by Arthur Kay |
Taggart Oliver Bonewell reported for his new job, not only on time, but an hour early.
He wasn't due to log in until 11:30 a.m. and it was now only 10:25. As he stood in the hotel lobby, his immediate overall impression was one of old money with distinct overtones of new money. Rich folk live here, Tag thought, make no mistake. Ostentatious and gaudy rich folk, judging from all the fake gold trim and the fake marble this and faux marble that. Assuming it was all fake, that is. If not, fuck it then, it's worth a fortune. As he strolled through the lobby, he had the impression that it was all put together by an insane interior designer, who not only knew the first Queen Elizabeth personally, he had amplified her idea of what the word ornate meant. Many gold cherubs, their little gold wings frozen in time, sat on white, or sometimes black, marble topped tables. To Tag, the silly looking angels seemed to have no purpose other than to occupy space and to jar one's sensibilities. He had a burning desire to knock the head off of one particularly annoying looking little angelic bastard. The ugly thing stood on its black marble base on one foot, it's arms outstretched as if saying, "Fair catch! I got it! It's mine! " It had a shit-eating grin on its puss. As he passed by it, he whispered, "Next time, you widdle fucker! Say bye-bye to your widdle yellow head!" He smiled as he passed by it. He hoped it had heard the threat. The lobby had all the usual city-within-a-city amenities that most hotels offer out of necessity. A florist. Hair salon. Gift shop. Tailor. You get the idea. Oh, and a bar and cafe called The Den. Tag decided to check this place out a little more firsthand. As he headed toward the bar/cafe, Tag played a little mind game that he usually played. I will not, he thought, think of anything with the word Den in it. No Den of Iniquity. No Den of Thieves. Or Daniel in the lion's Den. Then he said aloud, in a melodic sing-song fashion, "Den, Den, Den, Den . . . Den." He was now Den free! At least in his mind. He entered and found himself in a place that had no idea that lights had been invented. The lighting was so low, he had to take a few minutes to allow his eyes to adjust. It reminded him of a porno theater. His first visual scene was of some old guy in a booth feeling up a young woman. His niece, mused Tag. Naughty, naughty, you old fuck. He made his way to the long bar and sat at the short end. Where he was seated gave him a perfect view of the odd couple. She now had a hand on his crotch and was moving it back and forth. Hmm, Tag thought, the idle rich sure know how to be idle. With the idea of not overdoing the booze firmly planted in his mind, especially on his first day, he ordered a Scotch on the rocks, splash of soda, twist of lemon. Tag had just taken a second sip when a woman, at least it appeared to be a woman in the low light, sat down beside him. She whispered, "I've been following you, Mr. Bonewell!" The way she had said it made the hair on his neck stand up. The voice was sexy, but it had an undercoating of being threatening, with a trace of menace in it. But Tag didn't feel too alarmed. Strange women had followed him many times before. Most, however, didn't know his name. He turned to face her. She looked harmless enough to him. Fortyish. Attractively packaged. Nice threads. A tight-fitting beige colored knit dress that displayed her shape beautifully. Nice titties, too, he noticed. A glance downward told him the legs weren't too shabby, either. But, he mused, it could be the lighting. He squinted at her and took another go around. Nope, it wasn't the lighting. She was a dish. "You have?" he said. "Why would you want to tail little old me?" He was being playful. But if she reached into her purse, she'd bring her hand out missing an arm. Which would make rubbing her broken jaw awfully tough to do. Instead, however, she reached for his drink and took a big sip. He allowed her to keep the arm. "Ugh!" she said. "Scotch! Almost as bad as Bourbon!" She licked her lips and smiled at him. "Tell me, Mr. Bonewell, where have all the nice Sherry and Brandy drinkers gone?" She giggled, a light giggle, and very feminine sounding. He took the hint, if it was a hint. "How about I buy you a nice Sherry. Or, if you prefer, a nice Brandy. OK?" Might as well be nice. You never know. Might lead to getting lucky. It had before. Or, he knew, she could be someone important in this hotel. "That would be nice. Tell Paul," she aimed a thumb at the bartender, "to mix up Mrs. Merganthal's usual. He'll know what to do. Then we can get on a nice first name basis, if that's all right with you." It was. He felt nice all over. He gave Paul the instructions and when her drink arrived, which looked like a plain old whiskey sour to him, he toasted to "New friendships." They clinked their glasses together. She took a sip and said, "I'm Mrs. Merganthal, Mr. Bonewell, that's Mrs. and not that awful sounding Ms. How do you do?" She put out a hand. Tag shook it and said, "Fine, Mrs. Merganthal, and I'm please to meet you, too, but what happened to your first name idea? I kinda liked that one." He smiled at her and took a sip, peering at her over the glass. She smiled back at him. "Oh, yes, I forgot. I have, you see, a wee bit of trouble with my short term