The Jerk-Off
by Jack Lynch
Chapter 6
Elliott.
Earlier that day.
"Christ, Cutie! Would you get dressed?"
"Dad! What is your problem?"
Deck could feel the blood pulsing through his veins. He took a deep breath, trying to get his heart rate under control. She could do that to him. Even at the age of thirteen, she was able to get him going, for better or worse. The fact of the matter was that he worshipped his daughter, giving her everything she needed or wanted. She was a clone of her mother, both in the looks department, and in her personality. It was what he loved about her the most. The divorce, losing Suzanne, was the biggest regret of his life. The chick she caught him with was a magnificent lay but, bottom line, she hadn't been worth it.
He phoned Linnie Lee, the call once again going immediately to voicemail. He needed to get to the bottom of how and why she was connected to the dead guy, the one who had threatened him the other night. This was his third attempt to talk to her. In between, he'd trudged through the woods to her place, peering in the windows, finding it empty.
"I'll be back later," he called out to Cutie as he banged the front door shut and jumped down off the deck.
Within the hour, Katherine Ann LaBouré was sitting across the table from Deck, a bored expression on her face. This whole thing, meaning lunch, had come nothing close to her expectations. At least, so far. Deck was on the phone again. This must have been the fifth call he'd taken or made since they sat down at a table on the lakeside terrace at Ruttger's Bay Lake Resort.
Thirty-three years old. A full head of luxuriously thick red hair, hazel eyes, lips and make-up always perfectly done up to mask her freckles, a shapely body. On a mission to find a man, be it a sugar daddy or a financially well-heeled guy closer to her age. After sort of burning out the field in the Twin Cities, a friend of hers suggested she check out the action up north.
She was hanging around Bar 209 in Bemidji one night, waiting to meet a guy she'd connected with on a dating app. Deck came in with his daughter and took a table along the side wall. For a moment, her warped mind thought she was his date. Only when she passed by on the way to the restroom did she hear the girl address him as her dad. On the way back, he glanced up at her and smiled. Just before they left, Deck stopped by and chatted her up for a couple of minutes. A date was made for later that night, one that ended with a romp in her bed.
Katherine or Kat, as everyone called her, frowned at Deck before abruptly getting up and leaving the table for a trip to the ladies room. After closing the bathroom stall door, she pulled her translucent blouse out of her slacks, reached behind and popped the clasp on her bra. After a couple of twists here and there, she got it off, and tossed it into her handbag.
With the "girls" now liberated, she strolled back to the table and sat down. Deck was still on the phone, but after zeroing in on her tits, he cut the call short. His eyes narrowed and his mouth went slack as he stared at her chest, momentarily in a daze. Kat chuckled, knowing the sight of her pleasantly shaped breasts and milk chocolate brown nipples, now easily visible through the thin material of her top, had had the prescribed effect.
Awhile later they were on a bed in one of the vacant cabins. Both naked. Before lunch, Kat had tracked down one of the maids, slipping her a twenty in exchange for a key.
On her back, legs spread. Her favorite position or one of them, anyway. Deck was on his stomach, his face buried in her pussy. Even though it was the fashion these days to shave it all off, Kat kept a healthy bush. Somehow, she knew that fire red pubic hair, matching the hair on her head, ignited most men. Deck was no different.
"Oh yeah, oh yeah," she kept repeating, grabbing the sides of Deck's head to hold him closer.
After the dirty deed had been done, Kat was drying herself following a shower, when she peered into the bedroom to see Deck on the phone, yet again. He lay on his side, still naked, examining his manicured fingernails. She smiled, enjoying the sight of his naked hips, decent looking package, and his cute butt, visible as a reflection in the mirror above the dresser.
"I'd like to be more sympathetic to your situation, Fred. But, if the funds aren't Venmo'd into my account by the end of the week, those photos are going out on the Wide World Web."
He listened for a few moments.
"Well, that's all I have to say. Bye-bye," he said in an almost sing-song voice. "Bye-bye," one more time, and he clicked off.
Kat giggled, "Deck, it's called the World Wide Web, not the Wide World Web."
Deck smirked, just as his phone rang.
"Hey Fritz!"
"Deck, you've got another overdraft," Wold said.
