It's A Crime

by C. E. Hansen

  I cleared my throat, fearful Ray would know my X-rated thoughts. “Um…thank you, Ray.” My face reddened and I started typing notes into my iPhone of what needed to get done before Cole’s arrival, planning my “perfect evening.” I had one night to capture his attention until I could figure out how to earn his affection, or at least his unadulterated lust. I needed a lay of the land so to speak, a direction to follow. Something that would help me stand out…

  “Agent Provocateur, on Madison,” I told Ray.

  Ray nodded. “Yes, Miss.”

  I met with Cheryl at Agent Provocateur, known for its luxurious and scandalous undergarments, and selected the most seductive treat I could find, along with a few other goodies.

  “So Grace, who’s the lucky man?” She said looking me over. “All the times you’ve been in here I don’t remember ever seeing you so particular.”

  “Cheryl, you don’t know the half of it.” I waved my hand in the air ending any conversation she looked to have.

  She finished wrapping my garments in their trademark gold and cream striped tissue paper. Taking my bag, I climbed into the back of the car, and directed Ray to my next stop, the West Side Meat Market.

  When I got home, I called Michelle, filling her in on last night and my plans for tonight. After I hung up, I quickly straightened the apartment. Once I was satisfied everything was in its place and looked perfect, I removed the Riedel decanter and wine glasses from the cabinet and set them down on the granite counter. I made the Caesar salad dressing and placed it, along with two salad plates, in the fridge to chill. I made the fresh garlic/sage butter, also putting that into the fridge. I sliced the potatoes for my Au Gratin, mixed the ingredients and put the casserole in the oven. I went into the bedroom, changed the bedding and set the lighting. I laid out clothing on the bed and went into the bathroom to take a shower. As I stood under the stream of hot water, I reminisced about this morning after breakfast.

  I finished getting everything just right before going into the bedroom to get dressed. I slid into my jeans and pulled a black tee shirt over my head, tucking it lightly into my jeans. I wore no shoes. Applying a small amount of baby pink gloss on my lips, I pulled my hair up into a high ponytail. I was making my way into the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I sprinted to the door and yanked it open.

  There on the threshold stood...Jonathan.

  Are you fucking kidding me? Really?

  My disappointment at seeing him in my doorway got me in such a state, my face flushed with anger, the burn spreading up my neck and across my chest. He casually walked into the apartment.

  “I’ve left several messages on your phone, emailed you, texted you.” He stopped to look at me. “You too fucking busy to answer?” His tone angry, he strolled past me.

  “I haven’t returned your calls because I want nothing to do with you. I don’t know how else I could get this through your thick head. I want nothing to do with you. LEAVE. Is that clear enough for you?” My voice sounded shrill even to my ears. I stood there like an idiot, trying to block him from going further.

  Jonathan pushed me out of the way with as much care as if he were swatting a fly away and took a few steps further into the apartment. He stood in the hallway between the kitchen and the living room looking around, expecting to see someone. He spotted the decanter and wine glasses I set out and looked at me. His eyes blackened as his anger grew. He turned to walk into the kitchen.

  “What the fuck? Where are you going? Get out of here! How did you get past the doorman? I had your name removed. How did you get the code?…I will be changing that elevator code.”

  “Expecting company?” He was unfazed by my tirade. “Don’t be an ass, you know I have friends in the building. Answer the question.”

  “Fuck you. Get out or I’ll call security!”

  “Answer the question.”

  I walked to the phone adjacent to the door and lifted the receiver, pushing “O.” Jonathan reached me in two easy steps, grabbed the phone out of my hand and pushed me backward. I stumbled into the counter top.

  “I. SAID. GET. OUT!” I shoved him back with both hands. I was so angry I had no fear. I reached to grab the phone from him and he pushed me back, easily holding me at bay with his other hand.

