by Lee Geiger
“That’s your job, Mackey. I’m just the messenger. But don’t you see how much I care for you? I could have kept Paul’s financial problems a secret, but I want you to solve this case and be a big hero. I want you to be happy with me, too.”
Feeling pleased with herself, Sheyla asked the bartender for two shots of premium anejo tequila, along with another basket of chips and salsa. Sheyla had a talent for building instant rapports with bartenders, and the two started speaking to each other in Spanish. Mac remembered what Mayes said to him about Sheyla, about how she could be trying to steer the investigation away from her and Paul Osher. But she had just laid down a set a train tracks that led right to Osher’s front door.
The hour was late, so Mac decided to look into this development first thing tomorrow morning. Now was the time to relax. Besides, Sheyla looked so hot, she could have set off the sprinkler system.
Sheyla downed her shot and ordered another round. “Mackey, now that we got the police stuff out of the way, let me ask you a question. If we’re together a year from now, would you take me home to meet your mother?”
“Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves?” he answered while finishing his margarita, with a pair of tequila shots still waiting for his attention. Mac was beginning to learn that trying to keep up with Sheyla at a bar was like bringing a knife to a gunfight.
“I’m just playing with you, Mackey. Just for drill though, what would your mother say if you told her we couldn’t have children?”
“You don’t know my mom. They broke the mold when they made her. She’d probably say we should adopt a few kids from Haiti and live on the beach. She’s a very cool lady, my mom, though she’ll rip your heart out if you’re on the other side of a trade with her.”
“I love that! She sounds so cool. I can’t wait to meet her. Tell me about your father.”
Mac went quiet, his face devoid of emotion. He downed one of the tequila shots. “Like I told you the other night, Sheyla. I don’t want to talk about him. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have a father.”
Sheyla polished off her second tequila shot, and she would have ordered a third if her date wasn’t so far behind. “I’m sorry, Mac. I know how you feel. But I want to share something with you, something that’s taken me years to learn. Remember how I told you my father disowned me the moment I told him I wanted to transition? For years afterward, I was angry with him. I carried around feelings of hostility and bitterness like a hundred-pound backpack. Then one day I realized those feelings of spite and revenge were only hurting me, keeping me from becoming the person I wanted to be. I couldn’t control how he felt about me. I could only control how I felt about him. So instead of hating him, or even worse, ignoring him, I decided to forgive him. It was a difficult decision, and I agonized over it, but I’m so glad I did it. An incredible weight was lifted off my shoulders, and I’ve been so much happier ever since. It was the best decision I ever made.”
Mac drank his second tequila shot. Sheyla had taken a shovel to his spirit, and in a few short sentences she had dug her way into his soul. How could this person, this mysterious woman whom he had only met days before, massage the knots of his flaws so easily? Years of repressed anger and guilt began to bubble their way to the surface, penetrating the scabs of scars healed long ago. Feeling weakened and defenseless, Mac tried to shield his emotions by asking her one simple question. “What would you say to your father if you ever saw him again?”
“I’d give him a hug, and then I’d tell him I love him. Deep down, my father knows he made a mistake. I’m sure your father feels the same way. But you need to forgive him, Mackey. Forgive your father with all your heart and soul and move on with your life. Otherwise you’ll never get rid of the pain, and it will hold you down like an anchor on a ship. Someday you’ll need to forgive your wife, too, because she’s just trying to live her life, a life that you didn’t want to be a part of. And somewhere down the road, you’ll need to find the strength to forgive yourself for Larry Kelso getting shot.”
That was it.
Sheyla’s digging had found its way to the very core of Mac’s being. His skin paled and his shoulders slumped. He looked like he had just been punched in the stomach. The gaze he gave Sheyla was as distant as a desert horizon. “How did you know about Larry Kelso?”
