by Arthur Kay |
"You said you heard I was cumming!" He had emphasized the cumming part. He looked
at her, waiting. It was a stale old line, but still fun to spring now and then.
True, it bordered on sexual harassment, but you only live once. Cherry was quick-witted and no prude. She squeezed his hand and said, "Are you usually so noisy when you come? I know I am!" She had stressed the word come and squeezed his hand again. Tag like this so far. "I can be downright cacophonous, Cherry. Perhaps we should compare decibel levels sometime. That could be fun, you think?" Now he squeezed her hand. She gave one more tiny reciprocal squeeze, extracted her hand and said, "Yes. We can call it our . . . coming out party!" She laughed. A girlish laugh. He liked her laugh. He'd love to hear it in bed sometime soon. He felt he would. "Well, Cherry, I hate to leave, but I have a date with Mr. Smoot and I don't want to have to tell him I was late because I took the time to plan a . . . coming out party." He grinned at her. "He might want an invite." She laughed. "Smootie? I don't think so, Tag, he doesn't like noise of any kind." Tag laughed. They said their goodbyes and Tag headed for his meeting with his new boss, the noise hating Mr. Smoot. Less than ten minutes later, Tag was seated across the desk from Mr. Smoot. Or, as the nameplate on his black marble-topped desk announced, in gold letters on a black marble background (surprise!), Mr. Raymond Q. Smoot, Executive Manager. Smoot was on the phone and was just winding down a conversation. Q? mused Tag. Quigly? Quentin? Quiff? Quiff? That means pussy in some parts of the country. Smoot did fit that description a tad. He was a small guy and decidedly feminine in his mannerisms. He held the phone with his pinky sticking out into space. The way dainty rich ladies coddled a drink. Smoot ended his call. Tag was told by Mr. Raymond (Quiff) Smoot, that he, Mr. Taggart O. Bonewell, could take the rest of the week to orient himself to the hotel. The dick he was replacing, Mr. Ivan Shakely, was finishing out the week. "Call me Tag, Mr. Smoot." He liked things friendly and amiable. "Fine then, Tag it is, and you can call me Mr. Smoot, Tag?" Shit, thought Tag, one of those! Well, fuck it! I've already sold my soul to the devil, so why not the rest of me? I want to be a team hooker, don't I? "Fine then, Smoot it is." He had purposely left out the Mister, but had smiled warmly at the man. Smoot frowned and ran a hand through his hair. Tag noticed the man's entire head of hair had shifted slightly. Not a lot, but enough to tell Tag the man wore a toupee. A rug. But a damned good rug, thought Tag. He tickled himself with the musing of why wasn't it made out of faux gold? Or black marble? "I'll make sure," Smoot said, "that old Ivan makes time to fill you in during the rest of the week on the small details you'll need to operate. You know, computer passwords, entry cards, the usual stuff. He'll also tell you how to have a firearm assigned to you. Any firearm of your choosing, Tag. You name it, we have it. Glock? Baretta? .38? But no need to choose now. Wait for Ivan. Now, so far, I haven't told you anything you can't handle, I assume." "No problem, Mr. Smoot." The phone rang and as Smoot picked it up, Tag reflected. He had a personal penchant for the 9mm Glock. The Baretta lacked stopping power and the .38 had too few shots for his liking. But let's hope, he thought, I never have to use it. In his six years on the police force he'd had to use it just once. Much to the chagrin of a now departed drug dealer. Why the fool couldn't see he was in a hopeless situation and should have simply surrendered, Tag could only guess at, but when the guy went for his gun, well, it was hasta la vista, baby time. Smoot was back. "Now in the meantime, Tag, why don't you just absorb yourself in the hotel. See the sights, so to speak. I think you'll like your apartment suite, which is by the way, Suite 901, on the ninth floor. It has a breathtaking view of the city, the park and the lake." He handed Tag a room entry card with 901 in large block type printed on it. "Later, I'll also introduce you to Mrs. Henrietta Merganthal. She'll be, so to say, your guide to all of the hotel's little ins and outs." Smoot then put on a very serious look. "Mrs. Merganthal is an attractive woman, Tag, very attractive, but don't get any funny ideas. She's not up for grabs, in case your mind thinks in that direction, which I hope it does not. Got that?" Tag smiled and nodded. Twice. Smoot went on. "Good. But, to fill you in on her a bit more, she doesn't work for the hotel. She's a paying guest who resides here. Lives in one of the penthouse apartments up on the eleventh floor. Has more money than Croesus ever dreamed of, but don't get any funny ideas in that department, either. OK?" Tag nodded twice again. Shit, he thought, if I nod any more times, I'll feel like a fucking bobble-head doll! Smoot continued. "She's also a personal friend, a very personal friend, of Mr. David Cunningham's, the owner, so tread lightly, young