Victor J. Banis

by Deadly Nightshade

  “But that’s not the way it happened with Hartman, is it? Look, this guy likes drag queens, he hangs out in drag clubs, what’s the chances he didn’t know this was a drag queen he’d picked up?”

  “So, then, why was he so surprised when he found out?”

  “That wasn’t what surprised him. Think about it, just suppose you were into drag queens, they turned you on, the whole chicks with dicks thing. And, say, you’d picked this one up, she was drop dead beautiful, at least late at night after a bunch of drinks, and you didn’t care if underneath that makeup and the skirt and all it might be a guy. Say, you were one of those men who looked for that especially. Say you were Hartman. We already know that’s what he liked. And say that’s what turned you on, that’s what you thought you’d picked up, a chick with a dick. And suppose you took a feel…”

  “See, that’s where I’d lose it, if I reached down to grope a chick and got a handful of dick instead of pussy…”

  “But what if it was the other way around? Say, you expected to get a handful of dick, and you felt her, and you found a pussy instead. You’d be surprised as hell, wouldn’t you?”

  “Tickled pink, actually…” Tom struggled to make sense of what Stanley was trying to tell him.

  “You might even be so surprised, you’d blurt out, “Hey, you’re not a real drag queen.”

  Tom’s mouth fell open. He stared at Stanley, thinking through everything he’d said. “What makes you think that’s what he was about to say?”

  Stanley shrugged. “It’s just as likely as the other, isn’t it? We just made the assumption that he thought he had picked up a real woman, and when he copped a feel, and found a dick in his hand, he started to object.

  But everybody, the witnesses, they all said she looked like a drag queen. Not a real woman. And Hartman, of all guys, ought to have known the difference.”

  “But why… why would a real woman pretend to be a drag queen? That makes no sense.”

  Stanley crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes. It does. It has to. We just have to figure out what kind of sense it makes.”

  “Huh,” Tom said. He sat for a while, thinking over what Stanley had said. It sounded convincing.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally, giving his head a resigned shake. “This is too weird for me. I’ll have to think about all that.”

  “We both will. Best put it out of your mind for a while, see if anything rises to the surface.” Stanley began gathering up dishes, carrying them to the sink. “Have you actually been eating off these?” he asked, holding a food-encrusted dish up to the light.

  “Nah, I mostly eat out, or carry in stuff. I eat it out of the cartons. This has been a special treat. I like the way you do bacon and eggs. Thanks.”

  Stanley, busy washing dishes, said brusquely, “Don’t mention it. It’s not exactly Julia Child.”

  “Whoever she is. Thanks for everything, actually.” Tom came to stand just behind him. Stanley could smell his after shave—Old Spice, he’d been wondering for a while what it was, but smelling it so close up, like this, and just freshly splashed on, he recognized it.

  His dad used to wear Old Spice. It took Stanley back, in some funny way. He felt like a little boy to Tom’s

  —what? Not his Daddy, surely, but something big, strong, to be leaned on. He almost did lean back, physically. He felt like somehow all of a sudden he was sharing a special space with Tom, some kind of subliminal bonding. Was that a good thing? He wasn’t at all sure. It could conceivably be the worst thing that had ever happened to him in his entire life.

  “Stanley, I want you to know, I appreciate this,” Tom said, his voice husky.

  It seemed to Stanley as if he could actually feel Tom’s breath on the back of his neck, but he knew that had to be his imagination. He thought he heard it, too, loud, fast, rasping—and realized that was his own breath.

  “Cooking breakfast? Washing the dishes?”

  “Yes,” Tom said, and, “No, I mean all of it. The sex…” he stammered over that, “I never had anybody, you know, make a big deal about, well, taking care of me, the way you do. I mean, with me, with women, I’ve always been the one trying to please them. I mean, not like I didn’t enjoy getting a load off, but it was never like that was what it was about for them. And, fuck, you’ve been real cool, about everything, is what I’m trying to say. All of it, the cooking and stuff, the way you do. It’s kind of nice. I’d forgotten what it’s like, having somebody, like, devoted to you. You know what I’m saying?”

