The Jerk-Off
by Jack Lynch
Chapter 10
The Sri.
Feeling the rhythmic, almost hypnotic ripple of the tires as they rolled over the seams in the highway, The Ghost struggled to keep his eyes open. When he was fully awake, he was annoyed. The very last thing he wanted to be doing was driving up to that god forsaken lake. Yet again.
There had been a break down of some kind. All he knew was that an asset was down. And, he wasn't even entirely sure of that. This is what he did know—they hadn't heard from their guy in a couple of days and a news report had come out about an apparent murder on Ledecker Island, victim as yet unidentified.
The "Auberge Project," as they called it, had temporarily gone off the rails. His job was to not only get it back on the rails but to insure the wheels were firmly set in motion to fulfill the objective—add Ledecker Island to Dinwiddie Partners' portfolio of platinum properties.
The Ghost had come by his name honestly. A hell of a lot better than his given name, Leonard Horowitz. Years ago, he earned the name and a reputation for performing his job ruthlessly and stealthily. Clark's rival, at the time, was a particularly hostile and obnoxious man. They had tried everything including brutally vandalizing his house. In the scheme of things, it was a kind of middling deal. But, Clark was practically psychotic, the man having gotten that far under his skin.
The Ghost never did reveal exactly how he did it. Sitting next to the man's private pilot at a bar the night before, he whispered to him, their heads close together. It was tragic, but necessary. Three crew and five passengers, Clark's rival amongst them, died when their private jet went down the next day. A few days later, the FAA investigation just underway, it was leaked that the pilot was despondent after learning that his male lover had been cheating on him. It wasn't true, but…
First stop when he hit lake country was the Sheriff's Department in Brainerd. Wearing gray work pants and a matching shirt, The Ghost hung out by a side door next to the parking lot where several law enforcement cruisers were parked. Grabbing a broom leaning on the wall next to the door, he pretended to sweep around a bit, his back turned when two deputies exited. As the door began to swing shut, he calmly jammed the head of the broom into the threshold, preventing it from closing. In seconds, he was inside.
Head down with one hand shading his eyes as if he had a headache, The Ghost avoided being identified by a camera mounted near the ceiling in the corridor. Entering the empty squad room, he sat down at the first desk he came to, nudging the computer's mouse to wake it up. Fortunately for him, it had not been logged out. It took just a couple of clicks and he was able to navigate to the open cases folder, clicking on the murder investigation.
Quickly scanning the case summary, he clicked on the pictures. There was a photo of Orly's ugly mug and several crime scene photos. The Ghost grimaced. I guess that takes care of that, he thought. Back to the summary page, he took out his phone and took a screenshot. Some guy from BCI, Shamus Bueller, had been brought in to head the investigation.
"There's a name for ya," he said out loud as he chuckled.
On the way out, he walked right by the sheriff, encountering him in the corridor. A guy with a beer belly, eyes down, on his phone, a frown on his face.
"How many seat cushions do ya want, mister?" Thayer asked him.
Less than an hour later, The Ghost was in a boat he had just rented at The Bar and Gas. Already stowed, a fishing rod and reel and a tackle box he'd taken out of the bed of a pick-up truck parked nearby.
"No thanks," he responded, looking up at him. Cute kid, he thought, noting the dark hair and navy blue hoodie.
Weird. The guy didn't want any minnows or night crawlers, either . Thayer just shrugged.
"I hear they're biting on silver spinners," he offered. He didn't really know that. It was just a standard response when fishermen asked for advice.
The Ghost had no plans to go fishing, however. He was on his way to Ledecker Island to renew his acquaintance with Linnie Lee, a reunion he surmised she would not welcome. But, just as he was about to cast off, he saw her getting out of a boat next to the adjacent dock. Without a word, he got out of his own boat and strode past the somewhat perplexed dock boy.
"Thank you for meeting with me," Shamus said.
He had just offered an adjacent stool to Linnie Lee at the far end of The Bar. After a few pleasantries, he pulled a photo of Orly's mug shot out of the folder laying in front of him.
"So, how do you know this man?"
Linnie Lee's breath caught in her throat.
"I don't know him," she stammered. Her nose started running.
Shamus stared at her. Just the look on her face was enough.
"Not exactly," she finally muttered. How am I gonna lie my way out of this one? She asked herself.
In a restrained tone, she wove a tale of half-truths. He was a guy who was sent by another guy to help her so she could make an offer to her brothers.
"What kind of offer?"
"To buy out their shares in the island."
"For how much?"
"For around a million, I guess."
"In total?"
"No. For each one of us."
Shamus sat back on the stool, in shock.
"Who was the guy?"
"The other guy?"
Shamus nodded, a serious, concerned look on his face.
"I don't know. Just someone I met." Tears started welling in Linnie Lee's eyes.
"You don't know," Shamus responded, his tone full of doubt.
