by Zavo
I certainly knew what he meant, being very familiar with his numerous, special talents. But I was determined to squelch my affinity for these troublesome young men.
“Again, I appreciate the offer, Jacob. Maybe some other time, handsome. Now, please, let me pass.”
He hesitated. He must have been hard up for money. However, something in my face convinced him I was telling the truth, for he stepped out of my path.
“Your loss, Mr. Steele. See you around.”
He turned his back to me and, without missing a beat, made a beeline for an older man who’d just stepped up to the ticket booth. Either he was in cahoots with the old man selling tickets or he was desperate, to be approaching men so openly. I was used to a little more finesse. He’d be making a visit to the 69th Precinct soon if he continued this brazen behavior.
As I opened the right door, thoughts of Michael Grogan swept over me, because he sometimes accompanied me to the Valentino. I’d only seen him once since the Hamilton case. We’d been best friends since high school, and I’d been taking care of his personal needs since. I made a mental note to stop in and see him soon.
I stepped inside the theater. The smells of popcorn and an assortment of flavored candies quickly filled my nostrils. Underneath these was the smell of cleaning products and new carpeting. I simply loved this place. I nodded to the young man behind the counter. He was busy making a fresh batch of popcorn. I couldn’t resist, so went to the counter and ordered a bag and a large soft drink. When he gave me my change I grabbed my purchases and made a hard left to the balcony stairs. I always sat in the balcony. There was new carpeting on the balcony stairs as well. Thankfully, when I entered the balcony, it was empty and semi-dark.
The only light came from the small lights inset in the aisle side of the chairs, and those above the screen. I took my usual seat in the center of the very back row. A war picture was playing, but having seen it twice already, I knew it was coming to its conclusion. Sure enough, the camera panned away from the beach, and The End appeared on the screen. After it flashed off, the opening credits began for the next picture. It was a Western, which I loved. I was pleased to see it starred one of my favorite actors, a handsome young man named Gordon Maxwell.
While I didn’t make a habit of following actors or actresses in the motion picture industry, Gordon was different. He’d caught my eye in one of my mother’s movie magazines. Gordon had been making quite a name for himself as a leading man for the past two years. There was something about him, other than his dashing good looks, that struck a spark in me. He had real screen presence. I’d managed to see all of his pictures at least twice—not surprisingly, in this very theater. I’d also managed to pleasure myself on more than one occasion while watching. While at first I’d thought it merely a crush, I was becoming concerned it might be much more. I pushed these thoughts from my mind as the credits finished rolling.
Within seconds, Gordon’s handsome face filled the screen. I experienced a quick intake of breath. The young actor cut quite a figure as he galloped his black horse across a wide plain. The muscles in his arms were clearly defined beneath his black cotton shirt. The camera panned down his torso to his powerful legs. His black boots were firmly in the stirrups. I was becoming aroused. I looked around, ascertaining I was still the only occupant of the balcony. I knew I had a bit of time before the early afternoon crowd began wandering in. Unbuttoning my pants, I slid my hand inside my briefs. My cock was warm and welcoming. I began stroking it with two fingers.
As my mind began to wander, I set my dick free. I spat into my hand and began stroking it more urgently as my thoughts turned to Gordon. What would it be like to ride beside him on a powerful, muscular horse at full gallop? Or bed down with him at night beside a campfire? I could see the stars above us as the horses grazed a few feet away. The smoke from the campfire was sweet, and he rolled two cigarettes. Lighting both, he handed one to me and we smoked, content in our silence. When he was done, he ground his out with his heel and turned to me. By the light of the campfire I could see the lust in his eyes.
“Jessie” (that was my name in the movie). That was the only word he was able to get out. He pressed me firmly backward till I was lying prone, the thick scent of his sweat enveloping me. I could feel his whiskey breath on me as he leaned in, his lips pressing against mine. He kissed me deeply as his hand traveled to the buttons on my denims. He began undoing them, his thick fingers fumbling slightly in his urgency. I sighed deeply when he reached inside my pants and pulled my prick free. His tongue was deep inside my mouth as he began jerking me softly.
