by Arthur Kay |
The next few minutes were hectic. Mergie had somewhere to go to and she was already
running behind time. In a trice, she was gone, leaving two very satisfied and
happy men alone in the house dick's office. Tag got dressed. Ivan was already
dressed. "Sorry about the carpet, Ivan." Tag said, half quipping. "Fuck the carpet, Tag. That was some fucking hot scene. Man, it makes me sorta sorry I have to move to California. Bigger salary or no." "Well, Ivan, you still have all week. Think she'll be up for some more?" "Oh, yeah, for sure. And with that King Kong dick I saw on you, Bucko, she'll fairly insist on it!" He laughed. Tag followed suit and asked, "None of my business, Ivan, but just how long have you two been . . . uh . . . fooling around?" "Shit, man, it's been years now. Even when that eunuch of a husband of hers, Cyrus, was kicking around and bitching. He was so fucking dumb I often wondered how he made so much money. And the bastard was fucking his daughter, too. Oops! That slipped out, Tag. Mergie doesn't know and I hope you don't tell her." Ivan looked very embarrassed. "Don't worry, Ivan. I don't like to hurt people. Mum's the word. But how do you know for sure he was doing the daughter?" "Caught the fucker! Red handed. They didn't see me, but I saw them. He had the girl in the back seat of his limo and shit, she wasn't no more than twelve at the time, and the car was parked where it shouldn't have been. Well, I went over to check it out and opened the driver's side door and there they were. He had his back to me and was between her legs fucking her into the seat, his naked, sweaty ass glistening in the dome light. I'll never forget the picture. She would have seen me if her head hadn't been buried on the other side of his face. Well, I slammed the car door shut and high-tailed it the hell out of there." "No cops?" "You crazy? Cy Merganthal's money would have buried me for sure, if he didn't just go out and hire someone to do the burying for him, if you get my meaning." Old Ivan had a scared look on his face. Tag himself would have reported the fucker, but he understood Ivan's position. "I get you. Where's the kid now?" "Killed herself . . . on sleeping pills. Right in her Daddy's very own bed. She was seventeen or so, I think. I guess she was trying to send him a message. Must have worked, too, because Cy changed real drastically after that. Took to drinking hard. Didn't eat. Died not much later, in fact. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say." "Amen to that, Ivan. You think Mergie ever knew or suspected?" "No I don't. Mergie, bless her sweet heart, walks through this world with blinders on while looking through a pair of rose-colored glasses. Losing a daughter and husband in the same year might have affected some folks, but she just sailed right through it. I guess you could say she's a dyed-in-the-wool fatalist. Whatever happens, happens and there's no good in crying about it. That's Mergie, for sure." "Yeah," Tag said. "She seems like a very special kind of woman. Well, Ivan, shall we get down to the business of you filling me in and getting me a decent Glock?" Ivan just nodded. It was back to business. Hotel business. * * * * * * TAG had thought of going down the hall of the ninth floor and taking a peek at his new home, suite 901, but he had a better idea. He'd see it the first time with Lucy. They would share the magical moment, so to speak. That Tag. Who says he's not romantic? He called Lucy and told her he'd meet her in the lobby as soon as she got there. Twenty minutes later, Tag was, with Lucy beside him, entry- carding the door to suite 901. He swung the door wide and turned to Lucy. Before she knew what hit her, he had scooped her up in his arms and carried her across the threshhold. He thought he heard her swoon as he deposited her a few feet inside the door. As she steadied herself, she said, "That was fun, Daddy, can we do it again?" He laughed. "Yeah, kid, but only if you carry me this time. OK?" She winced at him. "Yeah, right, big fella, and who's gonna pay my hospital bill?" "Well, Luce," Tag said as he looked around. He didn't like what he saw. Gold gilt everywhere and black and white marble everywhere else. And three of those fucking gold cherubs. "Whadya think of my new place? Kinda chintzy, eh what?" "No, Tag," Lucy replied. "It's nice. Very nice. High classy and all. Especially the little gold angels." Oh, fuck, thought Tag. It's all uphill from here on. Lucy continued. "And all that wonderful marble, Tag. I'll bet that marble cost a pretty penny, too." She looked entranced. He looked ill. And felt ill. They took the Cook's tour of the place, Lucy oohing and aahing as if it was the first time she had ever seen gold, white, and black used so cleverly in the company of gold-faced cherubs. Lucy pointed a finger toward one of the angels. "Oooh, Tag, my father has one just like that in his office. Same black marble base, too. Isn't it just precious?" He simply nodded, not wanting to bust her exuberance bubble. "Aah!" Lucy said, running her fingers over a gold edged picture frame. "This is real gold, Tag, not faux gold. I'm impressed!" He wasn't. But he followed her around and made a point of not carping or complaining or even, for that matter, letting out a groan, even a small one. She led. He followed. He heroically stood