The Jerk-Off
by Jack Lynch
Chapter 7
Reading Jane Austen.
The next day.
Boring!
Not just boring but bored out of his mind!
Ozzie stared down at the page, his eyes momentarily losing focus as they started to droop closed. He shook his head once and coughed, shaking his head again to stay awake.
Reading Jane Austen was bad enough, only second to having to read it out loud to two elderly women and an old man. The two women sat up straight, listening with rapt attention. The old guy's chin was down on his chest. Light snores with each breath—dream land. Even though it had rained a little while ago, they sat outside under a tree in weathered Adirondack chairs.
Today had already been pretty boring. Before Ozzie could get loose from his 'rents, he was corralled by his dad and more or less forced to play a round of golf.
They met Brock, aka The Brockster, and his dad Tom McAdams, at Crosswoods Golf Course. As usual, he played like crap, the other three outdistancing him by several strokes after only five holes. Ozzie amused himself by periodically sucking on his middle finger, staring intently at Brock who obliged him by staring back, a hungry look on his face. Ozzie chuckled to himself as he spied the outline of The Brockster's stiffy underneath his red golf pants.
Brock was a decent fuck buddy, but not even close to an FWB. Last night, laying on the couch in the family room, Ozzie traded a couple of horny texts with him before they decided to hook up. When Brock arrived at his house, he nonchalantly allowed himself to get felt up for a few minutes before grabbing his hand and leading him up to his room. A fitful night's sleep followed after each one of them poured out a couple of loads into each other.
Today, after that horrendously bad round of golf and a shower, he ambled down the stairs, reviewing all possible options for the rest of the day. Ozzie found his mother getting a couple of canvas shopping bags ready with some arts and crafts items.
"C'mon, honey. Grab a snack. You can come volunteer with me over at Crosslake Community Center."
"Oh, mom, no-o-o!" Ozzie whined. "Why-y-y?"
Ozzie rubbed his eye and turned the page.
"Mother, how are you doing?'
A man had appeared out of nowhere, leaning down over the back of one of the ladies. She looked up and smiled weakly.
"Do I know who you are?" she asked.
"I'm Ron, your son. You remember me, don't you?"
"Oh, yes," she replied, sounding somewhat skeptical.
Ron looked over at Ozzie, a friendly smile on his face. He continued to look, his smile turning into more of a stare. Ozzie smirked, first turning his head to the right as if looking out in the distance, exposing the boy side of his face. Then, he turned his head to the left and brushed his hand across his hair, showing off his girly side. Glancing back at Ron, Ozzie found him still looking at him, a distant expression on his face.
"Yes, Ron?" Ozzie asked, a plain, rather bored look, on his face. He lifted one leg onto the wide arm of the chair, dangling his calf, showing off the tender backside of his thigh.
"Hi Nana! It's me, Maddie!"
Ron was suddenly jerked out of his trance.
A young girl leaned over and put her arm around the old woman. Of indeterminate age, late teens or early twenties, perhaps. Light brown hair, tied back into a pony tail, cat like eyes, oval face, a summer tan, cute little body. She wore a zip-up sweat shirt and short shorts, so tight her camel toe shown at the intersection of her legs. She glanced up at Ozzie, a twinkly smile on her face.
Ozzie chuckled lightly, a shiver going down his back. Am I getting hit on, he asked himself? By a man AND his daughter?? He usually didn't bother to notice this kind of attention. This was suddenly kind of interesting.
"Aren't you O's boy," Ron asked? He continued looking at Ozzie, his eyes quickly running up and down his body.
"Yeah."
Ozzie obliged them both by dropping the one leg down, letting them both fall open, a smirk now on his face, absentmindedly scratching an itch at the top of his thigh.
Awhile later, after reading a couple of chapters of Jane Austen his obligatory one hour of volunteering was over. He propped himself up on an empty bike rack in front of the community center, waiting for his mother.
Just then, Ron came trotting out the door, apparently in a hurry to get somewhere. Seeing Ozzie, he slowed to a walk, coming to a stop in front of him.
"So, ah, I wanna thank you for taking the time to read to my mother."
Ozzie smirked, "Not a problem. Glad to do it."
