The Jerk-Off
by Jack Lynch
Chapter 8
Where the Elite Meet.
Late afternoon.
Thayer sat on the floor, his back against the couch in the family room of Romey's house. Deep in thought. Well, several thoughts. First, how do I get out of here? Second , how do I broach the subject with C.O. about the real reason why he was hiding behind that tree?
There had been no time to talk after they got back to shore. Mr. Elwinde was on him from the moment he tied up the boat to the end of the day. Just as he was about to leave, his fingers on his phone ready to punch in C.O.'s number, and Rome was standing right there.
"Oh yeah, forgot," he replied, a distant looRome lightly scratched his chest, just below one of his nipplk in his face, when Rome reminded him that he had agreed to hang out. The look on Romey's face was so expectant, Thayer was afraid to let him down.
When Rome returned from the kitchen with a couple of sodas, Thayer was surprised to see he'd changed clothes, replacing his jeans and grubby t-shirt with a pair of baggy shorts, shirtless.
"Nice farmer's tan, Romey," Thayer teased. The boy's skin was pale white, a distinct tan line starting mid-way down his upper arms.
Rome blushed for a second, then he smiled, "I bet you have one, too!"
Thayer chuckled again. "Not like that."
"Let's see," Rome chided.
"Nah, that's ok," Thayer replied, in a decidedly cool tone. He popped the can of soda and took a swig. He tried not to look at Romey. The kid was so scrawny. Thin arms, no definition to his chest, nipples so small and pale they were practically invisible, knobby knees, freckles on his boney shoulders.
"Wanna play baseball?" Rome asked.
"Sure."
They sat side-by-side, each thumbing their own controls, as they played a game of Super Mega Baseball using Rome's Xbox. Within a couple of innings, Rome was cleaning Thayer's clock, ahead by several runs. That was in spite of the fact that he was trying hard to let Thayer win.
"You should be better at this," Romey teased.
"Why?"
"Well, you know."
Thayer smirked. "That hardly seems like any kind of reason."
Romey, of course, was referring to Thayer's storied lineage. He was the great-great, maybe one more great, grandson of Ernest Thayer, the writer who had penned the famous poem, "Casey At The Bat." Grandpa Ernie, as his mother fondly referred to him, even though he died well before she was even born, was far from a baseball player. He was a journalist who wrote a humor column for William Randolph Hearst's San Francisco Examiner .
Ernest Thayer became famous when Hearst published his poem, first a sensation, eventually growing to folklore status. The family was periodically besieged by reporters and historians who wanted access to his private papers, searching for any clues to the characters and teams that were the subject of his piece. There were none—they were all made up. His papers and other memorabilia were now stored in the attic of the Dunn's house. As late as last year, Thayer's mother had received a call from a producer at ESPN wanting to do a feature.
But, the legend lived on. Thayer's older sister, currently a summer intern on Wall Street, was named Casey, there had been a couple of Ernie's here and there, and his grandfather's middle name was Hearst. William Randolph and Ernest had been good friends. And, of course, his name was Thayer. Since as long as he could remember, it seemed as though everyone assumed he was going to develop into an elite baseball player. Nope, not even.
Rome lightly scratched his chest, just below one of his nipples, letting his hand fall to the top of his shorts. He ran his hand along the edge, dipping the tips of his fingers just below the waistband. He tried to sneak a peek to see if Thayer was noticing.
Thayer was noticing all right, quickly glancing out of the sides of his eyes. Things were starting to get strange and he was not at all comfortable about it.
Rome turned on his side, letting his controller fall to the floor, so he was facing Thayer. Those amazing eyelashes! It seemed as if they stuck a foot out from his eyes. Thick eyebrows, maybe a tiny mole on his temple, just off of the edge of his left eyebrow.
"Ummm…Thayer…?"
Thayer was afraid of what might come next. He turned slowly to face Romey.
"Do you like Cutie?" That wasn't what he wanted to ask but it was all Rome dared ask, at least for now.
"Oh, I dunno," Thayer responded. He couldn't have been more ambivalent about Cutie, especially at the moment.
"She told me she thinks you're really cute."
Thayer just blushed.
"I think you're pretty cute, too," Rome whispered.
"Gotta go! Gotta go!" Thayer blurted out, as he jumped to his feet.
"I guess it sucks to be you," Clark Berg said into the phone, followed by a grunt. He curled his fingers, examining the manicure he'd gotten earlier in the day.