“Simple. I Googled your name and there it was; a hundred stories about a cop’s best friend getting shot on Christmas Day. Remember the first time you knocked on my door and I wouldn’t let you in? After you left, I decided to check you out. That’s why I was late for work that day. I’ve known about Larry Kelso the whole time we’ve been seeing each other. I was just waiting for you to say something, but then I began to realize you don’t open up to anyone. You made a mistake, Mackey, plain and simple. But it’s okay to feel pain, because pain happens when you care. But instead of dwelling on it, do something about it. Learn from it and move on. You think you’re a failure because you’re not perfect. That’s stupid. It doesn’t make any sense. You’re not a bad person just because life has dealt you a few bad hands. You’re just like me, Mac, taking what life has thrown at you and trying to find a way to make the best of it.”
Mac reached down and squeezed Sheyla’s hand. He could feel himself getting emotional, but it wasn’t the tequila that was making his eyes tear up. “I thought you were the puzzle we were trying to solve.”
Sheyla put her arm around Mac’s neck and pulled him close to her, their foreheads leaning against one another. Mac could feel tears starting to fall from his eyes, his first in over two decades.
“God had a plan for me when I was born a boy,” she continued, “and I never would have become the person I am today if I wasn’t. It took me a long time to realize that, but not only did I forgive Him, I thanked Him. You need to do the same, Mackey. You need to embrace the experiences of your life and grow from them, and not use them as an excuse for being unhappy. You’re a good man, Mac Fleet. You’ve earned the right to be happy.”
Like rain falling from a sunny sky, Mac shed tears of relief. For the first time in his life, he had met someone who wanted to help him unwind the bands of doubt and self-loathing that caused him so much angst and misery. He hugged Sheyla, and buried his head into her shoulder. She hugged him back, harder than anyone had in years. It was as though she were trying to squeeze the pain and guilt right out of him, replacing it with the belief she had in growth, in passion, and in life.
Mac tried but speak, but his tears were doing the talking. Meeting Sheyla Samonte was the best thing to ever happen to him.
SHEYLA LIT CANDLES ALL around her apartment, energized after getting her tequila fix. “Let’s Stay Together” by Tina Turner wafted from the stereo. “By the way, Mackey, if you haven’t figured it out by now, Tina Turner is my favorite singer.”
“I was wondering about that,” responded Mac, who was occupied opening up a bottle of champagne. “You got something against music from this century?”
“No silly. Something about her music just speaks to me; the strength of her voice, the honesty of her lyrics. Whenever my girlfriends come over to drink wine and gossip about men, I put on her hit, “What’s Love Got To Do With It.” Do you know her story? How she left her abusive husband with just thirty-six cents in her pocket, and she wanted nothing from their divorce except her name? She’s a woman who believed in herself and wouldn’t give up until she achieved her dreams. I adore her music, and the way she’s lived her life has made her my idol.”
“That’s great,” said Mac, pouring two glasses of bubbly. “Let’s have a toast to a true American idol.”
“Not so fast,” she responded. “It’s my turn to make the toast. Here’s to breaking the rules.”
Mac had broken them all, it seemed, and he knew it. Sheyla was like a drug, and he was addicted to her. “You can say that again.”
“I would, except I’m a woman who believes actions speak louder than words. Now you wait right here while I change into something to
match my mood.”
Mac poured himself another glass of champagne. He sat back and relaxed, expecting Sheyla to return wearing something that would blow his testosterone level right off the Richter scale.
Sheyla reappeared, strutting into the room like a cabaret star. To say she met his expectations would be an understatement. Wearing a black lacy corset with matching garter belt, panties, and stockings, along with a pair of thigh-high stiletto boots, Sheyla was the girl your mother had always warned you about. Times ten.
She joined him on the couch, and the two flirted with each other like two school kids sitting together in the back of the bus. Soon they were kissing each other as though it would be for the last time.
Mac placed his hand first on her breasts, and then slid it down onto her thighs. Sheyla quivered as he stroked his fingers along her soft skin, and she moved her leg to give him the freedom she so desperately wanted him to have. Mac slid his hand under her panties, and he touched her in a place that made her stop and catch her breath.
“Will you do something for me?” she asked.
“Of course. Whatever you wish.”
Sheyla pulled down her panties, revealing herself to him. “Please,” she pleaded in her sultry voice, “Do it to me, Mackey. Please. Just do it.”