My own hand on my prick was moving faster as well. It was then I realized I was no longer alone in the balcony. A movement to my left caught my attention, and I ceased immediately. A tall man was standing at the end of my row, as if deciding whether to sit here or move on. Had he seen what I was doing? It would have been hard not to. If he was someone who wanted to make trouble for me, this would be a nice scandal on the heels of the one I’d just gone through. It would certainly ruin my career and disgrace my family. However, I was encouraged by the fact he wasn’t heading to the concession stand to have the police notified. I also realized he wasn’t facing me; perhaps he’d not yet seen me.
He turned and looked directly at me. He tipped his hat to me and smiled. It was warm and inviting. But how inviting? I returned the gesture. I guessed him to be in his early forties. In the light from the screen he was sure to see my enormous erection; I had not thought to bring a hat with me. He was moving toward me, his coat slung over his arm, his right hand extended as he suddenly loomed over me. He certainly was a good-sized man. My immediate reaction was that it was someone intent on doing me harm, and I quickly reached behind me and pulled out the Walther PP.
“Relax, mister. I’m just here to watch the picture and forget about life for a while. If I’m correct, you wouldn’t be opposed to some company to help with that sizable prick. Do you mind if I join you?”
I gave him the once-over; he was about ten years older than I’d thought at first. I could tell by the way he was dressed he wasn’t a hustler. It was to be an old-fashioned pick-up. The thought brought another smile to my lips and new vigor to my prick.
“Not at all. I could use some friendly company today.”
“I see that you can. I’m happy to oblige.”
He gave me another winning smile, tossed his coat and hat in the chair to my right, and sat next to me. I noted his thick mustache. His muscular arm pressed firmly against mine, and I thrilled at his touch. I could smell his cologne, and an expensive whiskey. He didn’t speak for several minutes, simply sitting and watching the picture intently. As I’d anticipated, as the action on the screen escalated, so did the action in the balcony. His fingers were on my knee, gently tapping it before stroking it. Slowly they made their way up my leg to my crotch. At the first pass, he missed my cock completely. I knew it had been on purpose. But the second time around he hit it dead on, and I moaned softly. Without glancing at me, he grabbed my dick and ever-so-slightly began stroking it. I slid my pants down to my ankles to give him full access to the goods. As he stroked me he leaned over and began kissing my neck. His mustache sent chills up and down my spine. His warm breath on my skin, and his powerful, masculine smell, added to my arousal.
Without a word, the stranger moved down till the warm breath was now on the head of my cock. I felt his moist lips and then was engulfed by the wetness of his mouth. He swallowed my cock, paused, and pulled back to the knob. He swirled his tongue around it several times, swallowed my prick once more, and began sucking determinedly on it. With his free hand he gently kneaded my balls. I slung my arm across his shoulder and lost track of the motion picture. I tried to keep alert for other patrons as my talented friend went to town on my cock. It took a little longer for me to come, but soon I felt a massive explosion building. The stranger obviously sensed it as well. On his next upward stroke he paused with the head of my dick between his lips, nibbling gently
, and I covered my mouth with my hand to stifle my cries as I emptied into him. When I was spent he licked my cock clean, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, kissed me soundly on the lips, and retrieved his hat and coat.
“Thanks for the entertainment, son. Maybe I’ll see you around here again.”
Son! How old was my ardent lover?
Did I care?
“Thank you as well. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
“I doubt anything will top this.”
He bent down and kissed me on the lips again, then walked up the aisle and left the balcony. I adjusted myself, sat back, and watched the remainder of the movie. As in his previous films, Gordon subdued the bad guys and won the heart of the pretty schoolteacher, or widow, etc. Knowing I still had time to kill, I sat through two more pictures. When the opening credits began rolling for the third one, I left the balcony. I stopped in the restroom for a quick piss and left the theater. I climbed into the Roadster and drove away. I was heading to work on my current case. It was a typical cheating-spouse scenario, but the combatants were extremely wealthy, belonging to the upper crust of Los Angeles society.