Ron stared at Ozzie, his eyes roving quickly again over the boy's body. Ozzie felt a twitch. It felt kind of like he was getting mentally undressed by the guy's gaze—sort of hot and a little embarrassing at the same time. To break the tension, on the other hand, maybe to add to it, he pulled the elastic on the choker chain around his neck. Absentmindedly, while he stared back at Ron, he sucked on the little plastic blocks that spelled out the word, "pretty." Unknown to most people, when the blocks were flipped over, they spelled, "tricky."
Ron seemed like he was going to say something. Instead, he dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.
"Well, I really appreciate it," he said, thrusting the money into Ozzie's hand.
Just then, Maddie came bouncing out of the building. Stopping for just a moment, she gave Ozzie another flirty smile as she grabbed onto her father's arm.
"C'mon dad. We gotta get going."
Back at home, in his room with the door locked, Ozzie set up the small iPhone tripod on his dresser and prepared to record his next TikTok performance. Pulling his clothes off and replacing them with only a pair of lace fringed bikini panties, he turned on some Taylor Swift and began dancing, gyrating, and lip synching to "Me!"
After recording and posting it, he checked out his stats, smiling in satisfaction. He was now up to a healthy 50,241 followers since he started making his little videos.
Ozzie made the first one as a joke and a dare, egged on by Brock. In it, he was laying on his bed, on his back with Brock straddled across his hips, back to the camera. Bare chested, it looked as if Ozzie was naked because Brock blocked the view to the most important bits. Ozzie vigorously shook his arm, an intense expression on his face as he looked up at Brock. It appeared as though Ozzie was jerking off. Only when Brock moved to the side was it revealed that Ozzie was actually shaking a plastic pint bottle of juice. They laughed their asses off before posting it. Amazingly, Ozzie had over 5,000 views within a few hours.
Since then, he'd become a regular contributor, dedicated to his growing legion of fans. The first one had gotten an NSFW designation, the subsequent ones becoming increasingly risqué.
As Ozzie slowly stripped the panties off, he twisted around, looking at himself from behind in his closet mirror. He solemnly evaluated his perfectly small, round ass. I'd fuck me, he thought. I bet Ron would, too. And, what about Maddie? He giggled.
Hand down his pants, fingers around his stiff joint, Rome thumbed through several pictures on his phone. One single subject—Thayer.
Various versions, most taken surreptitiously. The majority were from the back or the side, good views especially of the cutest butt that nature and genetics had ever created. One even showed a little skin when Thayer was stretching up to grab a snagged net off the wall of the boathouse. His t-shirt had pulled up, revealing smooth pearly white skin just above his hip. A few pictures included Thayer's face, either glancing to the side, one even looking right at Romey. Those long eyelashes and thick dark eyebrows were groan worthy. Those full pink lips—so kissable!
Rome fantasized about the t-shirt he'd found on the sale rack at Pamida. Buried in the back of his underwear drawer, he wondered how Thayer would react if he just gave it to him. He would love to see him wearing it. In a rainbow of colors and sparkles, the words "Puppy Love" were printed across the chest.
"Hey, Romey! You got any wieners in here?"
Rome was immediately jolted out of his hazy fantasy. He quickly pulled his hand out of his pants.
"Ah…no…they have 'em over at The Bar," he mumbled, immediately feeling embarrassed, avoiding the man's eyes.
"What about the one ya had your hand around?" The man huffed.
Rome just grimaced, looking down to the side, feeling his face burning.
"Where's Ten Ethyl?"
"I dunno. Fish house, maybe?"
Without another word, he stomped out of the boathouse.
Rome watched him go. Scary, he thought.
Cornish Jago. Just turned sixty-nine, looking all of those years and then some. With a large weathered face, wide chin, and enormous hooked nose, locals secretly joked that he was a dead ringer for the Waldorf character of Sesame Street fame. Coarse bushy hair on the sides of his head, bald on top, equally bushy eyebrows, and long hairs protruding from his nostrils. Fierce brown eyes and a grouchy demeanor that made even Waldorf seem more like a pussy cat.
Ted wasn't in the fish house. He was next to one of the docks, bent over an outboard, a screwdriver in one hand and a pair of pliers in the other.
"Ten Ethyl," Cornish said as he ambled up, not even bothering to say hello first.
Elwinde looked up, frowned, turning to look over Cornish's shoulder.
"Boy!" He yelled.
Thayer came running across the waterfront to where the two men were standing.
"Get me a new pair of spark plugs."
"Yes, sir." Then trying to be helpful, "Anything else I can get you, sir?"