"Jeez, Fritz. My office manager shoulda been there by now with a deposit. We'll be back in the black by the end of the day, I promise," Deck lied.
"Are you sure? Because…"
Deck cut him off.
"Aww, sorry Fritz. Got my foreman on the other line. I'll call ya back."
Elsewhere, Freddie Bartholomew hung up, his hand shaking as he threw his phone onto a chair. Going immediately to the kitchen counter, he opened the prescription bottle and knocked it against his palm. In one gulp, the Xanax was down his throat.
It was only after he took it that he remembered it had been just a couple of hours since he'd downed the last one. Scratching the rash that had suddenly appeared on his neck, he tried to get a hold of his breathing.
Just turned forty-one, Fred was doing his best to stave off middle age. 5'10," just crossing the two-hundred pound line, a thickening gut. He still had a full head of sandy brown hair, though, which warranted his considerable investment in getting it cut and styled. He had a standing appointment every two weeks at the Curl Up and Dye in Brainerd.
"You're gonna be sorry. You're gonna be sorry," he muttered under his breath. Trouble was, he wasn't sure who he was talking about. Who was gonna be sorry? Him or Deck?
A lapse. That was the only word for it. He had met the guy at Morey's Fish Market in Baxter a couple of weeks ago. Freddie's wife had sent him to pick up a special order. Gail was planning a lobster dinner for her sister, her sister's husband, and some "newish" friends she was trying to suck up to, the de la Renta's.
He wasn't one of the fishmongers, more of just a helper. Tall and lanky, his long dark hair pulled back into a man bun. A round, boyish face, dark colored eyebrows, and azure blue eyes. A bit of a scruff on his cheeks, likely an attempt to look older. Freddie's interest was immediately piqued. He had such a friendly, cute demeanor. Running to fetch the large box of crustaceans, ringing up the order with such aplomb.
"What's your name, young man?"
"Elliott," he replied. "Here ya go, Mr. Bartholomew," handing Freddie his credit card receipt.
"Please. It's Fred."
Elliott stopped for a moment, their eyes making a connection. He smiled.
"Here, Gretchen, let me refresh your drink," Freddie smiled somewhat audaciously, as he grabbed the glass from his sister-in-law's hand. He hummed a little tune as he poured her another double vodka, giggling to himself. The thought of getting her completely smashed before the evening was over was a worthy, solidly entertaining, idea. It would be delightful to get her loose enough so that pole would slip out, the one that was always solidly stuck up her ass.
Later, during dinner, he glanced at Gretchen through hooded eyes. She was seated just to his right, reciting some utterly boring details from a recent county commission meeting. Freddie was mildly pleased that she was beginning to slur some of her words. He flashed back to another party, one when they were much younger. A house party at a friend's place. They were all there, even the Ledecker kids. The more Gretchen had to drink that night, the more she talked in a loud and increasingly shrill voice. In mid-sentence, she stopped for a moment, gave Dickie Lee a funny grin, and released a fire hose of vomit all over the front of his shirt. A couple of girls tried to hustle Gretchen out of the house, but she had to stop every couple of steps to bend over and puke some more. From that time to the present, she had a new nickname, one that they all referred to, usually out of earshot or under their breaths—Retchin' Gretchen.
"How about shrimp for dinner?" he asked his wife a few days later.
Later that same day, he was back at Morey's to pick up a pound and a half of shrimp, delighted to find Elliott on duty and more than willing to assist him. That guy was so cute, it made his face hurt, Freddie thought. In a halting voice, he screwed up enough courage and asked him if he wanted to meet up for a drink. Elliott looked at him, his stare frozen for a moment, before he grinned and nodded.
A few days ago, after a drink at The Bar, Freddie invited Elliott to join him for a short drive along a nearby country road. Parked in a grove of trees, they practically attacked each other, some heavy duty necking followed by some serious groping. In minutes, Freddie had Elliott bent over the fender of his car, his jeans pulled down to his ankles. Freddie chuckled, nudged them off and kicked his feet apart.