  Stanley had to think about that for a minute. “Not exactly, no,” he said. “And I wouldn’t actually say I’m devoted to you.”

  Tom ignored that. “I know I’ve been pretty tough on you,” he said. “I can be a real prick sometimes.” He put his hands on Stanley’s waist. The plate in Stanley’s hand came dangerously close to dropping on the floor.

  He put it gently back down into the dishwater. Mustn’t waste the family china.

  “Tom, maybe,” Stanley started to say, but his voice came out a squeak. He cleared his throat, tried to think what to say.

  “Listen, about last night,” Tom said.

  Stanley turned from the sink. Only, Tom was standing so close, even closer than he had realized, and with Tom’s hands on his waist, the result was that, in a way, he was in Tom’s arms. For a long moment, they stood there like that, practically touching. Then Tom pulled him closer and kissed him, hard at first, angrily, his teeth bruising Stanley’s lips, and then, more gently.

  Stanley felt, or thought he felt, something stir between them. King Kong, waking up? For what? They’d done that show already, hadn’t they? However quickly. Last night…

  “When I said see if something rises…”

  “It’s always like that it the morning.” Tom’s expression was not quite apologetic. “Doesn’t matter how many times I get off the night before.”

  “Maybe I should point out once again, we were drunk last night. We’re not drunk now. It’s the middle of the morning.”

  “Like you said, there’s different ways to get drunk.”

  Stanley considered that for a few seconds. “What you’re trying to say is, you woke up horny.” He paused for a moment. “And you’d like somebody to do something about it.”

  Tom’s laugh was kind of embarrassed, and kind of excited too. “Yeah. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say.”

  Tom’s robe had fallen open. Stanley put a hand up and ran his fingers through the thick hair on his chest.

  He slid his hand down tentatively, over a rock hard stomach, down through another patch of thick, wiry hair.

  Yup, just as he’d suspected, the damn thing was half hard already, and rapidly filling out the rest of the way. Oh, fuck it, he thought. He took a firm hold of it and led Tom with it toward the still messy sofa bed.

  “This is probably not a good idea,” he said.

  “Yeah, probably not,” The bathrobe sank to the floor in a little blue cloud. Tom dropped to his back on the sofa, carrying Stanley down atop him, kissed him again, long and searchingly this time.

  Stanley thought, fleetingly, that this was some kind of breakthrough for them. This time, Tom wasn’t coming off a drug trip, or drunk. So, a different game, but Stanley still didn’t know the rules.

  Their lips parted. Tom pushed down gently on Stanley’s shoulders. Stanley got the hint, slipped downward until Tom’s erection, standing at full attention now, was in his face. He took hold of it, ran a tongue up the length of the shaft, around the head, raised his head to look at it.

  “Suck it,” Tom said in a hoarse voice.

  “Jesus, can’t I just take a minute to admire it?”

  “Not if you don’t want to waste another load.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t. He popped it into his mouth.

  Tom closed his eyes and leaned back—and just as quickly, his eyes flew open again, his expression surprised.

  “The woman,” he said.

  Stanley lifted his head
. “Of all the gross, no class things— I’m down here sucking your dick—and doing a damned good job of it, too, I might say—and you have the nerve to tell me you’re thinking of some woman?”

  “Moira,” Tom said.

  “You’re thinking of Moira Acheson? That bitch? Now that just tears it, if you think—”

  “The redhead, in the bar, the one that tried to kill me. It wasn’t Gaye Dawn. It was Moira Acheson.”

  Stanley went silent, his jaw hanging open. He sat back on his haunches between Tom’s widespread legs, staring up at Tom.

  “You’re sure? You said you couldn’t really see her eyes.”

  “She looked over the rims of those sunglasses a couple of times. Had to, the damn bar was so dark she could hardly see anything through them. Plus, it was her voice. I’m positive. She’s got a blow job voice, you know what I mean?”