Ted sighed as he straightened up, "If I wanted something else, wouldn't I have told ya?"
Without another word, Thayer turned and ran up the hill toward the boathouse.
"Where are the plugs?" He asked, his eyes roving around wildly.
Rome got off his stool and calmly reached over to a box on a nearby shelf. He handed two of them to Thayer.
"Ah, Thayer. You wanna hang out later?" He asked hopefully.
"Ummm…I dunno. Maybe." He looked in the distance for a moment. Then realizing he had no plans and hadn't had a chance to even think about hooking up with C.O., "Well, ok."
"That's good. Really good," Rome replied, sounding relieved.
"What can I do ya for, Cornie?" Ten Ethyl asked, trying not to pay too much attention to the man.
"Just wonderin' if you been gettin' cancellations since that murder over there." He pointed his chin toward Ledecker Island.
"Well, we had five today." Elwinde paused and looked up at Cornish, a derisive look on his face. "What's it to ya?"
Cornish chuckled. "I dunno. Just checkin.'" Without another word, he turned and walked away, whistling an indistinguishable tune under his breath.
Things were starting to work out perfectly, he thought. Just perfectly. That guy getting plugged over there on Ledecker Island probably got a few people queered out about coming to Bay Lake. He giggled to himself about that word, "queer." Get a few more avoiding the area and, maybe, things might start changing for the better.
The Jago's, starting with Cornish's grandfather, had been a fixture around Bay Lake for longer than most people could remember. In that time, the locale had gone from a quaint, sleepy rural area with the lake providing just enough recreation for the locals, to a bustling, not quite booming tourist and vacation home destination. Cornish and his family groused about all of the changes, constantly appearing at county and township meetings to object to any and all easements and development plans. It seemed to do no good. When he got up to protest lately, people just yawned and rolled their eyes.
What better way to slow down or stop people from coming than an old fashioned murder? Last night, one of the guys at The Bar had even shared some gossip that it looked more like an execution. Even better! His mind started whirling. I wonder what other shenanigans I can cook up?
"A little early, ain't it?"
Linnie Lee looked up and smirked, "It's just a ginger ale." The first lie of the day. That was a lie, too. It wasn't the first lie of the day. She took a sip of her drink, "What's up, Deck?"
He slid onto the stool next to her as a bartender laid a cocktail napkin in front of him.
"Crown and Coke," he said.
"A little early, ain't it," Linnie Lee chided?
Deck huffed, "Not for me. I've been trying to track you down since the crack of dawn. Yesterday, too, after that little incident at Dad's cabin." He gave her a hard look.
"You're lucky. I just got here." Another lie. She'd been here all night.
He finally tracked her down at Northern Lights Casino just outside of Walker. A pain-in-the-ass hour and a half from Bay Lake in slow moving lake traffic. 10 a.m. Of course, you'd never know it in here. The same lighting, day or night, no windows anywhere.
Linnie Lee was silent. She picked up the glass and sucked down another swallow of her drink. Around them, the dinging and clanging of one-armed bandits continued unabated.
"I wanted to extend my condolences," he said, a note of sarcasm in his voice, "on the passing of your, ah, what shall we call him, your friend?"
"I don't know who you're talking about." She looked straight ahead at their reflection in the mirror on the backside of the bar.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Now in a completely sarcastic tone. "I guess he was talking about someone else named Linnie Lee when he told me—no threatened me, if I didn't sell out to you."
She turned to face him. "Now, there's an idea! Why don't you? Then, we can be done with each other forever."
Deck smirked. "Like you even have the money."
"What if I did, Deck? What if I did??"
He paused, staring at her for a moment incredulously, before taking a swallow of his drink.
"Maybe I have a backer," Linnie Lee muttered.
"That guy? That guy's dead!"
"Not him. The people he was working for."
"Who are they?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
Back and forth they went, not really making any progress. Finally, Deck slid off the back of the stool.
"You better call off the hounds, Linnie Lee. Paybacks are a bitch." With that, he walked away. "Oh, and thanks for the drink," he called out as he left.
A soft rap.
"Is Clifford here, by chance?" Shamus asked, after C.O.'s dad came to the door.
He wasn't.
"Shooting some hoops. Should be back pretty soon. What's this about, officer?"
Questioning everyone who was at the party the night of the murder, he responded.
"Routine," Shamus said after explaining why he wanted to talk to C.O.
