by M. Z. Kelly
“This young man is Blake Stone,” Dr. Rose said. “He’s offered to give us the male perspective on the issues that we discuss.” She chuckled. “He’s also offered to share his anatomy, if the need should arise.”
Polite laughter rose amongst the scattering of students, as Amy, Max, and I all looked at one another in both disbelief and nausea. The man Dr. Rose had introduced as “Blake Stone” was none other than Mojo.
After the instructor finished introducing “Blake”, he came over and took a seat in front of us. He craned his neck in our direction and lowered his voice, still reeking of alcohol, telling Amy, “I think this is going to be fun.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Amy whispered. “What are you doing here?”
“Shh,” Dr. Rose hissed, giving Amy a scolding stare. She then told us how things would go with her class. “The first topic of tonight’s instruction is going to be one that I’m sure you’re all intimately familiar with. It’s the way every human being begins his or her journey into the world of sexual discovery. We’re going to be talking about masturbation.”
Amy groaned. It was loud enough to catch the attention of our instructor again. “Would you care to share your masturbatory experiences, young lady? Since you obviously find it necessary to interrupt the class.”
Mojo’s hand went up as he looked back at Amy. “I, for one, would love to hear all about it.”
“The last thing I’m going to do is talk about something like that in front of you,” Amy said.
“Obviously, the young lady is rather repressed when it comes to sharing her sexual experiences,” Dr. Rose said. “Perhaps we can loosen her inhibitions during tonight’s class.”
“I’m all for that,” Mojo said, with a shit-eating grin.
Amy leaned forward and whispered to him, “Shut your big mouth, or I’m gonna clock you.”
After another hard stare, Dr. Rose used her laptop to display an explicit close-up photograph of a woman pleasuring herself. “Tonight, we’re going to be discussing the clitoris, vulva, and other parts of the female anatomy. As the saying goes, an orgasm a day keeps the doctor away, even if it’s self-induced.”
“I’m up for that,” Mojo told Dr. Rose.
“I don’t fuwking believe this,” Amy said.
Dr. Rose shot a disapproving look her way but went on. “We’ll be discussing techniques, such as the circle perk, the couch grind, the tap dance, and the pleasures associated with a body party.”
I shared a glance with Max, who rolled her eyes and shook her head in disbelief.
Mojo spoke up again. “I’d like to hear about some personal experiences, if someone in the class is finally ready to share.” He looked over his shoulder at Amy.
“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Dr. Rose said. She walked over to Amy. “Let’s begin with you...ah, your name, please.”
Amy stood up, first glaring at Mojo, then at Dr. Rose. “As far as tonight’s class goes, you can just call me Wanda the Wanker.” She pointed at Mojo. “And the last thing I’m gonna do is talk about pleasuring myself in front of this ridiculous pretense of a man.”
“I take great offense at what she said,” Mojo complained.
“Good, cuz you should be offended every time you look in the mirror.” Amy looked at Dr. Rose. “Did you know that Mr. Blake Stone’s real name is Mojo, and he’s named after a sex toy?”
Mojo laughed. “That’s ridiculous.”
“And speaking of sex toys,” Amy went on, “Mojo’s father just spent his life savings on a device for self-pleasure, something called a Fuckadoo.”
“It’s a Duckadoo,” I corrected.
“Whatever,” Amy said, looking at Dr. Rose. “It just goes to show what a perverted little freak you got in your class.”
Amy, Max, and I began leaving the room, just as Mojo was saying something to the class about Amy being frigid.
Amy stopped and walked back over to him. “What did you say about me?”
Mojo lost some of his bluster when confronted directly by Amy, but tried to save his dignity with the class by telling everyone, “She’s not exactly the ice queen, but she’s close.”
Mojo’s final comment was the one that sealed his fate. Amy cocked her arm back and let loose with something she’d named the Full Mama. It was a roundhouse punch, learned on the streets of Trenton, that she reserved for mortal enemies. Mojo crumpled like a sack of potatoes.
Amy held up her fist and massaged it as she looked at Dr. Rose. “That’s what we call a five-knuckle shuffle in Jersey, and I ain’t talking ‘bout masturbation.”
TWENTY-FOUR
As the hours came and went in her dark prison, Christina let her mind wander. She remembered a story she’d done for her TV station about a child who had been stricken with a rare blood cancer. She had emphasized the need for funding at the hospital where he was being treated.
“How are you feeling, Tommy?” Christina remembered asking the five-year-old one day. He was thin and bald, with the sallow skin of someone who had undergone chemotherapy.
His voice was weak. “I’m good.”
“You’re very brave.”
Tommy had his eyes closed, and his breathing was labored, even with the oxygen that assisted him. Minutes passed before he said, “What is it like?”
Christina blinked several times, trying to understand his question. “What is what like, Tommy?”
It took him a long time to answer. “Hea...heaven.”
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she considered his question. How could she begin to answer such a profound question, especially when it was asked by a dying child? Her words were hesitant, at first. Then she realized what she needed to say.
“I think heaven is...it’s probably a very beautiful place. It’s like...” She drew in a breath. “It’s a place where there’s love.”
