by Sam Millar
“Thank you, Socrates, for those enlightening words.”
“Now, what’s this I hear about you in hospital, a few months back? An operation of some sort?”
“What?” said Karl, feeling his face reddening. “It … was nothing. Simply a check-up.”
“I heard it was to have your haemorrhoids removed,” stated Willie, staring directly into Karl’s eyes.
“For fuck sake. Is nothing in this town sacred?”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“How are they? Your piles?”
“If you really must know, they’re a bit like Terry Wogan: extremely unfunny and full of shit,” replied Karl. “Now, how about a cup of that infamous coffee of yours, the one they use for tar-and-feathering?”
“Flip the sign and bolt the door. I’ve done enough trade for today.”
“Oh, almost slipped my mind,” said Karl, flipping the sign on the door. “Any disposables?”
Willie’s eyebrows moved slightly. “Only if need be.”
“It’s need-be time.”
“I can tell there’s something hairy coming up,” sighed Willie, “and I bet it isn’t my arse.”
Karl watched Willie heading into a backroom, emerging less than a minute later with a wooden box.
“Something a bit more impressive than a box, please,” said Karl, finding a tall stool at the counter before parking his bulk.
“Take a look at this baby,” enthused Willie, opening the box, exposing a gun. “It’s a beauty. A .357 Colt Python – the Rolls Royce of handguns because of its superior finish, high-quality parts, excellent accuracy and smooth trigger pull. This is the three-inch barrel version, favoured by undercover cops and dodgy PI’s in the good old US of A – making you feel right at home in its company.”
“No trace?”
“Not a hope. Serial number’s been filed away. Stolen about three years ago from a cop’s house. He was too embarrassed to report it missing, apparently,” replied Willie, smiling secretively.
Karl held the weapon in his right hand, his thumb depressing the sharply knurled button to release the cylinder. Gentle pressure from the fingers of his left hand slipped the cylinder out of the metal stomach, exposing its contents. Clean light gleamed off the brass rims of the bullets bedded in their metal housing.
“You keep it fucking loaded?” asked Karl, taken aback.
“Would you keep a car with no petrol in it?”
“Point taken. What else do you have for me in your bag of tricks?”
“Here. Take a peep into the schoolhouse. Check the sleeping teachers.”
“Teachers?”
“They help to teach people a lesson,” replied Willie, grinning.
Peering into the box, Karl could see three bleak-looking items nestling snugly together like mummified corpses.
“Blackjacks? I suppose you could say that this brings new meaning to the term jack in the box,” quipped Karl.
Removing one of the blackjacks, Willie slapped it hard against the palm of his beefy hand. “These are the best teachers in town. Besides, they’re not just any old jacks. These are bludgeoning impact weapons used by the military, security and cops around the world. Professional grade construction, made of smooth black cowhide, loaded with spring steel. The manufacturers advise extreme caution when using. You have to laugh at that. When you hit a man with one of these babies, you don’t wrap it in cotton wool or use extreme caution. They’re covering their arse, of course. The responsibility is on you.”
“You must have a stake in the company, the way you describe those so gleefully.”
“I’m letting you know that just because they don’t fire bullets, they’re not any less lethal than a gun.”
“Why three? Aren’t they all the same, doing what they say on the label?”
“Are all guns the same?”
“Of course not.”
“There you go, then. You’ve answered your own question. Take this one, for example,” said Willie, holding out the jack in his hand. “It’s a round jack. It concentrates force on the target and can actually break bones with relative ease. Whereas this one …” Willie removed another jack from the box. “This is the flat, spreading its force out on the target, increasing the severity of damage done to the skin but without breaking bones.”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Now this one?” continued Willie, unabated, removing the final jack from its housing. “This is my all-time favourite. The cylinder. Cops in Chicago used these during prohibition to take down the mob’s so-called tough guys with one single slap upside the head. This coconut is guaranteed to knock the biggest ape in the jungle out. Your choice.”