It wasn't routine, however. It didn't take very long at all for Concannon's people to track down the owner of the blood found on that rock. Clifford Olson, type AB Negative blood, was treated for a severe laceration at Cuyuna Medical Center in Crosslake. Sixteen stitches later, he was released the night of the murder, around 10:30 p.m.
Rhennie Wilson shrugged his shoulders, letting Shamus in and offering him a seat while he waited. In the meantime, he and his wife tried to pry more details out of Shamus about the progress of the investigation. Only the barest of information was offered, making the conversation stilted and awkward.
C.O. showed up a few minutes later, bathed in sweat, wearing a sleeveless shirt, loose fitting basketball shorts, and a cap worn backwards. After introductions and a few remarks were made, Shamus gestured to a chair just opposite to where he'd been sitting.
As he appraised the young man, Shamus quickly took in every detail. Tall, broad shoulders, smooth muscles on his tanned upper arms, hairy legs. Blond hair, over his ears, sticking out rather attractively from the baseball cap he was wearing. Eyes that cut straight across his face, as if someone had crudely drawn them in with a pencil. Not like an oval or curved downward, as most people's eyes were. Rather attractive, even with the bruise on his cheek , Shamus thought to himself. A small nose, some stray whiskers on his chin. Bottom line—handsome.
After a few benign questions about the party, Shamus requested that C.O. remove his cap. Reluctantly he slipped it off his head, revealing the bandage on top. C.O. looked off to the side at his parents, Rhennie currently sporting a frown on his face.
"Hmmm," Shamus purred. Looking down, "And what size shoes do you wear?"
"Size twelve."
"Hey, wait a minute," C.O.'s father interrupted.
"What were you doing out behind Mr. Ledecker's cabin the night before last?"
C.O.'s face immediately colored. "Ummm."
Shamus could tell the boy was running through every possible answer.
"We know you were out there. Your head apparently made contact with a rock."
"How do you know that?" He looked at his parents for help. They both stared back at him, concerned looks on their faces, his father now silent.
Shamus quickly revealed what he knew. Treated for a cut, stitches, blood type.
"So?"
C.O. cleared his throat. "I was out for a walk."
"At night? In complete darkness? In the middle of a party?"
"Ummm," again. More mental calculations.
"Who was with you?"
"No one."
"We are speculating there were at least two other people out there around the same time." This was, indeed, speculation. Shamus was making a calculated guess.
C.O. let out a long breath. "Okay, yeah. But, I wasn't with them."
"Who were they? Names," Shamus responded firmly.
"Cutie and Thayer," he responded sheepishly.
"If you weren't with them, what were you doing?"
In a halting manner, C.O. explained what had been going on, keeping the details as vague as possible. Embarrassed, he looked down at the floor.
"I see. So, you were watching, in a manner of speaking," Shamus said rather sarcastically, "and then you just tripped?"
"Ah, no. I think I got pushed or something."
"By whom?"
"I dunno. He came out of nowhere."
"Why do you say, 'he?'" How do you know it wasn't a 'she?'"
C.O. shook his head, a blush continuing to cover his face.
"I guess it was the way I was pushed—firm like. And, just as I was pushed, I smelled something."
"Oh? What was it that you smelled?"
"I dunno. I can't really say. It smelled kind of sharp or bitter."
A few more questions, little more to go on, and the interview was over.
As he left, Shamus said in a somewhat menacing voice, "We'll be in touch."
"Inspector Bueller," Rhennie called after Shamus, "I'd like to advise you that I'm an attorney."
"No problem," Shamus replied with a gratuitous smile. He turned to go, stopped and swiveled around. "By the way, it's Agent, not Inspector."
After stepping off the Wilson's deck, he pulled the rough drawing of Ledecker Island out of his pocket. Stopping to examine it, he used a finger to trace a line from Arthur's cabin to a spot roughly where he thought the blood had been found. If someone had pushed C.O., were they heading towards Deck's place, Dickie Lee's, or Linnie Lee's cabin?
Doing a quick about face, he returned to the Wilson's door.
"Would you mind taking a quick trip over to Ledecker Island with me?"
C.O. turned to his parents to see if they had any objection. Seeing none, he just shrugged his shoulders. "Okay."
"Son, you be very careful about what you say," Rhennie warned.
A few minutes later, Shamus and C.O. were at The Bar and Gas, heading down toward the docks.