memory these days, but that's a long, boring story. My real first name is Henrietta, but I hate that name so much that if you ever call me by it, I swear I shall cut both your nuts clean off." She smiled, baring her teeth. "Most folks just call me Mergie." Tag sensed there wasn't too many things old fashioned about Mergie. Cut both my nuts off, indeed! "Mergie it will be then, Mergie. And be assured, I won't call you Hen . . . you know, that other name you hate like hell." He grabbed his crotch and shammed great pain. "For I've grown accustomed to the little fellas, Ike and Mike, and I'd be real heart broken if we should ever part company." She laughed. "And you, Mergie, can call me Tag. Or Taggart. Or any other fucking thing you can dream up. I answer to them all. I'm shameless that way." He grinned at her. He'd purposely used the word fucking to test her reaction to it. There was none. Mergie took it in stride. My kind of gal, thought Tag. He saw potential. Mergie took a sip and said, "Did you know, Tag, that there are nineteen places on a woman's body that can be easily aroused, even by the mere use of the word fuck?" Now she peeked at him over her glass as she took another small sip. She was grinning. He leaned toward her and whispered conspiratorially: "Really, Mergie. I didn't fucking know that." He liked the drift to this little chat. "I guess I stopped my fucking education soon after I fucking figured out where the fuck the fucking G Spot was and where it was fucking located on a fucking woman's body. Capish?" She laughed and almost spilled her drink. "Damn you, Tag, you've lit up at least fifteen of the darling secret places already!" She might have been blushing, but it was still too dark for Tag to tell. "Only fifteen? Let's go for the last four, shall we, Mergie, old gal? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" He had put extra emphasis on each eff. He took a sip and looked straight into her eyes. "Oooh." She said. "Nice, but I think two of them went astray. Do it again, will you?" Oh, yeah, he definitely liked where it was going. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! How's that?" He heard her let out a little moan. This conversation was beginning to really get to him. His crotch area told him so. He and Mergie were fast becoming good friends. Very good friends. But anything further would have to wait for later, for she stood up, peeked at her watch, and said: "Time's tight now, Tag. For both of us. You've got to go see our dear Mr. Smoot and I have a few errands to run. But I assure you, we'll get together later. I'm to be your personal hotel guide, Tag, as you'll soon hear from old Smootie." She polished off the dregs in her glass. "It's been real fun, Taggy, Darling, but I've gotta run." She gathered up her purse and made ready to leave. He reached out and placed his hand gently on her arm, lightly squeezing it. "Same here, Mergie, real fun. And when we get together later, don't forget to bring your nineteen spark plugs. OK?" He was testing the future water. "Bring 'em? Hell, Tag, treat me real nice and I'll show 'em to you! One by one and up close and personal like. That is, If you'd like a lesson that goes beyond the G Spot." Lesson? Hell, he just lived for lessons. Especially when the teacher looked like Mergie. She leaned over and kissed him full on the lips, leaving no doubt about the future water. It was a really quick kiss. Her tongue did a one-time dip into his mouth, pulled out, and went bye-bye along with its owner. As Tag stood there watching her walk away in the dimly lit room, he felt his crotch signal that he had better get some proper perspective before his meeting with Mr. Smoot. How would it look, he thought, to be picked up on suspicion of stealing a salami from the hotel deli and hiding it in my trousers? Old Smootie might get a tad pissed. But he knew he had just enough time to at least get a good gander at her backside as she stepped into the bright lighting of the lobby. He wasn't disappointed, either. Nice ass. Wide and firm looking. And it looked fantastic in the beige colored knit dress that did its best, but failed, to hide the well-rounded twin globes. If anything, it amplified the double beauties. Then, Mergie was gone. Tag paid Paul and went out into the lobby in search of Smoot's office. A glance at his watch told him he still had twenty minutes before Smoot time. He decided to check out the florist shop. He sauntered in and saw a woman behind the counter. An attractive woman, who seemed about to say something. He beat her to the punch by saying, "Hi there, I'm Tag Bonewell, the new hotel house dick. I'm not buying, not yet, just acquainting myself with the lay of the land, so to speak. How are you?" She smiled at him and let him see her nice, even teeth. He also liked the looks of her nice, full lips. "Oh, hello Mr. Bonewell. I heard you were coming. I'm Cheryl Wade. Most just call me Cherry. Welcome aboard the Wellington." She put out a hand. Cherry? Hmm, he thought, my first? He decided to throw out a little test in that direction. Just to see if she was a prude or a player. He shook her hand and held onto it.. "Thanks, Cherry. But please call me Tag. And I must say, you've got super hearing!" He waited, still holding her hand. "I do, Tag? What told you that?" Here it comes . . . |