Each work of art was an original oil painting, with a unique setting and pose. Some portrayed him hard at work: sitting at his desk, studying some important document, or standing with a construction foreman, holding a blueprint in one hand while pointing at something in the distance with the other.
There were also paintings that illustrated his leisure life. At the helm of his 38-foot yacht. On the golf course. Next to his prized sports car: a $150,000 black Maserati GranTurismo.
Margie, a recently promoted female executive was not at all happy with the painting in her office: Big Bill enjoying dinner with friends at his own Café Nue, while a well-endowed, bare-breasted waitress leaned over to refill his wine glass. The artist's rendition of the young woman's chest was breathtaking.
Harvey snickered. That painting would be a constant reminder to Margie that she could never measure up to Big Bill's standards.
Harvey Hamstel was the President of Smotherburn Technologies. A small man with enormous ambitions. And he admired ambition in his managers—to a point. Their job was to make him look good. What was good for him was good for them. But any manager who sought to make himself look good would soon find himself unemployed.
He, and he alone, had the ear of the CEO, William Smotherburn. Harvey was the ultimate Yes Man. Whatever Big Bill wanted, Harvey got it done for him. No questions asked.
But after twenty-three years, Harvey was tired of being Big Bill's errand boy. He was ready to take over as CEO. And now it would happen. Soon it would be his image in those paintings. Standing at the podium, giving the Annual State of the Company Address. Sitting at the head of the executive conference room table.
Perhaps he would take up cigars. He would look dashing on a sailboat, smoking a fine Cuban.
Harvey imagined how the management team would react to Big Bill's death, and how he would reassure them. He would tell them Kimberly Smotherburn was committed to the goals of the company. She would not sell it or make any drastic changes.
The grieving widow would appoint Harvey as CEO. And once the dust settled, they would be wed, and fly off for a two-week honeymoon at some tropical resort.
But first Harvey would need to unload his current wife. It would not be difficult. She had been unhappy for years. And lately he had been deliberately antagonizing her. He would offer her a generous settlement, and she would tearfully agree to a divorce.
Mrs. Kimberly Hamstel. He liked the sound of it. And he could not wait to get that young, hot thing into bed. How had she put up with Big Bill and his philandering?
Good riddance to the old fat ass.
CHAPTER 17 - Tuesday, 11:44 a.m.
"How was it?"
"Mind blowing, as always, Baby." Kimberly rolled over to her back and pulled the sheet up over her curvy, naked body.
"Big Bill was so fat. How in hell did you ever—"
"—he pretty much just laid there like a side of beef. I did all the work. But that's what happens when a twenty-four year old marries a guy twice her age and three times her weight."
"I wish I hadn't asked. Now all I can see is his big old ugly naked butt. I'm never going to get that picture out of my head."
Kimberly laughed."What about me? I've been seeing it for five years. I'd pay anything if I could have those memories surgically removed."
"I'll bet."
"But that's okay. The money will help me forget."
The phone rang. Kimberly picked it up as she watched her lover get dressed.
"Hello?...how are you, Harvey?...sure, how about eight o'clock?...yes, I'm hot for you too, Babe...see you then."
"You're not actually having sex with that little runt?"
"Of course not. I'm just stringing him along."
"But now that Big Bill's dead, The Hamster's gonna want to get naked with you."
"The Hamster?"
"Yeah. That's what everybody calls him behind his back."
"Well, The Hamster is a pushover. He's easy to handle."
"Okay. Good. I've got to go. I'll give you a call later, Sweet Cheeks."
Kimberly slithered out of the satin sheets and walked into the bathroom. She stood naked in front of the full-length mirror, admiring her physique. All original equipment, and still perfect.
She spun around and looked back over her shoulder. Her tight little butt drove the boys crazy in high school—especially in her cheerleader outfit. Go Bulldogs. Go horndogs. Kimberly loved to get the boys all hot and bothered.
A lot of them claimed to have nailed her. Everybody thought she was easy—which made the boys lust after her even more. She loved having a reputation. But in truth, she wasn't about to give anything away for free.
Five years ago, she was just another sexy young woman applying for a job at Café Nue. She stripped naked in Big Bill's office like the rest of the little fools. But when he told her she would need to meet him in a motel room to continue their interview, she told him to go screw himself, and walked out.
Two days later Big Bill called and asked her for a date. She hung up on him. But she knew he would call back. He was hooked. And at that point, Kimberly knew she could get whatever she wanted. And what she wanted was his money.
Within a month Kimberly was standing at the altar with him. Her conditions had been met: a two-carat, princess-cut diamond ring and no prenup. And she would be the perfect little wife. She would do whatever he asked. Ride him all night, every night, if that's what it took.
And so she waited...for the perfect moment to eliminate him. And maybe she wouldn't have to do anything. With his high blood pressure and diabetes, Big Bill could have dropped dead at any moment. It was a miracle he had lived so long. A little too long.
Kimberly was well aware that her husband was having sex with every waitress he hired for the club. He had promised her he would cut it out when they got married. But she knew better. And she didn't really care. According to her source, he always used protection. And it meant less bedroom responsibilities for her.