  “Like mine?” Stanley said, fishing shamelessly for a compliment. If they were going to do these scenes, it would be nice to have at least a little romance. He was starting to feel like a two-bit hooker on a half-off sale.

  “No, yours is different.” Not missing a beat.

  Stanley frowned. “What way, different?”

  “Oh, fuck, I don’t know. Her voice it made me think of getting my dick sucked. Your voice, I think of, well, like what you did that first time, you know, rimming me.”

  “Oh, great, thanks. She’s got a cock voice and I’ve got a butthole voice, is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

  “I’m trying to tell you, that drag queen was Moira Acheson. She’s our Deadly Nightshade.”

  “Miss Titty Titty Bang Bang?” Stanley thought for a minute, absentmindedly stroking Tom’s cock. “But that means… what? And where does Acheson fit into the picture? Is he part of it, do you think?”

  “No, I don’t think he’s a part of it at all. I think it’s what we talked about before, serial killings. I think he’s just a coincidence. You know, she picks Hartman up, realizes when he takes her home that he’s Acheson’s neighbor.”

  “Maybe that’s why she killed him there, on the steps. Maybe she knew Acheson would be watching. It was like, to freak him out. Or maybe give him a warning.”

  “Maybe she’s going to kill him,” Tom said. “Maybe she’s had that in mind all along. Maybe all the rest of it was just a, you know, like a decoy, to throw us off the track.”

  “And it did,” Stanley said. “I mean, think about it, if she’d just gone ahead and shot him, she’d be the prime suspect. He jilted her, didn’t he?”

  “For a fag,” Tom said.

  “Well, yes,” Stanley agreed in a slightly cooler voice, “I suppose that would add to her annoyance.” He started to scramble from the sofa bed. “Gosh, we’ve got to warn Acheson and, well, I guess the first thing is to find her and…”

  “Uh, Stanley…”

  Stanley, his feet already on the floor, looked at him. “What?”

  Tom lifted his eyebrows and looked down the length of his body, at his dick, still pointing rigidly at the ceiling.

  “Oh,” Stanley said.

  “A couple of minutes isn’t going to make any big difference. Unless you’re more worried about Acheson,”

  Tom said.

  Stanley rolled back onto the couch. “Who?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Tom’s ID of Moira was enough for a warrant to search her apartment—no need, they agreed tacitly, to mention that he’d been drugged at the time.

  “What exactly are we hoping to find?” Stanley asked. They were at the station. Tom was assembling a team to do the search.

  “The gun would be helpful. And a long black wig.”

  “And a gold lamè dress,” Stanley added.

  “That too. And not ‘we.’”

  “And maybe… what do you mean, not we?”

  “That arm of yours,” Tom said.

  “My arm is fine.”

  “You’re right handed, right?” Stanley nodded.

  Tom had been sorting through weaponry. He picked up what looked to Stanley like a small cannon.

  “Here, catch,” he said, and tossed it.

  Stanley did, right handed, and winced. It slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor. He stooped to pick it up. “I can hold it just fine,” he said. “Who’s going to be throwing it at me?”

  “You can’t even draw a gun without catching it on your bra-strap.”

  “Now that’s just…”

  “Stanley, you’ve done a good job on this case—really, I mean it. I couldn’t have figured it out without you, not so fast, anyway. But, the fact is, you’re not really a cop. You’ve never done this kind of action before. And when you’re busting into somebody’s apartment, to nail them, anybody who can’t help is in the way.”

  “Listen…”

  “No, save your arguments. It’s nothing personal. You’d just hamper us. I’m team captain. It’s my decision.

  I’m saying you don’t go. Period.”

  “So what am I supposed to do while you’re busily wrapping up our case? Which I practically solved, I might mention. Sit in the car and play with myself?”

  “We both thought maybe Acheson’s at risk. You go pick him up. Bring him down to the station, for safekeeping. Anyway, we might need him once we start questioning her. And I’m the one who recognized Moira, remember?”

  “While you were getting all excited thinking she was a guy in drag.”

  Tom gave him a frosty look. “Acheson. He should be at the bar by now. Go.”