  I turned and stormed over to the counter. Grabbing my cell, I started to dial when I heard a loud thud. I spun around and saw Cole standing just inside the doorway, his arms at his sides, his fists flexing. He was standing a few feet from Jonathan, who was sprawled on the floor, ready to deliver another punch if Jonathan gave him reason to. I almost felt sorry for Jonathan…almost. Cole was more than capable of dealing with Jonathan so I put my cell back on the counter.

  “The lady said leave.” Cole’s voice so low and menacing, I got chills. He growled, taking a step closer to Jonathan. Jonathan held his hand over his bleeding mouth but managed to scramble back and quickly rise to his feet, holding up his free hand in Cole’s direction. He turned to me, his eyes delivering a silent threat I was thankful Cole didn’t see. It shook me. I grabbing the counter; my fingers turned white with the force of my grip.

  Cole opened the door and backed up, allowing Jonathan to pass without removing his eyes from Jonathan. Jonathan maintaining a wide berth between him and Cole when he walked from the apartment down to the elevator. Cole followed him out and spoke to him in a low, intimidating voice. I strained to hear what he said, but was unable to. Jonathan pushed the button for the elevator and stepped in when it arrived. After seeing the elevator door close with Jonathan inside, Cole turned back to the apartment, stopping to bend down and pick up the wine he left outside.

  Chapter 11

  Jonathan stepped out of the elevator to find Tony, the doorman, holding the door open stiffly.

  “Miss Preston does not want you here anymore. I see you anywhere near this building, I call the cops.”

  Jonathan turned to face Tony, a murderous look in his eyes.

  Tony didn’t back off. He stared unwavering into Jonathan’s eyes, not shaken by his venomous look. He raised his hand to his hat and stepped back inside the building, letting the door close after him.

  Jonathan stepped back, bending his head and looked up the height of the building. Mentally he pushed his anger down, where it settled in his gut, radiating out, encompassing all of his being. He forced himself to move forward. He had to do something. Someone would pay. Someone had to. After all he’d been paying all his life.

  The boy was born in a home for unwed mothers. Given up for adoption. Thrown away.

  The adoption agency was happy to arrange for the baby’s first family. The foster family kept the boy for three years. Then the foster family brought the boy back to the agency because he hurt their new baby. The foster family refused to adopt the boy and gave him back to the agency.

  The second family was nice. They didn’t know the boy’s history or what he had done. The people working at the agency didn’t disclose that to them, although they should have. The agency thought what the boy had done was an accident. Not able to grasp such a beautiful child, with the face of an angel could ever purposefully hurt a baby. Surely, he didn’t mean to hurt the baby.

  When the second family called to have him removed, the agency began to worry. The boy had put the family cat’s head in the toilet and held it under the water. The cat drowned. It was a family pet they had for eight years. They told the agency something was wrong with the boy.

  The next family had no children. They really wanted the boy and treated him well. The boy stayed with them for a year. The boy, then six years old, took a knife from the top of the kitchen table and plunged it into the thigh of the mother. She dragged herself to the phone and called for help. The father wanted the boy gone. They decided not to adopt.

  The agency tried once more. This time, afraid they would be held liable, they told the new family the boy had hurt the mother from the previous foster home. The new father told the agency he would straighten the boy out. The father hit the
boy. He hit the boy so badly during a drunken tirade the mother was forced to call the police. The agency removed the boy from the house and took him back. During the boy’s annual physical, they found bruises, cigarette burns and scars covering his body. The physical also revealed the boy had suffered broken bones. The father did not straighten the boy out; quite the opposite.

  The boy was now seven years old. The agency was having a hard time finding a home for the boy. The boy liked to hit and bite the other boys within the home and he needed to be kept away from the younger children. Sequestered.

  The agency finally found another home for the boy. They were a couple that had two older children and felt they could give the boy enough love to fix all that was wrong with the boy. After all, they understood boys.

  The boy was eight now. He trained himself to be well behaved. He didn’t want to go back to the orphanage. He was nice to the new family. One of the real kids liked to tease and hit the boy. The boy took the older kid’s baseball bat and struck him in the head as hard as he could. The family brought the boy back to the agency.

