by Arthur Kay |
"I'm sorry, Tag, that we didn't have the opportunity to get together last week after
our fun with Ivan, but I had to go out of town to a funeral. Old friend of
mine passed on. Did you get my note?" "Yes, love, I did. You have my condolences on your friend. I spent the week getting oriented to the hotel, not much to learn in the way of hard stuff, but I know I would have enjoyed it much more if you had been there to show me the ropes. In a word, Mergie, I missed you." "I missed you too, Tag. Very much. I know we hardly know each other, but I'm a good judge of character, and you and I seem to mesh well." Tag nodded. Then they small talked some more until Mergie said: "My husband, Cyrus, Tag, lost interest in sex with me right after our darling daughter, Clarice, or Cee Cee, died. Took her own life, Tag, right there in Cy's bed." Tag looked quizzical so she attempted to answer the obvious question. "You see, Cy snored as if sawing redwoods, so we had separate bedrooms, as was the fashion in those days, you know." He didn't know. "Well, anyway, Clarice had taken a whole bottle of sleeping pills and it was Cy who found the poor girl. He was never quite the same after and died in the same bed a short time later." Tag remembered what old Ivan had told him. Sweet Mergie, Tag thought, she truly has no idea about dear, old Dada and Clarice. Perhaps it's better that way. She was still talking . . . " . . . and that's about it. In a sense, Tag, I got you up here on false pretenses. I know you want to fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, and I do, too, but alas, we'll have to wait a bit. I have some very important things to attend to in the next ten minutes. Lawyer crap. I hope you forgive me, Tag, I just needed a little heart-to-heart. Believe me I intend to make it up to you next time." She looked sweet. And vulnerable for some reason. "Don't sweat it, Mergie honey, I'm glad I could be here. And, as far as sex goes, I have complete control of my libido. I don't frustrate easily. When we do it, we do it. Besides, sweet cheeks, we'll always have Paris!" He winked and grinned at her. "Thank you, Tag, for being so sweet and understanding." She stood up and went over to where he was seated. She leaned down and gave him a kiss. This time, it was one of those long French ones. He liked the kiss. And the sweet smell of used oxygen that emanated from her nostrils as she breathed into him. They said their goodbyes. On the elevator, Tag caught sight of something white in his breast pocket. He fished it out. It was a small envelope, the kind banks use. He opened it and found a note, in blue type, and ten, very crisp $100 bills. Shit, he thought, as he read the neatly typed note: My dear Tag: You've come along at the right time in my life and make me feel renewed somehow. Younger even. I know you probably have views on accepting gratuities that show appreciation and it probably makes you feel like a gigolo and all, but I swear, Tag, if you even try to return it, I'll never speak to you again. I mean that, you big pricked darling, you. And believe me, I can well afford it. That shithead husband of mine left me 50 (or is it 70?) million bucks. So, if you ever want to get into my hot mouth again, you young buckeroo, you'll take this in the spirit it's intended and enjoy it. Life, in case you haven't heard, Tag, is too fucking short! Love, M (Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!) He counted the fucks even though he already knew the number: 19. He reread the letter. He looked at the money. Mergie was right. Life is too fucking short. Why shouldn't he enjoy what money can do? He pocketed the money and, at peace with himself, a wobbly peace to be sure, he looked up at the elevator's ceiling and said out loud, "Fuck it! You listening? I said fuck it! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . . nineteen times!" He smiled at the ceiling. He was surprised when it didn't smile back. A new gigolo had just been born. One that was now a thousand dollars richer than before. And he hadn't even fucked her yet. . . * * * * * * TAG hadn't been back at his office even ten minutes when Lucy told him a Ms. Greta Stern was on line two. Tag remembered her. He had met her briefly the week before when old Ivan had him in for one of his many boring orientation chats. She was a knockout. A brown haired beauty no older than twenty-five. And a body to die for. And, from what Ivan told him, a husband who would kill any man who wanted to die for that body. Greta's husband was none other than Jake Stern, a mobbed- up type who owned parts of casinos all over the world. He had passed the squeaky clean test for gambling licenses, but there were rumors all over the place about his ties to organized crime. And a few witnesses who had suddenly developed amnesia. Jake was one guy Tag didn't want to get to know, let alone get embroiled in something with him. Like Jake's wife, the luscious Greta. That Greta had liked him, Tag had no doubts. Christ, he thought, she couldn't take her eyes off of my crotch long enough to look me in the eyes. He had almost jumped at her bait, before Ivan's filling him in on Jake, but instinct, or something, told him to play it aloof and cagier than usual. He was now glad he had. Once again, thank you inner voice. He punched the button for line two. Greta sounded frantic, the words popping out of her in rapid order. It was hard to understand her at first, but then the message finally got through. "Someone has killed my husband, Mr. Bonewell. I