man. Cunningham took her under his wing, so to speak, after her poor husband, Cyrus, passed on. She volunteers her services around the hotel to, I assume, keep herself busy. And, because she's been here over twenty years now, even before the big renovation, no one knows more about what's what in this place than she does. I think you'll find her an invaluable ally. So, Tag, try to stay on her good side. OK?" The bobble-head doll did its nodding job once more. Smoot went on. "Well, Tag, I believe I've covered most things. For now. You take the rest of the week and just enjoy yourself. If you have any questions, feel free to come to me or to Ivan. Welcome to the Wellington staff, Tag." He reached across the desk and offered a hand. Tag shook it and said, "Thank you, Mr. Smoot. I believe I'll like working here." He really believed he would. Back in the lobby, he took out his cell phone and called Lucy. She answered on the first ring. Poor darling, he thought, pining away for me by the phone. "Hi, Luce, guess who the fuck this is?" "Don't tell me! I know! It's Mr. Boneher-and-talk-dirty-on-the- phoner! Alias my boss. Alias my favorite house dick! How's the first day going, Taggy-poo?" He laughed. That Lucy! He could always count on her to brighten up his day. "Terrific! Fantastic! What else can I say? It's been . . . " "Uh oh, you've met a new cunt, haven't you, Taggy-poo-poo?" "Damn, Lucy, you should be the detective, not me. You're good, girl! What gave it away? My not too frequent display of exuberance?" He laughed. "The word fantastic, Taggynuts. You're the only man on the planet who spells it cee you en tee!" She laughed. "What's she like and when's our first ménage à trois?" She made heavy breathing noises, sounding very much the pervert. "Well, Luce, her name is Mergie and she may be twice your age, but she's still got it, if you get my drift. And . . . " "Still got it? By your standards, Taggy, that means she has a pulse! Or have you gone necrophilous on me?" She giggled girlishly. She was having fun. "Me? Fuck a corpse? Never again! Besides, she drinks whiskey sours. I'd like to see a dead body pull that little trick off. And she has this dainty way of sipping and farting at the same time. And you should see how nicely she makes funny noises with her armpits." Tag was on a roll now. Lucy was laughing and trying to listen at the same time. "Not to mention how delicately her pussy can pick up a quarter off the piano, even lying flat. The quarter, that is, not her pussy. Or the piano." "Sounds like your kind of girl. Mine, too. Have you Tagged her yet?" He knew what she meant by the word Tagged. "Not yet, old gal, but it looks like it'll happen before the day's out." "You're slowing down, Taggela, in your mid-life crisis. When do I get to meet her? Tomorrow? That is, if the poor thing can still walk!" She laughed. "Not tomorrow, hon. Nor anytime during the whole week. Which is one of the reasons I called. I won't have my own office until next Monday. Old Ivan, whom I'm to replace, won't be cleared out until Friday. So, you have the rest of the week off, with pay. OK?" "Sure, Tag. No prob. I have a ton of things I can do to keep me from going stir crazy. Like picking up a gang of winos and teaching them what a real woman can do with a crowd of wine-soaked perennials. They seem to like screwing a sober woman for a change. Kills the monotony drinking brings." She giggled. "I never know when you're kidding, Lu. But then again, you do like red wine! It goes so well with fetid wino breath à la king." "Listen, Tag. What about your suite? Can't I at least see that? It would keep a few winos off of me for a while." "Good idea. Let me see how the afternoon goes and I'll call you. And Luce? I hate to say this, but could you dress, uh, well, a little bit more . . uh . . . well . . . demurely? This place is run by a stiff-assed, anal retentive type guy and, well, you know. I don't like . . " "Stop squirming, Taggy. I take no offense at your asshole masculine insensitivity. I know I dress like a slut at times, well, most times, but I also have many very lady-like office duds. It'll be fun dressing up and surprising you. I guarantee, Tag, you sweet, perverted hypocrite, you won't recognize me." "Luce, you know how it is. Play the game and all." He hoped she did. "Taggy, Taggy, Taggy! Will you relax, for Christ's sake? It's no big deal, really. How do you think I dressed before I went to work at your dumpy little place? If you remember my resume, which you would if your eyes hadn't been glued to my boobies, I worked for a law firm. Talk about strait-laced! They had a pamphlet that outlined their dress code that had to be twenty pages long. And each salient point mentioned man-tailored suits. No skirts, mini or otherwise." She took a breath. "So, don't worry, fella, from here on out, I'm Ms. Lucy Fern, executive secretary to Mr. Boneher-with-a-dry-hump, the biggest dick in the hotel biz. OK?" Tag laughed and said, "OK, Luce. Ha ha! I'll call you later." They said their goodbyes and hung up. He loved Lucy . . . |