  Neither the family nor the agency wanted the boy.

  The State insisted the boy be examined by a psychiatrist, who after two years of biweekly sessions classified him as psychotic, sociopathic, and a chronic manipulator, but offered a solution that may work for all parties concerned. The psychiatrist said the boy would be monitored more closely if he lived full time in the special boy’s school where he worked.

  The agency gave the doctor custody of the boy.

  The boy presented signs of Pyromania and Hematomania. The psychiatrist tried more intensive therapy to no avail. There was no legal recourse to hold the boy, now a young man, in custody, and he was beyond corrective measures. At eighteen, the boy was released from the home and set out into the world.

  The doctor feared he failed the boy.

  He did.

  The young man found his way into the world and learned a way to make money. His looks along with his manipulative personality could earn him what he needed, the rest he would steal. There were always people, both men and woman, without integrity who’d be willing to pay him for sex. He kept the pain inside, inflicting it on others weaker than himself. This made him feel better.

  One rainy fall day, the young man had his first stroke of luck. After a “date” the young man was walking, on his way home to his rented room in South Philadelphia, and was approached by a well-dressed man wearing an expensive watch. The young man was willing to set up another “date.” This one would be easy to roll, besides the young man liked the watch. The man said he didn’t want sex, said he just wanted to talk. The young man was skeptical but followed the man into a nice bar two streets over. The man put money on the bar and bought the young man a drink. He told the young man he had a look, a certain look, a “bad-boy” look, one he had been searching for. The man said he was a modeling agent. It turned out the man was telling the truth. Now the young man’s face was plastered on billboards everywhere. He had fame, but a lot of hate. He had money, but not enough.

  The young man was determined to find out who his real parents were. The records were sealed, but the young man persevered and eventually found a way to hack into the system. He found his mother, a woman named Katherine Worthington, currently living in New York City. He would find out what he could about her.

  The young man swore before she died she would know who he was. She would know what she had done to him…she would know his pain, he’d show her.

  Chapter 12

  Cole

  17 years ago

  Tim, Ron and Jim planned to meet in Tim’s garage when everyone was asleep. It was the 7 graders’ hang out night. Once a month, after the new magazines hit the stands, the boys would gather to “talk shit,” smoke cigarettes and have a look at what every boy wants to see. A little “T&A”…every twelve year olds’ dream.

  Tim was cool and laid back. His father left the Hustler magazines in the upstairs bathroom under the sink. Rolled up and stuffed behind the shampoo bottles. His father even hinted at the hiding place when he was drunk.

  “Gonna turn you into a man someday. Your mother babies you, treats you like a fucking little girl,” he said one night in a drunken rant. “You need to see some tit and ass boy. That’ll turn you ‘round.”

  Tim silently thanked him all the while despising him.

  His friends idolized Tim and whenever the new issue hit the stands, Tim would know his father placed a copy in his special “hiding” place. Well used, but still viewable.

  The boys had a standing plan to meet in Tim’s garage every Friday, but once a month they would get together to see the new issue and tonight was that night. During lunch, Tim told his friends, “Got the new mag, you guys coming tonight? Full of big tits man. There’s even a black chick in it. You ever see black pussy hair? Looks like a fucking fro, dude.”

  “Fucking love pussy,” Ron said.

  “What the fuck you talking ‘bout, Ron? You wouldn’t even know what one looked like if it sat on your face.” Uproarious laughter exploded from the boys. “Until you saw one in a magazine you thought a beaver was an animal you shoot for dinner.” Ron turned his head to avoid the others seeing him redden. A muddled “fuck you” was heard amongst the laughing.

  Tim laughed.

  The rest of the guys agreed to meet.

  “I can get out at like one am,” Jim said.

  “I’ll come at one,” Ron said.

  “You only hope,” Tim said. The guys laughed again. “I’ll be there.”