Linnie Lee grimaced but maintained her composure. She had just tried to back out of their deal. She was no longer interested in being part of their scheme. Their guy was dead, the recipient of a gun shot to the head.
"I can take care of my own problems," she responded firmly.
"Can ya, Linnie Lee? Can ya? You think those sharks are gonna just stop adding interest on a daily basis?"
After learning Clark still effectively had boxed her in, she lost her cool."Ya know, Mister Whoever You Are. Why don't you just blow it out your ass?"
Clicking off the call and banging the phone down, Linnie Lee sat at her kitchen table, hands crossed in front of her.
I don't get it, she thought. Everything had gotten so fucked up in such a hurry. Why was Clark being so smug?
Not that smug, as it turned out, because he knew how to put on a good act. After hanging up the phone, Clark turned and looked out the floor-to-ceiling window of his office on the forty-ninth floor of the IDS Tower in Minneapolis. His general gaze was in the direction of Bay Lake, even though the horizon was not much further out than Coon Rapids.
"Denise, get me Leonard," he said into the phone after a long look.
A minute later, The Ghost sat across from Clark.
"So-o-o-o," he drawled out. "What have you got to say for yourself?"
The Ghost leaned forward on his haunches and looked directly at Clark.
"Doesn't change anything," he finally responded.
"How do you figure? We just lost an asset."
"Same outcome, though. And, now we don't have to pay the second half of his retainer," The Ghost responded dryly.
"Any ideas?"
"Not yet," he huffed. He didn't elaborate any further.
"Well, get your arms around the situation." Then, with a pause, "You're excused."
After the door closed, Clark got up and ambled over to the large scale drawing that was sitting on an easel in the far corner of his office. A detailed rendering of Ledecker Island. The name on the legend, however, identified it as Auberge Island. He had every intention of burying the Ledecker name as quickly as possible. Once he had full control, that is.
The drawing depicted an island divided into thirty-five lots, each one containing the outline of a home on the scale of a mansion. An additional lot included an exclusive club and marina. Prices per lot varied from seven-fifty to $2 million. Fifty-two acres, over three miles of shoreline, a diamond in the rough of a property. Of course, there would be some infrastructure costs—sewer and water, power, and a couple of million for the club. But, they figured they could get control of the island for between two and three bills, four at the most—net-net-net, a clear profit of around thirty. Once they got kickbacks from architects and contractors, the total profit could be north of $40 million. The only unknown was the non-profit that had been given Arthur Ledecker's parcel. They could be dealt with. After all, what kind of non-profit was so flush they could just sit on a piece of real estate?
Clark chuckled as he repeated a phrase that he somehow could not get out of his head. It had been suggested by his right hand man, Arnie Hester when they had talked about marketing the properties: "Where the elite come to beat their meat."
The CEO of Dinwiddie Partners, Clark took pride in his self-acclaimed identity as wheeler dealer extraordinaire. He'd had his eyes on Bay Lake ever since his outside counsel, Rhennie Wilson had asked him for help in securing lake frontage a few years ago. He had an uncanny ability to smell an opportunity a mile away. And a well honed skill as an arm twister once he discovered someone's weakness.
Linnie Ledecker's weaknesses hit the daily double—gambling and booze.
Quite by accident, Clark noticed her as he was walking through Northern Lights Casino, having closed a deal with Sidney and Martha Ferguson. They had just been "persuaded" into agreeing to give up their cabin, including a hundred feet of lakeshore, for just under forty percent of its current value. At Clark's urging, the Bank of the Ten Thousand Lakes somehow found a loophole in their own covenants, resulting in a sudden termination of the Ferguson's home equity loan. Thus, forcing a sale.
Linnie Lee had attracted his attention, not because she was particularly attractive, but because of the look on her face—quiet desperation. She was sitting at a blackjack table, a large but dwindling pile of chips in front of her. Clark had a way of sniffing out and exploiting weakness. He had no clue who she was or if there was something to be had out of the situation, but his instinct told him to have her checked out. A glance at The Ghost, another back to the woman, and he kept walking.
After quietly sliding in next to her, The Ghost played a couple of hands, betting and losing a small amount of money. Some idle chit-chat and awhile later he was buying her a drink at the bar. Subtle questions, information gathered, a second drink, a third, then a fourth, and, within an hour, Linnie Lee had pretty much spilled her guts.
When he looked her over, he decided she was a solid six, maybe with a little makeup, a seven. Relatively narrow face, mousy brown hair down to her shoulders, worry lines developing around her mouth and eyes. She probably had a pretty good figure although it was hard to tell. She wore an embroidered denim jacket and a loose fitting sweatshirt.