It made her smile to realize that his disgusting way of vetting the women for employment was the very thing that led to his death. If he hadn't screwed the Cinaway girl, he would have still been alive. The massive piece of crap got exactly what he deserved.
Now Kimberly would be the Chief Executive Officer of a multimillion dollar enterprise. If Smotherburn Technologies were a public corporation, Harvey might have been able to convince the board of directors to crown him CEO. But it was a private company, formerly owned by one man: William Smotherburn.
And now it would be all hers.
CHAPTER 18 - Tuesday, 11:55 a.m.
Gabby watched Rebecca devour the first bite of her Whataburger. "I've never known another woman who could eat the way you do—and stay thin." He took a bite of his chicken sandwich.
"But can't you see that I've cut back? I used to order these babies with double meat."
"Oh, that's right." He laughed. "And didn't you eat a triple burger one time?"
"Yeah. But it made me sick. And it was your fault."
"My fault?"
"Yeah. You bet me ten bucks I couldn't eat one."
Gabby laughed. "That's right. But you paid me back."
"I did?"
"Yeah. You got sick as a dog, and on the way home you threw up in my car."
"Oh, yeah." She laughed. "And you wanted your ten dollars back. You said it didn't count if I couldn't keep it down."
"Those were fun times."
"Yeah."
The man sitting in the booth behind Gabby finished his meal and walked out.
Rebecca got up and grabbed the newspaper the man had left on his table. She sat back down and began thumbing through it.
"What are you looking for? Surely you don't think—"
"—no, no. I want to check out the business section. Maybe there's something in here about his company. Some new product. Whatever."
Gabby loved to watch Rebecca working a problem. How many times had he seen her feverishly sketch out a plan to defeat a r
ival basketball team? Her studies were put on the back burner. Movies became unimportant. The only thing she could think about was how to overcome her enemy. And she nearly always succeeded.
He looked over the top of her newspaper. "Grasping at straws?"
"Yeah, I guess. Oh—maybe I should try this." She showed him an advertisement.
"You could."
"I was kidding."
"No. You could definitely pull it off—if you could handle the nudity."
"Maybe if I could work one shift—that might be enough. Girls talk. But what if Joey recognized me last night?"
"He didn't act like he knew who you were. Besides, I can give you a drastically different look. We'll need to go shopping for clothes again. But first—put down the paper and eat your lunch."
"Now I'm too nervous to eat."
Gabby recognized the look on her face. Determination. She had always loved pushing herself to the max. "Take a few deep breaths and relax."
Rebecca followed his advice.
He leaned in, so as not to be heard by the mother and children walking by. "Now eat. You're going to need your strength—to hold up your boobs."
She punched him in the arm.
"I'm kidding. They're nice and perky."
She cocked her fist for another wallop.
He held up his hands. "Enough. I'm sorry. But, hey—I think it worked. You seem more relaxed now."
Rebecca grinned.
"Eat."
CHAPTER 19 - Tuesday, 2:18 p.m.
Joey Ketrousie sat behind his desk, puffing on his cigar. "What's your name, Honey?"
"Heather Dreslaw," said Rebecca.
"How old are you, Heather?"
"Twenty-five." She could still hear her father's words: To be a private investigator, sometimes you have to lie. Good thing she had listened and learned, because right now she was lying her butt off.
"I don't think so. And that's my cutoff. I'm very strict about it. There's a reason the ad specifies a range of 21 to 25. Men come here to see tight, young bodies. And while they're here, they spend a lot of money. I can't afford to disappoint my customers."
Rebecca felt the sudden urge to leap over his desk, cram the cigar down his throat, and beat his face to a bloody pulp.
Bobby chimed in. "Give her a chance, Boss. She's got a killer body."
"You think?" said Joey. "Let's get a better look." He grinned at Rebecca. "Well?"
Rebecca thought she had prepared herself for this moment. But as she unbuttoned her blouse and took it off, and unhooked her bra, she wished she was somewhere else. Anywhere else.
"Very nice. Huh, Boss?"
"Hmm. Pretty good boobs," said Joey, blowing a ring of smoke into the air. "Now let's see the rest of the package."
Rebecca reluctantly unzipped her mini-skirt and let it drop to the floor.
"Panties too," said Joey.
What the hell was she doing? Rebecca didn't have to put up with this shit. But if she couldn't handle getting naked in front of two men, how was she going to walk around in front of all those men in the café wearing nothing but a tiny thong? She took off her panties fast—before she could talk herself out of it.
Joey smiled. "Give me the 360."
She gritted her teeth and slowly rotated. Halfway around, she wanted to bend over, tell him to kiss her ass, and get the hell out of there. But she had already humiliated herself. She had to stick with the plan.
"Okay, you know what? I don't care whether you're really twenty-five or not. Hell, with that body, I don't care if you're forty-five. You're hired, Baby."
Rebecca put her clothes back on, and Bobby sent her down the hall to fill out some papers and get a badge. He watched her until she was inside the security office.
Bobby walked back inside Joey's office and closed the door.
"That girl looks sort of familiar," said Joey. "But I can't place her."
"You don't think she's a cop, do you, Boss?"