“L...love?”
“Yes, Tommy. If you think about all the love that’s ever surrounded you, the love of your mommy and daddy, your sister, and your grandparents, that’s what heaven is like. It’s a place full of boundless love.”
Tommy had died the next day. Christina didn’t know if her answer had comforted him, but she was there covering the story, along with his family, when he drew his final breath. If heaven was indeed a place full of love, the room where Tommy had died was filled with that precious, elusive quality.
After the images of the hospital and Tommy faded away, Christina brushed her tears and fell asleep. She didn’t know how long she’d been asleep when she heard the basement door open. She sat up, seeing the dark, hooded figure was standing in front of her.
“I brought you some chicken,” the man said, tossing a bag on the bed. “And something else.”
Christina saw that he had something in his hand, but she wasn’t sure what it was. The truth was, she didn’t really care what he had. She had given up on life, resigning herself to whatever fate was in store for her. She slumped back on the bed, not responding.
A couple minutes later, she heard his voice again. When she looked up, she saw that the television was on, and he was moving up the stairs.
“I hope you enjoy the movie,” he said. “The ending is a real killer.”
When he was gone, Christina went over to the small television. She realized there was one of those video players beside it, and her captor had inserted a DVD. She watched as the shaky images on the screen appeared. There was a man, running down a dark alleyway. It took her a couple minutes before she realized what was happening and who the man was.
“Robert.” It was her ex-boyfriend. Someone was chasing him down an alleyway. “Oh, God.”
The shaky images grew steady as whoever was pursuing Robert stopped, cornering him in the alley.
“Please don’t do this,” Robert pleaded.
“I don’t have a choice,” the man, who she assumed was holding the camera, said. She instinctively knew it was the voice of her captor.
“Why?” Robert pleaded, brushing his thick hai
r from his eyes.
Several seconds passed before she heard the response. “Because you know too much.”
What followed was horrifying, causing Christina to become sick to her stomach. The man, who now held her prisoner, moved closer to Robert as several shots were fired. She watched in horror as the man she thought she had once loved died, his head exploding from the impact of the bullets.
TWENTY-FIVE
“I’m gonna fire Mojo’s stupid ass the next time I see him,” Amy said. “I can’t believe I was dumb enough to enroll us in that class.”
We were in Bella’s Salon the next day, a dingy little place in a strip mall, where we always had our hair done together, mainly because Bella Hopper had gone to elementary school with us eons ago. Max was home in bed, getting ready for another night in Hunts Point.
“I think Mojo was a little drunk and had no idea what he was doing,” I said, as Bella worked on my hair. My natural hair color was light brown, but over the years I’d gone blonde-ish. I was never completely satisfied with the results, but hoped today would be different. My weekend with Sam would begin tomorrow, and I decided I needed every advantage I could get.
“He sounds like a dumb ass,” Bella said. “Why do you guys put up with him?”
“It’s a long story, involving my aunt and uncle needing money,” I said.
“Yeah, because the Fuckadoo took the family fortune,” Amy said.
I reminded her that wasn’t the name for the sex toy my uncle had invented, then had to explain what we were talking about to Bella.
“You’re kidding me,” Bella said. “How much did your uncle spend on the thing?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but I think it was somewhere around a hundred grand, with the design and manufacturing costs.”
That got an OMG and lots of laughs. Amy said, “Maybe we should give the thing a try one of these days. If it’s that expensive, there’s no telling what it does for you.”
“Aunt Lucy told me confidentially that it’s supposed to give the user a ten-minute orgasm.”
“What?” Amy and Bella had said it at the same time.
The ten-minute orgasm resulted in a ten-minute discussion about whether sexual bliss lasting that long was physically possible and pleas for me to get them each a free Duckadoo.
When our discussion eventually turned to my weekend with Sam, and Amy’s date with Dallas, Bella, who was divorced, overweight, and had given up on finding a man, gave us her best advice. “Don’t give nuthin’ up that you can’t get back right away.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Amy asked, as she fussed with her hair, which Bella had darkened to auburn. I had the impression she wasn’t happy with the results.
“It means play a little hard to get. You gotta ease into things, not let ‘em into the penis fly trap too quick.”
“’Fraid it’s too late for Mads on that front. She’s already made up her mind to set the trap. As for me...” She smiled. “I’m not exactly big on patience, if you know what I mean.”
Bella had finished with my hair, and I was examining the results in the mirror, trying to decide if I was satisfied or not, when a couple men dressed in suits entered the salon. I immediately made them as cops.
“We need to talk to Amy Ross,” one of the men said.
“Who’s asking?” Amy demanded. After the cops introduced themselves and flashed their badges, she asked, “What’s this about?”
“We understand, from the doorman at the Essex, you saw Robert Cox yesterday.”
“Yeah, so what?”
“He was murdered last night.”
TWENTY-SIX
“It’s beautiful here, in spite of the weather,” I said to Sam, as we drove down I-95 toward Quincy. There were occasional snow flurries, the temperature in the low thirties.