She was into the loan sharks for around a hundred and seventy-five "large." Of course, the "vig" was a killer, adding to the outstanding balance on a daily basis. Her hope was to give up her share of Ledecker Island. Her brother Deck was hard after it, anyway. She figured she could use the proceeds to pay off the sharks, rent an apartment in Brainerd, and get a job. She had her sights on becoming a barista at Starbucks or Caribou.
Research was passed along to a young Japanese guy, Akira. A few days later, his presentation before Clark and the senior leadership was impressive, to say the least. Charts, maps, a family tree, everything good and bad about the Ledecker's. About 3 am the next morning, Clark woke with a start. His decision had been made.
The Ghost was called into Clark's office later that morning. What do we need to do, he asked rhetorically, to gain ownership of Ledecker Island? At a "fair" price, as in as cheap as possible. On the outside, The Ghost showed no emotion. On the inside, he made a quick calculation. The best way to keep things looking neat and clean was to activate an asset.
"OK," he responded.
"Okay? What do you mean, okay?" Clark asked.
"I mean we'll use O.K."
Clark grunted. "Well, do it then."
Heels dug firmly into his bed, his jeans pulled down to his ankles, t-shirt pushed up to his neck and tucked under his chin. Thayer lifted his hips with each stroke, his hand wound firmly around his cock.
Having just gotten home, his mother in the kitchen preparing dinner, he had used this time to do what he had to do. Visions of C.O., his smooth chest, strong legs, how it would feel if he was on top, crushing him, wrapped in his muscular arms. The pressure, so delightful. A large smooth cock crushed against his own.
Rome. Ugh! That whole scene was so bothersome. Then, all of a sudden, it wasn't. Maybe if he had let Romey molest him. Maybe just a little bit. Thayer fantasized about laying on his back, his thighs open. He was naked, Rome's hands all over him, touching, sucking, squeezing. It would be… Thayer groaned. He pinched his nipple and twisted it. Hard. His orgasm was equally hard, almost violent.
As he lay there looking at the mess on his stomach, he got a text.
Wanna hang out?
C.O.!
Thayer propped himself up on his elbows, grabbing his phone. Sure !
We need to talk.
K.
Meet me at the basketball courts.
Now?
After dinner.
10-4.
Thayer collapsed back down, idly drawing his finger in circles, spreading the gooey jizz around his stomach.
"Interesting."
Shamus finished the bottom of the first page, flipping to over to the second. Single spaced, indented paragraphs, flourishing descriptions. Well written, he thought, but I could have done better.
Sheriff Concannon sat next to him in one of the interview rooms at the Sheriff's Department in Brainerd. He was reading a duplicate copy of the FBI report on the late Orly Keogh.
Implicated in Mafia style killings of at least a dozen people, Keogh's illustrious history was long and colorful. Known for a bland matter-of-fact style, he researched his victims thoroughly before cornering them. As one undercover informant told it, Orly eliminated his victims, not by surprising them, but by explaining to them exactly what was going to happen before executing them.
"I don't get it," Concannon said as he turned back to the beginning to look at Keogh's mug shot.
"I doubt very much that Mr. Keogh was up here to go fishing," Shamus replied, in a wry tone. "Apparently, the tables somehow got turned. The pertinent questions are, why was he here, who was he after, and how did he end up as the victim?"
Concannon was about to offer up a theory when the radio sitting on the conference table crackled to life.
"Attention Deerwood On Call 11-70 16345 Brighton Point Road."
They both stared at the radio, Concannon frowning. 11-70 was law enforcement code for a fire alarm. Deerwood On Call meant that the siren had been activated calling department personnel in to the local fire hall. The address—somewhere on Bay Lake.
"So, ah…," Concannon continued, only to be interrupted by the radio again.
"CW-23 11-71 16345 Brighton Point Road."
A Sheriff's Department squad car was apparently on the scene, confirming a fire. The two men waited, speculating another announcement might be forthcoming.
Less than thirty seconds later. "CW 23 Attention Crosby On Call 11-70 16345 Brighton Point Road." A second fire department had already been put into action.
"I should probably mosey over," Concannon said, both men staring at each other, silent messages passed between them.
"Mind if I join you?"
As they walked through the office on the way to the parking lot, they could hear the Dispatcher over the loud speakers broadcasting the next message.