“So many to choose from. It’s almost an embarrassment of riches,” said Karl, doing an eeney-meeny-miney-mo with his index finger. “This one, I think. The flat.”
“Sure? Do you still need the disposable, even with this?”
“Yes. Just a precaution. I’m like boxers, in that sense.”
“What? You like to beat the crap out of people?”
“No,” replied Karl, grinning. “I like covering my arse.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“A mistress should be like a little country retreat near the town, not to dwell in constantly, but only for a night and away.”
William Wycherley, The Country Wife
“Would you prefer I dimmed the light?” asked Ivana, watching Vincent’s anxious face while guiding him into the bedroom.
“I … don’t know … I’m sorry … this is kind of new to me.”
Ivana dimmed the light – but not too much.
“There’s no wrong way to do this,” she said smiling, trying desperately to reassure him.
He was blushing and looked on the verge of running from the room. His innocent face made her feel weak at the knees, the urge between her legs growing stronger by the second. She wanted him badly, but was terrified of scaring him away. Wanted it to be so good for both of them.
“Here, let me do it for you,” said Ivana, touching his shirt, slowly unbuttoning it from the top down.
A static shock suddenly popped Ivana’s fingers.
“Shit! Did you feel that? Are we electric or what?”
He grinned and then nodded. “Right through my chest. It was a cracker.”
The shirt fell to the floor and he pushed out of his shoes, fumbling at the socks.
Ivana unbuckled his Levi’s, revealing a pair of white Calvin Klein’s. The front of the cotton material looked dark, heavy. She almost fainted with anticipation.
His hand went instinctively to holding the underwear. “I …”
“Shhhhhhhh. Easy …” she whispered, pulling gently but firmly on the offending garment, revealing a large but flaccid cock.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s … it’s just that I …”
Ivana went to the kneeling position, peeling the foreskin back, revealed a bulbous strawberry head. It looked shiny and new, untouched by human lips. She suddenly felt faint again.
“Oh my,” she managed to whisper, before taking the shiny new toy in her mouth, taking it all the way to the cock’s border where sac and balls meet.
He moaned.
She found it difficult to moan, but did her best while repositioning herself, wiggling out of panties, all the while holding him in her mouth.
He was getting bigger by the second.
Defeated, she quickly came up for air.
“Whoa, big fella! You get any bigger and I’ll have to call a lumberjack.”
He laughed. There was edgy relief in the laughter.
“That was … that was great, Ivana.”
“Ha! We haven’t even started, lover,” said Ivana, quickly removing the remainder of clothing, pulling him headlong on to the bed.
“I … don’t have a condom,” admitted Vincent. “I walked out without one.”
“Usually my rule is no glove, no love,” said Ivana, grinning. “Luckily f
or you, I’ve a larger supply than Boots.”
From a top drawer, she removed a box of opened Trojan condoms, and extracted one.
“Lock and load,” she quipped, releasing the condom from its greasy enclosure, before slipping it expertly over the hardening cock. “Extra large.”
Less than a minute later, resting on her back, Ivana watched Vincent’s head manoeuvring over her body; felt the texture of his wonderful tongue do wonderful things. It feasted on her nipples, suck suck sucking like some greedy baby, thirsty for milk. On it went, travelling down, exploring the bellybutton before quickly moving to the moist, sensitive area between her legs.
“Ohhhhhh …” she moaned, closing her eyes, feeling his muscular body gliding upwards before straddling her. There was an urgency to his movement. Slightly awkward. Almost virginal.
While Vincent slipped into her, an idea suddenly slipped into her mind – unwelcome, unbidden, shocking in its content. She wanted to have her cock back, just this once, and fuck young Vincent in the arse. The image was there, so convincing. Sex, like some roaring train: piston halves pumping, motor chugging, everything rattling. She hated to admit it, but at times like this, she missed her old meaty member and its power to fire her up …
Just over an hour later, they began dressing. The smell of post-sex was heavy in the room. It smelt like dead flowers and wet talc. A cool breeze filtered in from an open window, bringing with it the hush of traffic faintly humming in the background.