need your help. Please come up to my penthouse, suite 1219, on the twelfth floor. Please hurry, Mr. Bonewell. Please." "Ms. Stern, if someone has murd . . . uh, killed your husband, you should really call the police. They should handle it. I'm just the house dick. Would you prefer I call them for you?" He didn't think so. "No police, Mr. Bonewell, not yet. Please come up and hear me out. Then, if you like, we can call the cops. But please, hear me out first. OK?" Tag knew he should have insisted on getting the cops involved, but, as Ivan had drilled into him, our hotel guests come first, first even before the fucking Mayor himself. And the governor, too, when it comes down to it. With this in mind, Tag caved. He hoped he was doing the right thing. But Jake was dead and he'd still be dead later. "OK, Ms. Stern, I'll be there as soon as I can." They hung up and he was in the Stern's living room in less than fifteen minutes. She didn't look too shook up, which surprised him. And at the same time, it didn't. "Where is he, Ms. Stern?" He hoped he hadn't sounded too morbid. "Who? Oh, he's in the bedroom closet. And, please, Mr. Bonewell, call me Greta. May I call you Tag, or do you prefer Taggart?" Christ, he thought, she's socializing! What's next? Tea and scones on the dead man's chest? "Tag is fine, Greta. Now, where is . . . " "He'll keep, Tag. What would you like to drink? You look like a Scotch and soda type of man. Am I correct?" Geezy, peezy! Rich folk are fucking nuts, Tag thought. Well, fuck it, I'll play her game. I know how to spell aplomb. "Scotch on the rocks, splash of soda would be fine . . . Greta." The words sound too ordinary to him for this weird situation. He watched her carefully as she made their drinks. Not a tremble. Not a tear in either eye. It appeared that Greta Stern treated a murdered dead husband in her bedroom closet the same way she would a paper cut. Maybe even less than that if a bandaid was called for. As she walked toward him with their drinks, he heard the ice clinking and the everyday sound seemed to make the situation even weirder. He took the offered drink. She was in the mood to make a toast. Her glass was extended toward him. "Here's to dead husbands, Tag! . . . Cheers." She held her glass out farther toward him for the expected clink. You're a pip, lady, he thought. But he could be cute, too. "May they never come out of the closet!" He clinked her glass. "Bottoms up!" He took a sip. She grinned at him and took a sip of her own. The ice, as they say, was broken, but as they peered at each other over their glasses, the silence of the room seemed extremely loud. Tag decided to fix that annoying thing. "Now, Greta, before I get bombed on just one drink, may I take a look in the bedroom?" He didn't wait for an answer as he crossed the room toward the bedroom door. Over his shoulder he heard her say, "Be my guest, you party pooper." What a gal, he thought. Poor dear is just all choked up. New widowhood can do that to a gal. He entered the bedroom and didn't even have to open the closet door. It was wide open already, as if someone had been searching for something to wear. Tag thought of Greta and the outfit she had on. And there was the late Jake Stern. Sitting up, with both eyes wide open, and a neat, clean hole smackdab in the middle of his forehead. He also looked quite recently deceased, although a little dishevelled. The red silk robe he had on had bunched up around his arm pits, probably from the fall, and his naked, flaccid dick and very hairy balls were just hanging down for any and all to steal a good gander at, if they had a mind to. Jake's legs jutted out of the closet, splayed out wide, and Tag noticed the man wore only one dark red slipper. The other was nowhere to be seen. Tag took a few steps toward Jake and then jumped back and a foot off the ground. Jake's right eye had winked at him! It took Tag a few seconds to realize that it was a trick of the lighting coming from a dresser lamp to his right. He found if he moved his head around the eye would appear to open and close. An illusion. An illusion that probably took ten years off Tag's life. He went closer to Jake and did a cursory exam. It looked like a professional hit job. Small caliber bullet, .22 short probably. It also looked like the kind of a job a woman, any woman, even a wife, might do. He knew one thing. A pro usually puts it in the back of the head, whereas a wife, well, you knows? He heard Greta come in behind him. His ears, and instinct, told him she had stopped a few feet behind him and was just standing there, looking at his back. As the hairs on his neck stood out, he placed his right hand on the Glock's hand grip. He didn't really think she was now enjoying killing and, after doing hubby so efficiently, she had invited him up for a second whack at all the fun simply because the closet was roomy enough for two. Or more. He stood up, pulled the Glock out, and turned, half expectly he'd have to open fire. He needn't have worried. She was obviously unarmed. And unclothed. She just stood there, smiling, her drink in her hand, and as naked as naked can get. Tag felt mighty stupid pointing his Glock at a totally naked lady, so he holstered it. She took a sip from her drink. He let his eyes feast for a bit. If the situation gets any stranger, he thought, I'm gonna go friggin' ape. Ms. Greta Stern "See, Tag. Just as I told you, Jake's dead. Now, let's fuck, shall we?" Ape time had just arrived! "Huh?" He wasn't sure he had heard her correctly. But he knew he had . . . |