"All available units. 10-77 16345 Brighton Point Road." Additional squad cars were apparently needed for traffic control.
As soon as they got in Concannon's squad car, he radioed in, "CW 01 10-76 Code 2 16345 Brighton Point Road." Sheriff on the way, lights, no siren.
C.O. had brought a basketball with him, for no other reason than to make it plausible that he was on the court to shoot some hoops. A small community park near his home, empty at this hour. He absentmindedly bounced the ball as he waited for Thayer. He quickly tried to construct some kind of fiction surrounding his presence the other night while Thayer and Cutie were making out.
Before anything convincing came to mind, Thayer rolled up in his family's Nissan Rogue. As he walked steadily across the court toward him, C.O. bounce passed the ball to him. After a two-handed pass back, one that was so off-course C.O. barely got to it, they stood facing each other.
"I guess I owe you an explanation," C.O. said, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one hip to the other.
Thayer just looked up at him, first with a slight frown, then somewhat more expectantly.
"I, ah, just wanted to see what you were doing," he continued.
"Doing?" Thayer responded in a curious tone.
"Umm, you know, if you liked it," C.O. kind of stammered. "With a girl, I mean."
"You were getting off watching me, weren't you?" Thayer asked accusingly.
"Yeah," C.O. finally replied. He could feel his face getting hot.
"Seeing he was completely embarrassed, Thayer looked up into C.O.'s eyes and whispered, "That's okay. I kind of like that idea."
With that, he reached up and wound his hand around the back of C.O.'s neck, pulling his head down until their lips were a fraction of an inch apart.
A groan escaped from C.O.'s lips as he gazed at this beautiful boy, his chocolate chip colored eyes, thick eyebrows, and tousled dark hair. When their lips finally met, it was almost like biting into a cream puff, soft and just as sweet. In just a moment, saliva and tongues swirled around the insides of each other's mouths.
Thayer's eyes were closed but he still saw stars. As they kissed, he breathed in C.O.'s smell. It was hard to define. A blend of skin, cologne, and possibly bleach from his clothes. The only sounds were lip smacking and the bounce of the basketball as it dropped from C.O.'s hand. His hands closed around Thayer's hips.
The moment was broken by the distant sound of a siren, steadily increasing in volume.
"Jesus Christ!"
Their mouths separated, C.O. was looking over the top of Thayer's head into the distance.
"Is that my house?"
A black plume of smoke rose over the tops of the trees bordering the basketball court. Thayer flipped around to look for himself. They both could now hear multiple sirens growing louder along with the roar of big trucks, presumably fire engines.
"C'mon!" Thayer yelled as he began running to his car. C.O. hesitated for a moment in shock. Then he quickly followed. Thayer screeched the car out of the small parking lot and raced north on Wakeman Road. At the t-intersection with Brighton Point Road they had to come to a sudden stop for a fire engine and a patrol car, lights and sirens screaming as they went by. When they got a quarter of a mile from the Wilson's house, the road had been blocked by a Sheriff's Department vehicle. People were already lining the road on both sides, all looking and pointing at the inferno ahead.
Thayer pulled off to the side. The instant he stopped, C.O. jumped out and started running. Ahead, a deputy held both hands up.
"Hold it, there fella!"
"That's my…," C.O. started to say. Then, he realized, with relief, that it wasn't his family's house on fire. It was the Green's house, two doors down.
By this time, flames were already as high as the trees. Smoke poured out of windows and the garage. Fire hoses snaked across the road ahead. Rooted to the spot, C.O. looked aghast at the scene, unaware that two more fire trucks were bearing down on them. Thayer grabbed his hips from behind, pulling him back as the emergency vehicles roared by.
Twenty minutes later, Concannon and Shamus walked between two nearby houses to the lake side. They watched as one of the fire trucks, a large hose attached, pumped water out of the lake to several other hoses. The house was still burning brightly out of control. It would be a complete loss.
"That's one hot fire," Concannon exclaimed!
"Yes it is," Shamus replied. He pressed his index finger against his lip. Thinking. "Yes it is."
A fleet of boats bobbed up and down in the lake behind them. People taking pictures with cell phones and cameras. A few people held binoculars up to their eyes.
In the midst of the many boats on the lake, Cornish Jago leaned his elbows against the side wall of his Larsen and cracked another beer open. He smiled in satisfaction.
"Too bad, too bad," he growled softly, over and over, a smirk on his face. As he lifted the can to his lips, he sniffed the gas on his fingers. Gonna have to get rid of that smell right quick , he thought.
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