There would be no more sex tonight, much to Ivana’s frustration. The so-called youth of today, thought Ivana. She had tried stroking and sucking his cock, but she might as well have been handling a wet sock, for all the good it did. Vincent’s manhood had disappeared back into the hood and was refusing to come back out, no matter how much tender loving care she promised it.
“You … were great,” said Vincent, face flushed. “It wasn’t what I expected.”
“Thank you, Simon Cowell, for your vote. You were curious to fuck a transsexual? Is that what this was all about?” She hadn’t intended to sound so bitter.
“No … I mean … I didn’t know what to expect. That’s all. I fancied you from the first time I saw you in Billy Holiday’s. I just didn’t realise you could be so sensitive … tender …”
“The Ivana in Billy Holiday’s isn’t the real Ivana, Vincent, dear boy. I play into people’s perception of me. It’s a game, a charade I play, measuring out my life in perfect coloured pills. They help take away all the nastiness and loneliness.”
“You … you’re crying.” he said, his face suddenly anxious. “Did I do or say something you didn’t like or want to do?”
She leaned to his face, kissing him lovingly, while harnessing herself back into a silky black bra.
“No. You didn’t do anything wrong, dear Vincent, only the joy to make me think one last time of an old friend, dead and gone.”
Alone two hours later, after Vincent’s departure, Ivana sat listening to the radio’s Oldies but Goldies.
“Things are finally beginning to look up,” she said, wishing it were tomorrow night, when she would be with Vincent once again. “Vincent, Vincent, Vincent …”
The thought of his youthful body pouring itself all over her gave Ivana a lovely shiver. She felt a hot flush and wetness coming on between her legs. Thought about the large pink dildo in the top drawer; considered furnishing herself with it and doing some delightful fucking.
“Should I or shouldn’t I?”
Blinkingly, something caught her eye. Something on the carpet, round and shiny.
Bending, she picked the item up before studying it. It made her heart beat in a bad way. A wedding ring.
“Oh, Vincent … you silly, silly boy.”
Suddenly the doorbell buzzed, interrupting her soliloquy.
Quickly fisting the ring, she pocketed it before standing, glancing quickly in the mirror. Lipstick. Hair. Teeth. Everything looked in place. She quickly fanned her face, cooling it down a tad.
The bell buzzed, once more.
There’s no fool like an old fool, she thought, opening the door, dreading the lies she would hear, but willing to forgive.
“Hello, Francis.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“World is crazier and more of it than we think …”
Louis MacNeice, “Snow”
Karl entered his office just as the early Friday morning sun began rising over Belfast’s dishevelled skyline. Naomi would hopefully be sound asleep – thank goodness – though this time he wasn’t dreading a confrontation.
His clothes stank of cigarette smoke and spilt liquor as he began peeling them off before stepping into the shower.
While the water washed away his stench, he kept thinking of his winning hands at the card game, over the past six hours. Three aces. Three kings. Numerous straights. And then the final coup de grâce: a royal fucking flush!
He could simply do no wrong. If he wasn’t a grown man, he would have wept with joy.
Showered and dried, he counted his winnings, again. Almost one thousand, nine hundred quid – a small fortune, at the moment. And to add to his pleasure, most of it taken from that cheap prick Marty Harrington, owner of a chain of funeral parlours – Heavenly Harrington’s – peppered throughout the city. Unlike Karl, though, Harrington did weep.
Thirty minutes later, a naked Karl crawled between the bed sheets, squeezing in close to Naomi’s deliciously warm body. She stirred and growled in protest at the coldness of his touch.
Disregarding the warning, he snuggled in closer, inhaling her early morning, womanly smell.