it for half an hour or more. But if he now heard one more, "Aah, Tag, look at this!" or an, "Ooh, Tag, look at that!" he knew he would use the 9mm Glock much earlier than he could ever have anticipated. He patted the Glock, which nestled snuggly in it's shoulder holster on his left side. He mused to himself: What jury of his peers would convict him after just one look at those fucking, gaudy, yellow faced little monsters? "Although the defendant, Taggart Oliver Bonewell, admits to shooting one Ms. Lucy Fern to death by emptying his 9mm Glock into her, hacking up her body into 72 absolutely equal parts, and then throwing them, one by one, out of the window of suite 901, we, a jury of his peers, find him not guilty by reason of circumstances beyond his control, or for that matter, beyond the control of any sensible human being with a modicum of good taste. So say we all!" All twelve jurors then stormed the prosecutor's table and proceeded to smash evidence exhibits A, B, and C, reducing them to gold cherub dust in mere minutes. Lucy brought him back to reality, not realizing just how close she had come to being the recipient of the Glock's first slug by saying, "Oooh! Come in her and look at this, tag!" She was in the master bathroom. Tag headed in her direction, giving the Glock a warm and loving pat. He found her at the sink, looking fondly at a pair of gold swan faucets. The twin swans had their wings spread wide as if about to fly off the sink and head south for the winter. The top of the sink was (need it be said?) made of black marble. Taggart tapped one of the gold-plated swans and said, "They sort of go with the rest of the schmaltzy gold-gilt decor, don't you think? Gives new meaning to the word ostentatiousness, eh, Luce?" Poor schnook, he was still trying to reach some point of human reason in her oohing and aahing brain. Fat chance, fella. Don't you know women are a sucker for anything gold? It's in their genes, or something. Would it surprise anyone to learn that Eve pestered Adam to dig for gold, melt it down when he found it, and hammer her out a wedding ring? Could have happened. Who knows? Were you there? Was anyone? Lucy reached over and fondled the swan's twin, running her delicate fingers over the delicate neck. "I think they're rather nice, Tag. What would you prefer? Oh, I know! Matching gear shifts! With stainless-steel plating! Now, that's classy. I'll buy you pajamas with racing cars all over them." She laughed. "Actually, I'd like that a lot better than these two ugly fake-gold swans. They look truly stupid, Luce, admit it." "Now he hates swans! I love swans, Mr. Boneher-in-the-seedy- part-of-town. Their long, white necks remind me of long, white phallusi." She grinned at him while she stroked the swan's neck as if working a dick. "Phallusi? What are you now? A freakin' scientist? And besides, Luce, old gal, I believe it is phalli, not phallusi." He laughed. "Or phalluses is OK, too, I believe." He looked superior and rather smug. But he felt seedy, and at her mercy. "Picky, picky, Mr. Boneher-with-your-big-phallus-thingie. Perhaps I should have used the term, long, white penisi. Better?" Ho ho. Another chance for Mr. Seedy to act superior. "Much. But it's penes or penises for the plural, Luce, not penisi." Silly point made. "But look at the clock!" The bullshit aside, it was time to get ready for their threesome tonight. Tag was looking forward to it. It had been a long time since Lucy's roommate, Brenda, had joined them for some wicked fun. And Brenda said she wanted to bring this well-endowed black guy named Steve. Lucy, Tag thought, had never done black. He was eager to watch her facial expressions, among many other things. * * * * * * MONDAY rolled around right after Sunday, as is its habit. Tag was at his office desk and Lucy Fern, the all business-like Lucy Fern, was manning the outer office. A while earlier, Lucy had really surprised Tag. She had shown up at the office in a grey, man-tailored suit, complete with a white blouse and a cutesy little black string tie. Black patent leather shoes were on her feet. With her hair put up in a bun and dyed, it appeared more strawberry than red. She also had on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses instead of her usual contact lenses. He hadn't even recognized her . . . "May I help you, Ma'am?" He had actually asked her. After he got over the initial shock, and they had shared a good laugh, they settled down to business. Hotel business. A while later, Lucy rang Tag on the intercom. "Mr. Bonewell, there's a Mrs. Cyrus Merganthal on line three." Shit, thought Tag, Luce is sure into this business thing, down to her all business telephone voice. And no more Mr. Boneher-whatever. He missed that. He'd have to have a little chit-chat with Lucy. There were limits, after all. But for now, two could play the all business voice game. "Thank you, Ms. Fern." He punched three on the phone and picked it up. He hoped Lucy wasn't listening in. But he really didn't care if she was. Mrs. Merganthal, Mergie, wanted to know if he was free for a quickie. He was, and ten minutes later they were seated in her living room. They chatted about small crap and although Tag was eager to get to the fun part, he realized she desired a longer talk session. This was fine by him. What's the rush? She started out with an apology . . . |