Fuck ! He thought. I love the way this kid looks! Naked from the waist down, just wearing an open shirt, hiking boots, and socks. Kind of naughty! His cute narrow butt, dark curls matching the hair on his head, ran down the crack of his ass. So natural! That hirsute appearance turbo-charged Freddie's erection. He resisted the temptation to bend down and sniff it. I bet it has a musky aroma , he thought. Slapping his hard dick against Elliott's ass, he wet it with some spit and prepared to nudge it into the boy's butthole.
Unbeknownst to Freddie, the grove of trees was on a parcel owned by Ledecker Excavating. They used the land as a dumping ground for construction material like broken up concrete and rebar from various projects. Deck was just returning from a quick meeting with one of his foremen about opening up a new section for waste material when he spied two vehicles parked near the road.
A couple of minutes later, Deck leaned a shoulder into a nearby tree, arms crossed, as he snapped photos with his phone. Freddie made one last thrust into Elliott after he'd orgasmed with several loud grunts.
Clap! Pause. Clap! Pause. Clap!
Freddie stumbled back in surprise, Elliott pushed himself back up with his arms and looked back.
Deck chuckled mightily. "Well, Freddie, Freddie, Freddie!"
Awhile later at The Bar, Deck had his arm around Fred's shoulder, sitting side-by-side next to each other at the far end of the bar.
"Aww, Freddie, I don't think twenty-five grand is all that much, considering what you could lose. You know. Your marriage, your house, all your money. I mean your wife's money," he smirked.
Since then, Freddie had been spending days and most of every night plotting how he was going to hack into their accounts, get the money, and pay Deck off. Following that, how he was going to bury the withdrawal. The problem was that his wife watched their money like a hawk.
Freddie used both hands to wipe his face, attempting to cleanse his mind of the current reality.
"You're gonna be sorry," he muttered one more time.
Late in the day, Shamus sat back in his chair, exhaling a breath of satisfaction, as he gazed at the computer screen. Chapter 33 of his latest novel was almost complete. The protagonist, a young man whose name was Rory, had finally hooked up with the love of his life, a much older man, a financial wizard who called Italy his home.
Even in the throes of a murder investigation, he found a couple of hours to write. For now, he was in a moment of suspended animation as he waited for a variety of reports to come in.
Shamus picked up the phone on the first ring.
"Yes?"
"Inspector Bueller, I have an update," Harriet Leach replied.
"Go on," Shamus breathed into the phone.
"No surprise. Death was instantaneous. One shot to the head, through the right eye, as a matter of fact. Forty-five caliber, as you guessed."
"I didn't guess."
"Ah, right. Specifically, an ACP, most likely came from a Colt."
"What else?"
"Death likely between eight and 8:30 p.m. Deceased was a male, early to mid-fifties. No wedding ring, no ID on him. Nothing on his person except for one item in his right front pocket. We didn't notice it until we got his pants cut off."
"What was it?"
"A $500 bill."
"Hmmm." Shamus chuckled. "Do you think he was holding onto it for good luck?"
It was Harriet's turn to chuckle.
"I don't suppose there were any prints on that bill."
"Clean."
"ID?"
"We haven't heard back from the Feds yet."
"What else do you have for me?"
"That red material they found in the woods? It was blood, all right. Type AB negative. Fresh."
"What was our victim's blood type?"
"O negative."
"Interesting. What percentage of the population is Type AB negative?"
"Around six tenths of one percent. Rare. Very rare."
Shamus sighed. "Anything else, Harriet?"
"Yeah. They just handed me the casts of those footprints they found near the blood."
"What ya got?"
"Three different sets. Two are male for sure. One is a size twelve. The other is either an eight or an eight and a half. The third one is either a female or an adolescent. I'm not sure.
"Have a guess?"
"Female. Young, probably a teenager."
After a couple of more back-and-forths, Shamus rang off, not before correcting the M.E, "By the way, it's Agent Bueller, not Inspector."
Shamus punched Sheriff Concannon's number into his phone. He needed a deputy to visit the ER's in Brainerd and Crosby and a couple of guys to call around to the urgent care clinics in the area to find out if anyone with Type AB negative had been treated for an injury in the last twenty-four hours.
Next—back to his story. The rich man and his boy lover had been rolling around in the sheets, their bodies and legs wound around each other. Shamus smiled softly at the computer display, an erection quickly forming between his legs.
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