Three days ago Vivian VanHauser entered our old office. I knew who she was immediately. I was familiar with the VanHauser name, not only from what I read in the society and business papers (when I did bother to read them), but also through my parents. The VanHausers were always invited to any function at their estate. I had rarely spoken to either one of them. However, it was safe to say my mother and Vivian were not the best of friends, though they were friendly. Stanley played golf with my father, but as with my mother and Vivian, they were not close. Stanley was involved heavily in steel, as well as many other businesses. He and Vivian owned a massive estate a few miles from my parents, plus a house in New York City and one in Washington, D.C. He had many friends in the political and financial arenas on both coasts. Vivian was his third wife. She was famous in her own right, having been a major star of motion pictures in her younger years—which hadn’t been that long ago. However, that career had evaporated like smoke when she met and married Stanley. He believed his wife should not work. She would be pretty, and smile, and look good on his arm. It had been four or five years since Vivian made her last picture.
Word on the gossip circuit was that Vivian was usually on her third or fourth highball by the time most people were on their second cup of coffee. Of course, having spoken to Stanley on one occasion, I couldn’t blame her. He was a total ass, and a complete bore.
Steele Investigations needed to pay for the new office. And she was a very rich client. Both Vivian and Stanley had extensive connections in the Los Angeles community. Any referrals or recommendations from either would be great for Steele Investigations.
The morning Vivian had come in, she’d apparently had a liquid breakfast. It was only nine a.m., and she was quite tipsy. Thankfully, no other clients were scheduled that early. I had escorted Vivian to the chair beside my desk. I had to steer her by one elbow to keep her from falling over. Betty brought her a glass of water, for which she seemed grateful. As soon as she sat down, she started crying uncontrollably. Out of respect, I decided to use the meeting room so we could have complete privacy. On the way I asked Betty to bring a pitcher of water and a glass for me. Once inside the room, Vivian made a Herculean effort to get her crying under control. Betty came in and set the pitcher and the glass on the table. She closed the door quietly behind her.
I opened the drawer of the bureau behind me and retrieved a handkerchief. When I held it out to Vivian she took it, and the look of gratitude on her face made my heart swell. She blew her nose heartily and unabashedly before folding the cloth and placing it in her lap.
“Please, feel free to keep that. Now, how may I help you, Mrs. VanHauser?”
At this, her crying turned worse, interrupted by sips from a not-so-small flask she pulled from her purse.
“Did you drive here, Mrs. VanHauser?”
She looked at me as if I had three heads.
“Of course not. I’m not allowed to drive anywhere by myself. How would it look? The wife of the esteemed Stanley VanHauser driving a car? Wouldn’t tongues wag? My driver brought me.”
She stared at me for a moment, the ghost of a smile on her face, and we both burst into laughter at the same time. I was starting to like Mrs. VanHauser.
“Please, call me Vivian.”
“Okay, Vivian. Please call me Derrick. Now, tell me what brings you to Steele Investigations?”
She took another unladylike sip from her flask and launched into her tale. Her husband worked long hours, seven days a week. Sometimes he never made it home, informing her he slept at the office on these occasions. He also went away on numerous business trips for days at a time. During these trips, she rarely heard from him. Just a perfunctory call every few days to let her know he was still alive. Even when he was in town, she rarely knew where he was half the time. However, whenever it was time to throw a lavish dinner party, or to attend a society function, Vivian was expected to be front and center—and look fabulous doing it. Two weeks ago, she began to think her husband was cheating on her.
I couldn’t imagine why, because she was still a looker.
“I brought a photograph of my husband.”