“Leave me alone,” she hissed, turning away from him, offering up the emptiness of her back. “You didn’t mind leaving me alone all night.”
Her early morning hoarseness was titillating. He felt an erection stirring.
“It’s time to get up, sleepyhead.” He nuzzled her neck and stroked her warm bum. “I have an early morning present for you.”
“You know where to stick your early morning present, don’t you? And it’s not near me. Get your hands off my arse.”
“Don’t be like that, love.”
She opened her eyes and blinked a couple of times. “I have to pee.”
He pressed hard against her bum, his erection adding an exclamation mark between her buttocks.
Yawning, she tried moving out of his grasp. He held her close, resisting her feeble efforts.
“I have to pee,” she whined, getting out of bed. “I can’t hold it in.”
“Be quick, my dearest.”
“Get stuffed,” she pronounced, walking towards the bathroom, braless breasts bouncing seductively, small buttocks see-sawing mischievously. As she passed the window, morning sunlight wafted in around the curtains and stole through her thin cotton T-shirt, tantalising him with the silhouette of her nakedness hidden beneath.
“Hurry, my dearest …” he sang.
She mumbled something nasty before scurrying into the bathroom, slamming the door loudly behind her. A few seconds later, Karl could hear the toilet seat falling, followed by the familiar tinkling sounds. It made him think of his royal flush, again.
Less than a minute later, Naomi re-emerged, poker-faced. He couldn’t help but grin at the T-shirt’s slogan: The only Bush I trust is my own. A glaring caricature of George Bush, depicted as a monkey, looked down upon Karl disapprovingly.
“Your T-shirt’s a bit out of date, don’t you think?”
“I’m not talking to you, Karl Kane.”
“You just did.”
“Well, you can put that tiny dick back in its matchbox. It’s not lighting my fire any time soon.”
“Oh. You sure know how to crunch a man’s ego,” smiled Karl. “How does two nights in Dublin at the Shelbourne sound, with five hundred quid for your good self thrown in?”
“What?” Her drowsy face suddenly looked alert. “What did you say?”
“Thought you weren’t talking to me?”
“You
won, last night? Didn’t you?” a smile was slowly emerging on Naomi’s morning face. “Tell me you won.”
“I won!” exclaimed Karl, suddenly pulling the sheets away, exposing his full meaty erection resting beside a wad of money. “Big!”
“Oh, Karl. For little me?” smiled Naomi, falsely fluttering eyelashes, approaching the bed on tiptoes.
“For you! Come! And I mean that in more ways than one, you sexy thing, you.”
Naomi practically leapt from the floor on to the bed and into Karl’s waiting arms, money and erection.
That was when his mobile phone rang on the bedside table.
“Shouldn’t you answer that?” whispered Naomi hoarsely into his ears, her hand cupping his balls as if weighing them.
“Answer what? I don’t hear a thing except the sound of someone playing ‘Tubular Bells’ on my balls.”
The phone stopped ringing.
Both Naomi and Karl smiled.
It rang again.
“Fucking nuisance! I’m turning it off,” said Karl, reaching for the accursed piece of plastic.
“No … don’t. You better answer it. It could be important.”
“What’s more important than early morning sex with the woman I love?”
The phone continued ringing.
Naomi reached and handed it to him. “Just answer it. We still have a business to run, despite all your winnings.”
Sighing, Karl spoke into the phone. “Yes? Tom? This better be damn –”
For the next thirty seconds, Naomi watched the blood siphon from Karl’s face.
“What is it, Karl?” she asked, as soon as he clicked off the phone, two minutes later. “What’s wrong?”
The sun spilling into the room accentuated the lines on Karl’s suddenly weary face.
“That … that was Hicks. It’s … it’s Ivana. She’s been murdered.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Death must be so beautiful. To lie in the soft brown earth, with the grasses waving above one’s head, and listen to silence. To have no yesterday, and no to-morrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.”