Mac hesitated, wondering what he should do next, and how he should do it. Then he took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and extended his tongue onto her erogenous erectile. He glided it from top to bottom, bottom to top, hoping what he was doing was right. Sheyla’s short breaths said that he was. After circling the tip of her phallus, Sheyla took her hands and placed them on top his head. Then, summoning more courage than he ever thought he had, he placed his lips on the head of her sensuous staff. “Yes…,” moaned Sheyla, pushing Mac’s head down toward her hairless crotch. Sheyla wanted more, so he gave it to her, taking her all the way into his mouth. She was warmer, stiffer, and smoother than he ever imagined she would be. He slowly lifted his head up, then down, sweeping his lips along her fountain of joy. Sheyla reached for her breasts, her fingers playing with her nipples. Then she arched her back, pushing herself deeper into his throat. Her legs started to shake, and her moans became more intense. Mac could barely comprehend what he was doing, but it didn’t matter, because he liked it. He was pleasing his lover, and that thought alone was turning him on.
Sheyla was ripe, and she wanted to make the most of it. Jumping off the couch, she grabbed Mac’s hand and escorted him into her bedroom. She shoved Mac onto the bed, then ripped off both of their clothes, and ordered him to stay there, flat on his back. She reached into her nightstand and took out the bottle of lube and a condom. Mac stared at her naked silhouette, illuminated by the candlelight, and he could see her roll the condom onto herself. She then took a handful of lubrication and liberally coated herself. Squeezing more lube into her hands, she spread Mac’s legs and applied it onto his anus. Mac suspected what might happen next, and it scared him. But he was also curious, and his desire to please her far exceeded his fear of the unknown.
Sheyla got onto her knees on top of the bed and grabbed Mac’s ankles, putting one over each of her shoulders. She then took a hold of her potent erection, and circled it around his anus. It was a sensation Mac had never felt before, and it made him both wildly nervous and excited. Sheyla began to move her hips forward, gently inserting herself into him. Mac felt a sharp pain, and he let out a soft scream. Sheyla pulled back a touch, gave him a moment to relax, then slowly, carefully, and passionately, drove herself inside him.
The pain eased, and Mac realized he was sharing his body with his lover. She was inside of him, dominating him, a feeling he never imagined. Sheyla rocked back and forth, back and forth, igniting a rhythmic intercourse that had Mac lusting for more. Soon he was asking, begging, and then pleading for her to go faster, harder, and deeper. Sheyla complied, and she loved him like he had never been loved before. Then, in an explosive moment of intense passion and sensual ecstasy, both lovers climaxed at the same time. After she caught her breathe, and her body stopped shaking, Sheyla slowly removed herself, kissed Mac softly, and collapsed on top of him, exhausted.
MAC SAT ALONE ON the floor of Sheyla’s shower; the bathroom as dark as night. Against the echo of falling water, Mac could hear the turning of a doorknob. The lightness of footsteps entered the room, followed by the click of the shower door. Sheyla stepped inside and sat down between his muscular legs, resting her naked back against his chest. Mac wrapped his arms around her shoulders, his hands caressing her breasts.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Friday, September 19, 2008 - 11:00 am
“San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom is pressuring Chief of Police David Stone for a quick resolution of the Michelle Osher murder investigation. The Mayor’s office wants the high-profile case to be out of the headlines in time for Newsom’s re-election bid in November.”
The Los Angles Times
THE GUYS HANGING OUT in the precinct locker room could smell Mac coming long before they saw him. In preparation for today’s sting operation at Hunters Point, Mac wore his legendary San Francisco 49er tailgate uniform, which consisted of dusty blue overalls, mismatched tennis shoes, and a 49er cap reeking of homemade barbeque sauce and stale beer. As he was about to exit the locker room, Mac ran into Keith Nix, a ten-year veteran at the precinct.
“Damn Mac, I’ve heard of casual Friday’s, but aren’t you going a little over the top? I know the Niners are playing the Patriots on Sunday, but you could have at least washed that nasty outfit of yours. After all, last season did end eight months ago. Save our noses and drop a few quarters at the Laundromat, for crying out loud. Otherwise, we’ll have to hose you down before we let you get near the keg. By the way, I was talking to Jackson a couple days ago, and he said he and his girlfriend saw you at that Pearls of Asia place last week, locking lips with one of the transvestites. What was up with that?”