The photograph she produced was that of a distinguished older man. He was graying slightly at the temples, but was still virile-looking. He was tanned, probably from hours spent golfing or playing tennis. Obviously, Vivian had not made the connection with my last name. She produced a second photograph, pausing to drink from her flask before handing the picture to me. This one showed a young, busty blonde lounging by a pool in one of the new fashionable bikinis. It was quite provocative.
“This is his secretary. It was taken by the last detective I hired. Stanley was on a business trip to New York. Apparently, he was not alone. After the detective delivered this to me, he dropped the case and returned my money, with no explanations. Obviously, Stanley learned what I was up to. He tried to pay more attention to me after that. But it only lasted about a week.”
I stared at the photograph. On the surface, it appeared to be another case of an aging businessman having a dalliance with his new, young secretary.
“I found an address in his coat pocket. I think it’s where the two of them are meeting.”
My mind came back to the present as I slowed down and pulled to the curb to check the address Vivian had given me. As I drove for several more miles, the buildings and houses began to change dramatically. It certainly wasn’t an area of town Stanley or Vivian would be familiar with. But I knew firsthand affairs often occurred in the cheapest, dirtiest, and least expected of places—including the backseats of automobiles in any available parking lot or out-of-the-way parking area. I checked the next street sign, turned right, and slowed down as I approached a dilapidated three-story apartment building. However, most of the buildings around it had been renovated recently. It was an area being restored to the former glory of the Roaring Twenties. Once past the building, I parked the Roadster where I could see anyone going to or from the front entrance.
I glanced at my watch. I still had at least another half hour of daylight left. I lit a cigarette and retrieved a silver flask from the glove box. I sipped from it as I watched the smoke roll lazily out the window. I smoked contentedly, trying to keep my thoughts from once more returning to Randall, or Antonio, or the shootout at the estate. I lit a second cigarette and polished off the contents of the flask.
My sleepless nights must have caused me to drowse, because I was suddenly jolted awake by my cigarette burning my fingers. I tossed it out the window. It was now dark enough that cars were turning on their headlights. Several sets washed over me during the next few minutes, but none stopped at the apartment. As a new set fell upon me, I realized they were staying with me. When I glanced in the side mirror I saw a car driving very slowly toward me. I turned my head to the right and slid down in the seat as it passed me. Something told me this was the on
e I had been waiting for. Once it passed me, I righted myself and noted the driver had stopped and was looking toward the apartment building, almost as if looking for someone or waiting for some type of signal from someone inside. Several lights shone in numerous windows, but nothing that appeared to be any type of signal. Suddenly, a light flashed three times in one of the third-floor windows. The car pulled over to the curb a few spaces ahead of me and quickly turned off its headlights.
I saw the light from a match, and the orange glow of a cigarette tip. I waited patiently while the man smoked, lighting one of my own in the interim. Was this Stanley VanHauser? If so, what was his next move going to be? Although Vivian had given me a list of all the cars he drove, I couldn’t be sure of the make of the vehicle in the dark. The driver’s door opened and the man stepped out, tossing his cigarette on the ground and grinding it out with his heel in one fluid movement. He stood by his car for a moment, looking in all directions. I slid down in the seat once more.
The man crossed the street to the sidewalk, walked parallel to where I was parked, and stopped. He was now standing directly under a streetlight; however, I still could not discern his features. He was wearing a hat, and his coat collar was turned up. It was obvious this man did not want to be seen in this neighborhood. I had just sat upright again when without warning, he turned toward my car. As he did his face was illuminated briefly by the light above before he turned to face the building again.
I was just able to duck out of sight, but not before I recognized Stanley VanHauser. I thought for sure my cover was blown, but the man only had eyes for the building less than ten feet from him. Suddenly, the third-floor light turned off and on again three times, in rapid succession. Apparently, it was the signal Stanley had been waiting for. He left the glow of the streetlight, walked perhaps another ten feet, and made a quick right turn, bringing him directly to the front door of the building. He paused a moment at the door, took another quick scan around, and disappeared inside.