"Didn't you check her out?"
"Well, yeah. We ran the usual background check on her. Like we always do. But we couldn't find a Heather Dreslaw."
"Go down there and tell her I changed my mind, and kick her ass out of here."
"Oh, come on, Joey. Give her a chance. I really don't think she's a cop. But even if she is, it doesn't matter. We're not doing anything illegal here."
"Oh, I get it. You old son of a bitch. You've got the hots for that babe."
"No...well..."
"Okay, look. I'll keep her on for a couple of nights. But if you haven't banged her by then, you're out of luck. And she's your responsibility. So, keep a close eye on her."
"Oh, I will, Boss."
"I don't doubt it. How long since you got a piece, Bobby?"
"I don't kiss and tell."
"That's because you ain't got nothing to tell. Believe me, Bob-o, if you were hitting it every night like I am—"
"—I know, Boss. You're a stud."
"One hell of a stud." He leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigar.
**********
Gabby pulled over, and Rebecca got into the car.
He said, "Well?"
"I got the job."
"Congratulations. I knew you could do it. Did he make you take off your bra?"
"Just drive."
Gabby drove away from the curb. "So, you start tonight?"
"Start and finish. It's a one-shot deal. One night is all I can stand. I just hope I don't have to kill anybody."
"What do you mean? You can't take a gun in there. There's no way you could get it past security."
"I don't need a gun. If some guy comments on my boobs or my ass I'm liable to take him out with my bare hands."
"It's going to be tough. I know. But you've got to keep your cool—somehow."
"I know." She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "They open at five. I've got to be back at four."
"Okay."
"I really think Joey might have hired somebody to murder Big Bill. He couldn't have done it himself, or he would have recognized me."
"Yeah, especially when he saw you in the buff."
"I can't believe I'm gonna do this."
CHAPTER 20 - Tuesday, 3:56 p.m.
Gabby dropped off Rebecca at the end of the alley. As she approached the employee entrance, she saw two young women going inside. The alley smelled like dead fish.
She swiped her badge and the door unlocked. She pushed it open and walked into a long, narrow hallway. The door immediately slammed shut behind her, creating a loud echoing racket.
"Welcome, Miss Dreslaw."
Rebecca looked around, trying to locate the source of the loud voice. She spotted a security camera and speaker near the ceiling. "Thanks."
When she entered the dressing room, several women were already changing into their outfits: black high heels and a black mini-thong. Each waitress had a dressing table with a large mirror in the center, bordered by three smaller, angled mirrors. The only thing missing was a rearview mirror for checking out your butt.
Rebecca found the dresser with the name tag, Heather Dreslaw (Boobsicles), and sat down on the stool. All of the waitress were assigned sexy nicknames. Rebecca would have preferred something like WhatAreYouLookingAtAsshole.
She held up the mini-thong. It looked like a pirate's eye patch.
"You'll get use to it."
Rebecca turned and saw a young woman to her left, just arriving at her own dresser. "I doubt it."
The woman laughed. "Hi, my name is Darcy. AKA, Sweet Cheeks." She held out her hand.
Rebecca extended hers. "I'm Heather." She doubted Darcy was 21. She looked like a teenager.
"Better try your shoes. They give you whatever size you say, but, you know, sizes can vary. I'd guess you're a 10B."
"That's right. How could you tell?"
"I used to work at a shoe store."
"Why—"
"—did I quit? Lousy pay. And I was their best salesperson."
"Well, if you do
n't mind me asking...how much do you make here?"
"They didn't tell you?"
"Well, I know I get $2.13 an hour in wages. But that's only enough to pay the taxes. I understand the real money is in the tips. They told me it could be several hundred dollars if I give the men what they want. Whatever that means."
"Yeah, it's true. When I first started I was pretty shy. But I still made $600."
"Your first week?"
"My first night. And that was just food and drink tips."
"What other kind of tips are there?"
"We call them...sex tips."
"Whoa."
"Don't get me wrong. We don't have sex with the customers. But we make them want to have sex. You know—you accidentally rub up against them while refilling their drinks. You lean over the table to serve their food, letting your boobs hang down two inches from their faces. Stuff like that."
"So, how much did you make after you learned to do all that?"
"Anywhere from $1,200 to $1,800 a night."
"That's amazing. So, those sex tips are in cash, I assume."
"Yeah. That's why you have that little pouch that snaps onto your strap." Darcy pointed to the small black leather bag on Rebecca's dresser. "Some girls slide theirs around to the back. I keep mine at my side because I'm afraid somebody might try to rob me if it's in back."
"So, guys put bills in that pouch?"
"No. That's where you put them for safekeeping. They stuff the bills under your strap. But you've got to watch them. Some men will try to reach down too low. And one time a guy put a hundred dollar bill in my butt crack."
"What did you do? Slap him? Did you call security and get him kicked out?"
"No. I just kept my distance from him the rest of the night. And I kept the bill."
Rebecca winced.
"I washed it, though. I wash all my tip money. I throw it in the washing machine. It doesn't hurt it, you know. Then I dry it and iron it."
"That's great advice, Darcy. Thanks." Rebecca slipped into her heels and stood up.
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