Mac was all business and in no mood for small talk. Or even smaller minds. “She’s a transsexual, genius, not a transvestite. Big difference, not that you’d care. Anyway Nix, for the briefest of seconds I became part of the show. It was all in good fun and no one got hurt. Believe it or not, Pearls of Asia is relevant to our investigation of the Michelle Osher case.”
“I don’t know, Mac. The guys in the locker room are beginning to talk,” cracked Nix. “I just hope you’re not turning queer on us or anything.”
“Not to worry, Nix. Listen, I gotta run. See you Sunday.” The guys in the SFPD weren’t the most liberal cast of characters in the world, and Mac had told his fair share of gay jokes in the locker room. They just weren’t as funny to him anymore.
MAC AND MAYES HOPPED into The Sub to pick up Fernando Mateo at the county jail. Mayes, wearing jeans and a windbreaker, sat as far away as possible from his malodorous sidekick. Mac, meanwhile, needed to update his partner on the details of last night’s conversation with Sheyla without putting himself in harm’s way from the Wrath of Mayes. He wisely decided that what happened at Sheyla’s apartment should stay at Sheyla’s apartment.
“Listen Mayes, Sheyla Samonte contacted me last night, and she told me Paul Osher is losing his shirt in this financial meltdown. From the sound of it, he’s leveraged worse than a third-world country. Osher also told her he had taken out a $10 million insurance policy on his wife with himself being the beneficiary. I checked it out this morning and she’s right. For all we know, Osher may have had his wife killed for the insurance money.”
Mayes, too, was all business, though his foul mood signaled he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. “Of course she knows about the insurance policy. Who do you think is going to benefit from a $10 million payday besides Paul Osher? In my mind this piece of news helps establish a motive for Sheyla Samonte. I understand that you don’t want your girlfriend arrested, Mac, but you seem to have lost track of what we need to do. Stone wants an arrest. Period.”
“Would you rather arrest the wrong person,” replied Mac, “or dig a
little deeper and find the real killer? What about Sonia Grisham? Or Damian Puti?”
“The FBI hasn’t found the trail of Sonia Grisham, and we don’t have enough evidence to arrest Puti,” barked Mayes. “Of course I don’t want to lock up the wrong person, but if we don’t make an arrest soon, we’re in big trouble. C’mon, Mac, we both know what’s going on here.”
Mac did know, and it scared the hell out of him.
THE ODD COUPLED TWOSOME picked up Fernando Mateo and drove The Sub to the H Street pier in Hunter’s Point, an area of drug infested streets and falling down warehouses. Except for a few noisy seagulls, the area was deserted.
Mayes outlined the sting. Fernando Mateo would wait for RC at the end of the pier, while Mac pretended to be a homeless wreck sleeping off a hangover at the pier’s entrance. Mayes would wait in The Sub and catch the action on tape. When Fernando recognized his mark, he would remove his hat and signal for Mac to start walking toward the end of the long pier, cutting off any means of escape.
At one o’clock, a tall, shadowy figure approached Fernando Mateo along the pier, wearing a full-length leather coat, dark oversized sunglasses, and a baseball cap stuffed with hair. Fernando, recognizing RC, removed his hat to wipe his brow.
Mac jumped up and galloped toward the end of the pier. Fernando Mateo handed the box of Balisong knives to RC, who then gave Fernando a cash-filled envelope. Mac closed in, flashing his badge. “Don’t move, RC! Get down on the ground! Now! You’re under arrest,” he yelled.
RC tried to toss the knives into the water, but Mac grabbed the box before they were baptized. RC hit the ground, and Mayes ran from across the street to cuff him. The next sounds uttered by RC surprised the two hard-boiled detectives.
“I can’t go to jail,” said a quiet voice that sounded more like Michael Jackson than Samuel L. Jackson. Mac removed RC’s hat and sunglasses and recognized a large scar over the left eye.