  Stanley thought about arguing the point. But Tom had spoken. Something in him acquiesced on a gut level. When your man said…

  “Acheson,” he said. “At the bar. Got it.”

  § § § § §

  Only, Acheson wasn’t at the bar.

  “It is his shift,” the manager explained. “He was here. He got a call from his wife, some kind of emergency, said he had to rush back to his apartment.”

  Oh, crap, Stanley thought. He got his cell phone out and dialed Tom’s number. Probably they would just about be arriving at Moira’s apartment now.

  He got a “the party you are trying to call is currently not available. To leave a message…”

  Tom was right. He’d never taken part in this kind of take down. Would Tom have his phone turned off?

  Hmm. He thought about that and decided he most likely did. You wouldn’t want it ringing just before you kicked the door in, or whatever they did. He left a quick message, telling Tom where he was going.

  “Jake said he’d be back in a while,” the manager said.

  “I wouldn’t count on it.” Stanley ran for his car.

  § § § § §

  Moira hated that little faggot, Gaylord. She hated Jake even more. She hated all men.

  Which wasn’t exactly true, either. There were things that she actually loved about them, things that made them special to her. She loved the way they got excited, their dicks swelling, their breath turning all ragged when they thought they were in line for some pussy. She loved how easy they were to manipulate. All it took was one whiff, and a woman could do whatever she wanted with a man.

  If she wanted. She had never been sure with Daddy if she really wanted it or not—or, was she just trying to please him, to get his approval.

  That, certainly, she had done—at least at first, for a couple of years, actually. Sometimes, he’d be already stiff as a poker by the time he slipped into her bed. At first, the first few times, she had been asleep, he’d awakened her climbing into the bed. Later, at the supper table, or while he was watching television, she’d catch him looking at her. She had learned to recognize the glint in his eyes, could tell when he was planning a nighttime visit, and she would lie awake waiting for him, growing more impatient as the minutes ticked by.

  It wasn’t the fucking, though. Even then she had known that. It was the way he wanted to fuck her, needed to fuck her. That turned her on. In time, she’d even gotten into the habit of getting herself read
y for him, thinking about what it would be like, being needed that way, wanted so desperately.

  Since she’d been a little girl, she had wanted to be wanted, and had never felt like she was. She was the adopted child—meaning, she hadn’t been wanted by her own, her real parents. And then, after her adoptive parents had presumably given up, along had come Brenda, their own baby girl. And Moira had slipped into some sort of childhood Netherland. There, dutifully taken care of—but always feeling like she was in the way, never like she was really a part of anything. Not, surely, a part of the family, a wanted part. Until Daddy had discovered something after all that he did want from her.

  Sometimes, he was still soft when he got there. She liked that the best, loved to take him in her hand, feel him quickly grow and stiffen, loved the sense of power that gave her over him. He was on top, he was Daddy, he was the one having his way, but she always felt as if she were the one who was in control. She wondered what he would do if she rolled away from him, if she failed to take his cock in her hand, if she refused to open her legs when he pawed at them with his big, rough hands. But she never refused.

  Their sessions were necessarily quick. There wasn’t a lot of time for foreplay, even if he had been so inclined, and in time, too, she came to understand that he wasn’t. He wanted to get in, go at it hard and fast, and get off—and get out, before anyone discovered them. It had been a long time before she had even had an orgasm, and that was only after she had started working on herself before he got there.

  She liked the way he held her, though, fondling her the whole time, her tits, her ass, running his hands up and down her back. Kissing her, whispering sweet things in her ear: “You little darling. You are so beautiful.

  God, I love you. You don’t know how happy you’re making me.” Or, just before he came, “Who’s your man, sugar, who’s your Daddy. I’m your beau, ain’t I?” Dozens, maybe hundreds of different snatches of love-talk, always ardently whispered into her ear or against her throat while he nipped at it.

  That had been the sweetest, what she had really loved about what they did. The rest of it—well, the first few times, the first several times, it had been downright painful, she had wanted to cry out, but she never did.