Sam smiled at me. “I thought we’d spend the night in Boston after we have our chat with Susan Mitchell about her relationship with Terrence Barlow, or William Jeffers. I got us a room at a B&B near Beacon Hill.”
“That sounds lovely.”
As we got closer to the city, I smiled, seeing that I had a text from Amy. She was getting ready for her date with Dallas and was about to jump out of her skin with excitement. I wished her good luck, then mentioned her text to Sam.
“I just hope Dallas meets Amy’s expectations,” Sam said. “I know she can be a little...” He rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I guess the word I’m looking for is particular.”
I chuckled. “That’s putting things mildly.”
“So, how did you leave things with the detectives who came to the salon yesterday?”
I’d previously told Sam about the murder of Robert Cox and the detectives questioning us. “They said Cox was shot in an alleyway, but didn’t go into details. I got the impression they don’t have any suspects.”
“What about Amy?”
“I think they were following up because she saw Cox at his apartment yesterday. Unfortunately, I had to tell them I was on medical leave with the department and had gone with her as a friend. I just hope Lieutenant Corker doesn’t find out about it.”
“You think he would make things difficult for you?”
“I think Corker would use anything he could to say I violated policy.”
“What about Max?”
“He’s also got no use for her, since she’s my friend. We didn’t volunteer that she was with us yesterday, so they might not know.”
“How is this going to affect Amy’s case? I think you said a reporter has gone missing.”
“Christina Blaze. I’m not sure, but I don’t think the detectives thought there was any connection between her going missing and Cox’s death. Amy is less convinced. She told me that she thinks it was more imperative than ever that we find her client.”
“Any idea who was trying to extort money from her?”
I’d previously told Sam all about Bobby Mercer and the emails Christina had been receiving. “No, but we did get a copy of the email demanding money. Max’s friend is trying to trace the address back to a sender, but, so far, she hasn’t come up with anything.”
“If you want to give me the address, I can use some of the department resources to also try and trace it.”
“I would appreciate that.”
After leaving the interstate, we made our way to Quincy Point, the neighborhood where, according to her probation officer, Susan Mitchell lived. Her house was a small duplex in a rundown area of the city.
We rang the doorbell a couple times, and a thin, disheveled woman with stringy brown hair came to the door. Sam showed her his credentials, and she confirmed that she was Susan Mitchell. We were allowed inside, where we took seats at a table in her cluttered house.
“What’s this about?” Mitchell said, after lighting a cigarette.
“Terrence Barlow,” Sam said, locking eyes with her.
Mitchell’s muddy eyes shifted, her gaze drifting off, but she didn’t respond.
“Tell us about Barlow,” I said.
She looked at Sam. “Why is the FBI involved?”
“That’s not up for discussion,” Sam said. “Barlow?”
“There’s nothing to tell. Terry and me did some burglaries. He took off, and I took the rap. End of story.”
“How did you meet him?”
“Quincy’s.”
“Where?”
“A bar in North Quincy. We both needed money, and he came up with the idea of breaking into a couple of vacation homes.” Mitchell checked the time on her phone. “If there’s nothing else, I need to get ready for work.” She started to rise.
“We’re not finished.”
She sat back down, and I moved the discussion to the topic of my mother. “We have reason to believe that Mr. Barlow was involved with a woman named Donna Wallace. Did he ever mention her?”
A shrug. “I’m not sure.”
I wasn’t happy with her attitude and lack of cooperation. “Not good enough. You need to cooperate w
ith us, or we’ll have your probation revoked, and you can sit in jail for the rest of your sentence.”
“You can’t do that.”
I looked at Sam. He pulled out a pair of handcuffs, playing out the bluff. “You’re going to find the federal government can do pretty much as we please. Stand up and turn around.”
“Wait,” Mitchell said, releasing a long breath. “Okay, yeah, Donna was with Terry a couple of times.”
My pulse quickened. “What was their relationship?”
“I think they had a thing going on, but I can’t say for sure.”
“Was Donna involved in the burglaries?”
“Maybe the planning, but I’m not sure.” She took a drag off her cigarette. “She never went with us.”
I glanced at Sam, then asked Mitchell. “What else can you tell us about Donna?”
She dragged a hand through her messy hair and shrugged. “I think she was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Terry. He was...let’s just say he’s not someone you wanted to cross. He has a bad mean streak.”
“Did you ever see him hit Donna?’
“Yeah, once. They were always arguing.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it had something to do with money.”
“Can you explain what you mean?” Sam asked.
“I’m not sure what it was all about, but I think Terry owed her some money. When she said something about it, he got angry as hell.”
We spent another half hour with Mitchell, not getting much that was useful. She said she had no idea where Barlow and the woman we thought could be my mother were now living. The conversation confirmed something that had been on my mind. I mentioned it to Sam as we drove to Boston.
“I think my mother is under some kind of duress from Jeffers. It might even be that she’s being threatened to cooperate, or else.”
Sam nodded. “Based on what Mitchell said, it sounds like that’s the case. It could be that he’s physically abusing her.”
“Where do we go from here?”