clearly on their
tortured faces, passed the Garth and the girl every few
seconds. It was like trying to conduct an intimate
conversation on the sidewalk of Callister Street amid the
melee of shoppers and office workers.
"Could we go elsewhere?" She rose and took his hand. "The
maze, maybe. Or the gardens. It's more private there!"
"Or the theater," he said. "Do you think your mother
would allow me to take you to the theater some time?"
They walked away from the jogging circuit. "Maybe we
could have dinner, then go to the Coliseum." There was an
embarrassing pause. "Do you think she would let you go
with me?"
"You could always ask her," the girl suggested. "But I
doubt it! I told you yesterday, she thinks you are not
natural." She reflected on the problem for a few moments.
"She thinks any man who is not married by your age has
something very much extreme wrong with him." She giggled.
"You could always blackmail her, of course!" There was
another awkward silence. "You know she is a hooker and
she is using your property for immoral purposes. You
could threaten her with exposure and eviction." She
pulled the man in the direction of the maze - it was a
favorite place for lovers. "Or we could elope and get
married in Kansas!" She laughed merrily now. "They allow
anything in Kansas!".
Inside the maze, he lifted her face to be kissed. Her
mouth was open, her lips moist. Garth lifted her skirt
instead and examined the bruises closely. He had seen
something like them on the neck of a man who had been
strangled. Any first year student of forensic medicine
would be able to recognize them, and bruises like these
could lead to a man being jailed for six to eight years.
They could even mean a man being killed!
Linda gazed down at the crouching man. "It was one of
mom's clients that did it. When I told her about it she
struck him off her list and told him never to show his
face around ever again. She said she would kill him if
ever he came near me."
Garth Barthold brushed down her skirt.
"Aren't you going to feel me?" she asked. "I thought we
were going to make mad passionate love."
He remained in a crouching position. He looked up at the
little girl. He asked quietly, "Did he rape you?" When
she nodded, he asked, "Are you going to tell me who did
it?"
She shook her head. He led her by the hand away from the
maze. Both had a premonition that a barrier had been
erected between them. As they approached the jogging
circuit, he heard her sharp intake of breath. It was the
kind of sound made when one receives a shock. Two men
were approaching, one dressed in a black track suit, the
other in extremely brief running shorts. Garth looked at
the girl. She was blushing.
"Hi there, Linda!" the man in running shorts called out.
He was bare-chested and displayed rippling muscles. There
was also a slight bulge around his middle. "Nice to see
you again. Regards to your mom!" He made eye contact for
a split second with Garth, and smirked.
"Well, talk of the devil!" exclaimed Bartold.
Linda looked up quickly. There was guilt written large on
her face. "I didn't say that he was the one!"
"You didn't have to," returned Garth. "I just happen to
know things like that. He was, wasn't he?"
Linda Mayflower nodded. "You still figuring on marrying
me?"
"Of course!" Bartold followed the man with his analytical
gaze. He would pick him out in a crowd at a distance of
four hundred yards. Instinctively he turned his eyes in
the direction of his luxury apartment block. Four hundred
yards away! "Why? Apart from the fact that you are
prejudiced against old people, have you any other
objection?"
Linda Mayflower sighed softly. "His name is Liam," she
said quietly. "Liam O'Neill!" After a while she added, "I
liked him. I liked him a lot!"
"Until he raped you!"
Linda Mayflower did not reply.
In the next three days, Garth Bartold learned almost
everything it was possible to know publicly about Liam
O'Neill. He also discovered that the man was involved in
gun-running for Irish terrorists, he had dabbled in the
under-age vice of the city until the Mafia gave him an
indication that they were not too pleased, he was
involved in the heavy drug traffic between Colombia and
the East Coast, and he was keeping three city whores busy
because of their young female off-springs. O'Neill had
also ran on the Irish ticket as a contender for the
governorship of the state and was only defeated in the
nomination by a rather crooked nose. He had, above and
before these sins, left his grubby thumbprints on Linda
Mayflower, and for this he had to be removed permanently
from the scene.
Garth was a patient man. He had long since learned to
wait for the optimum moment. It came after another two
weeks, the last week of the long summer vacation from
school for Linda. O'Neill had taken to the jogging
circuit in an attempt to counteract a tendency for his
abdomen to become marginally convex. Always, at roughly
the same time of day, before leaving his office at the
eastern end of Callister Street, he would use his
intercom to contact his current bodyguard to accompany
him.
Bartold, had he chosen to do so, could have listened to
every intimate conversation the man had on the intercom
with his secretary or on the telephone to his lovers and
business associates. Garth Bartold was appalled at how
easily he could still intrude on people's privacy and
uncover their most intimate secrets. Garth would watch
from the catwalk on the roof of his luxury apartments.
Then he would take his time and stroll down to meet Linda
Mayflower in the park.
O'Neill felt the merest kiss against his cheek as the
laser found its mark. He put up his hand to brush away
what he believed to be a fly, exactly as Bartold had
planned it. The laser created an aura around the gold
ring on his finger, with something like a comet tail from
Callister Street. Still jogging, the looked back and
upwards in surprise to follow the direction of the thin
streak of green light.
The bullet burst into his left temple and blasted his
brains to pulp. The body staggered backwards and spun
around. The bodyguard was several paces ahead before it
dawned on his slow-witted understanding that something
was amiss. When he glanced back. O'Neill had already
dropped to the ground. The nearest joggers were more than
a hundred yards coming and going. He could have no idea
what direction the bullet that killed O'Neill had come
from.
By the time the police arrived on the scene, Garth
Bartold was sitting on his usual bench.
"Another client?" he asked as Linda approached.
"Yeah!" She nodded in the direction of the jogging
circuit. "What's going on over there?"
Garth glanced in the proper direction. He shrugged. "Who
knows!" He took her hand. "Let's have some lunch. I'm
hungry!" A hit always made him hungry. He eyed her
shapely body. "Then after lunch I'll take you into the
woods and ravish you!"
She laughed. "I've already told you," she said. "There
are no woods in Dixon Park. It will have to be somewhere
else!"
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
anyway shape or form.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 21