  “What about Cole? Should we ask him?” Jim put out there. “He’s a good kid. Seems like one of us. ’Sides, he says he can get butts. No money.”

  “Shit, he’s cool. I say yeah,” Ron gave his view. “Why’d you think he won’t come?”

  “How the fuck would I know?” Tim said. “Ask him.”

  “Want to ask Joseph?” Jim asked. The guys grew quiet.

  “That bastard is cold, man.” Ron shook his head, than turned his face and spit on the ground next to where he stood, he was sure he looked cool. “He is ice. He thinks he knows it all too. Fuck him, I don’t like him.”

  “I think he is cool,” Jim said. “He’s fucked more girls than any of us. The shit he says. He’s funny. Maybe he can give Ron some tips.” Laughter rose again. “You know, he knows a lot of girls. Maybe he knows a few that just like doing it.”

  “I don’t like the guy.” Ron stood his ground.

  “Well, I already told him the next time we get together, he’s invited.”

  “You’re a fucking asshole, Jim, you know that?” Tim said

  “You’re a fucking asshole, douchebag,” Jim replied.

  “Well, it’s my house,” Tim asserted

  “You know, man, you’re a pussy,” Jim said.

  “Fuck it. But next time, you better tell me before you ask him to come to MY house.” Tim turned to grab his books. “Gotta go to math now. See you guys later.”

  “Sorry, man,” Jim yelled after Tim and was met with a stiff middle finger as Tim walked away. The others laughed, splitting up to go to their classes.

  Tim asked Cole later that day if he’d be coming out. Cole told him he wasn’t sure if he could make it. His dad had been riding him and his brother for not cleaning the yard, but he’d try. He really wanted to come.

  “Cool, man, if you can. It’d be great.” All the time Tim was thinking we need the butts, man.

  “Thanks for asking,” Cole said.

  “If you come, think you can get some butts?”

  “I can probably grab a pack of my dad’s. He always leaves ‘em lyin’ round. He smokes Kool’s, though, that okay?”

  “Beggars can’t be choosey.” They left with the silent agreement they’d meet tonight in Tim’s garage. Tim patted Cole on the back and turned to walk up to his house leaving Cole to walk the rest of the way alone.

  Cole lifted a pack of his father’s cigarettes from the drawer in his bed stand. He ha
d a full carton and one that was almost full; he wouldn’t notice. He grabbed gum from his brother’s school bag and stuck them in his jacket pocket with the cigarettes.

  At 12: 50 am, Cole shimmied open his bedroom window, and jumped down the three foot drop. He stopped a minute trying to hear if anyone heard him. After several minutes, he shut the window as silently as he could, still leaving enough room to push it open when he got home. He patted his right jacket pocket to ensure the cigarettes were there and pulled his hood up. Then putting his head down against the damp cold weather, he walked the four blocks to Tim’s house. He zipped his thin jacket up as high as it would go and pulled up his collar. He stuck his hands in his pockets, holding the square box.

  He walked faster to keep warm and turned onto Tim’s block. He spotted the dim light seeping out under the garage door. Opening it, he found all the guys there, holding a flashlight down on the full color pages of hustler magazine. He saw from where he stood a large pair of round tits, hard nipples. Shaking his head, he pulled the box of cigarettes out opening it. Pulling one out, he slipped it in his mouth, lighting it. The guys turned around at once and Cole threw the box to Ron. The guys all grabbed a cigarette, and the matchbook made the rounds until a steady stream of smoke rose up toward the rafters.

  “Shit, man, look at those tits. Would love to get my hands on those.”

  “Open it. Open the page. It opens full. You can see her pussy, man. Come on.”

  The guys all stood, eyes glued to the pages they rifled through. At twelve years old, these pictures were all they had.

  Joseph, the guy with all the girl stories, wasn’t there yet. His absence was mentioned once between the guys then quickly forgotten. He was five years older than the rest of them. Probably had something much cooler to do tonight. Probably getting laid was the general consensus.