"Mr. Elwinde. I say, Mr. Elwinde," Shamus called.
Rather than take the sheriff's boat over to the island, he wanted to use one of Ten Ethyl's. He had a plan.
"Sure, take that one," Ten Ethyl replied, pointing his chin toward a small outboard bobbing at the end of one of the docks.
"If you don't mind, would you send one of your people over with us?"
"No, I don't mind." Ten Ethyl turned his head. "Boy!"
A few minutes later, the three of them were more than halfway to Ledecker Island.
"Turn in to Deck's place," Shamus yelled over his shoulder to Thayer. He pointed toward the dock leading up to the cabin.
Just as they docked, Cutie came running out of the house.
"Hey guys!" Then looking at Shamus struggling to get a leg up on the dock, she said, "My dad's not here."
"That's all right. Perhaps you can help us, young lady."
After leading C.O., Thayer, and Cutie into the woods, Shamus approached the rock where C.O.'s blood had been discovered.
"Show me where you were standing when you got pushed."
Thayer's mouth dropped open. Nothing had been said about why they were here before now. He felt his pulse quicken.
"Behind this tree," C.O. replied pointing to a spot nearby.
"Go stand over there, if you don't mind. And, Thayer," Shamus continued, "Where were you?"
A moment later, both boys were positioned as they had been that night. Thayer looked at a now blushing C.O., a bewildered look on his own face. Cutie stood off to the side, her hands on her hips.
A smile formed on Shamus's face. "And, where were you, Cutie?"
She started to object, then thinking otherwise, eyes down, Cutie walked over and stood in front of Thayer.
Shamus looked from C.O. to the rock, then off in the distance. Without question, whoever pushed the boy had been coming from Arthur's cabin. Based on the direction that C.O. fell the perpetrator of the offense, likely the killer, could have been headed either toward Dickie Lee's place or Linnie Lee's cabin.
As they headed back to the boat, Shamus turned to the three kids.
"Thank you very much, Cutie. You can go."
A quick wave and she turned back toward her house.
"Boys, let me ask you something. Do either one of you own a boat?"
"Yeah," Thayer and C.O. answered in unison.
"We own a Sea Ray and a skiff," C.O. offered.
"The same two I saw when I was at your place?"
C.O. just nodded his head.
"And you, Thayer?"
"Yeah. It's just a fishing boat. It belongs to my family."
"Does it happen to have a name?"
Thayer felt himself getting red in the face.
"Casey's Blow," he replied sheepishly.
"Hmmm, yes," Shamus replied, tapping his finger against his lip.
A few answers. Many more questions.
Back on shore, the two boys dismissed, Shamus speculated further on which way the potential perpetrator might have gone after taking the young Wilson boy out. And, what was that about, anyway? Did he do it on purpose? Or, did he just happen to run into C.O. in his haste to get away?
Just then, his phone rang.
"Inspector, we got an I.D. on the victim," Sheriff Concannon said as he leaned back in his chair and brought his hand around to scratch his neck.
"Yes?"
"You're gonna love this! One, Orly Keogh, lately of Las Vegas. As we understand it, employed by the Barzini gang. Allegedly."
"So, Mafia, then?"
"Yeah. Just talked to the FBI in Washington. He was number thirteen on the Most Wanted List. It's party, party, party over there. They're celebrating with Krispy Kreme donuts."
"What did he do for the Barzini's?"
"Strong arm specialist. Listed officially by their shell company, Barzini Commercial Laundry, as a Project Manager. Title fits, I guess."
"What happens now?"
"Well, technically, this is now a Federal investigation. But, they don't really give a rip who offed him, so they're gonna take a back seat. At least for the time being."
"By the way, it's Agent Bueller, not Inspector."
After hanging up, Shamus pondered his next move. This certainly puts an interesting spin on things, he thought. He glanced over at the two boys. C.O. and Thayer were standing facing each other, a questioning frown on Thayer's face, an embarrassed look on C.O.'s. Thayer looking up at a much taller C.O. Unusually close to each other, Shamus thought.
Concannon would be glad, at the very least, that the boat his deputies found was accounted for. A minor detail. The Mafia connection was fascinating, however. He wanted to get back to the Sheriff's office to take a look at the full report on Keogh. If there was a way to tie one of the Ledeckers to Vegas, he could have a significant break in the case.
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