"I don't wanna say anymore right now," she sniffed. "I think I need a lawyer."
With that, she pulled herself off of the stool, marched across the length of the bar, and left, brushing past Louie Lee, who was just coming in.
The Ghost had been watching everything from a stool in the middle of the bar. I wonder who that guy is, he asked himself? Kind of round, full mustache that he periodically brushed with his hand, a full head of gray hair, big nose, and fat lips. He was wearing a plaid shirt and some kind of wooly vest even though it was a warm mid-summer day.
Out of the corner of his eye, The Ghost observed the man open a folder as he showed Linnie Lee a picture of Orly Keogh. A cop! It figures , he thought. Bad news for Linnie Lee. Very bad news. A couple of minutes later, The Ghost turned his head away and looked down just as Linnie Lee swept past him.
"Excuse me?"
Just moments later, a guy was standing next to him. Wiry looking, greasy hair, several days of stubble on his sunken cheeks, smelling mildly of booze and b.o.
"What is it?" The Ghost answered in a gruff voice. He sounded kind of pissed off.
"You got my stool."
"Huh?"
He pointed down. Leaning over, The Ghost saw, "Louie Lee," spray painted on the side of the stool he was sitting on. With a chuckle, he slid over to the next bar stool.
"Whaddaya have, Louie Lee?" Ethel asked.
"The yewsh," he drawled.
In one quick motion, Ethel reached into the cooler, dragged a Grain Belt out, popped the top off, and slid it down the bar. The Ghost lifted his forearms up just in time as it slid past so that Louie Lee could grab it and take a swig.
"So, tell me something. How come everyone around here has the same middle name?"
Louie Lee swirled another mouthful around in his mouth, swallowed, and huffed. "Well, I'll tell ya."
Lunch time. Thayer grabbed the bag of food his mother had prepared for him, bought a soda from Ethel, and trotted out the side door of the The Bar and Gas. His mission—jerk off. After a morning of some fairly hot texting with C.O., they'd agreed to meet up tonight. Thayer didn't really know what blue balls were but he was pretty sure he had a bad case of them. His dick positively ached. He wouldn't be able to wait to see C.O. The pressure needed to be relieved now. He was certain another load would be available if he needed it for later.
Thayer was seemingly unaware that Rome spied him through the small back window of the boathouse as he headed across the parking lot to the lake shore on the other side.
When he got to his favorite spot, Thayer threw his lunch down on the ground and immediately stripped off his hoodie and t-shirt. After giving each breast a squeeze and a pinch to his nipples, he yanked his belt open, unbuttoned his jeans, and yanked them down along with his underwear. His impossibly hard cock bounced out, a spot of cum having already forming on the thick head. Most of his pubic bone was now hairless after another couple of rounds with his mom's razor. At least, now it didn't itch so bad after applying some anti-itch cream. One hand around his cock, the other squeezing his balls, he threw his head back and groaned. He thrust his hips back and forth as he pulled and swirled his hand around his dick.
Rome was kneeling nearby, his presence obscured by some tall grasses and a low lying shrub. If this is all I ever get, he thought, my life has been made! Thayer's pearly white skin almost glowed in the sun, perfectly pale nipples, his cute tummy and almost feminine round hips. A lick worthy butt only topped by the most beautiful dick he'd ever seen, or could even imagine. Smooth thighs, a wisp of black pubic hair at the base of his cock. Rome took his phone out of his back pocket. Gotta get a pic of this!
Thayer stopped thrusting as the sensation rolled through his loins. The first spurt went so far, he never saw or heard where it hit the ground. Following, at least four more globs of cum, the last one in sync with another sound. Was that the click of a camera???
Oops! Forgot to turn my phone to silent, Rome thought.
Thayer jerked his head around.
"Fuck, Romey!" He yelped.
Rome didn't know what he should say or do so he just raised four fingers, tucking his thumb into his hand, and gave Thayer a little wave and a smile.
"Oh, hi."
Absentmindedly, Zoov twisted a swizzle stick into knots, as he contemplated his next move.
"This place stinks!" He said out loud. Zoov looked around but no one was paying attention. Not this situation, but this place literally. We need to open some windows and doors, he thought, suddenly aware that Zoov's smelled a lot like ass. Stale ass.
Of course, the windows had all been nailed shut. Instead, he opened the front and back doors, climbing quickly to the second floor and swinging a door open leading to a small deck.
The place was technically open 24/7. But, with the events of the last few days at Bay Lake, business had ground to a halt. Last night, just a few horn dogs or guests, rather, had roamed around looking for pussy or dick. In a couple of cases, pussy and dick.
And, by the way, this situation stinks, too, he thought. Since the murder, Dickie Lee had been nearly impossible to get a hold of. And, when he did, the jerk was positively bereft.
Between the weeping and wailing, he was a broken record. "This isn't worth it. This isn't worth it!"
"Settle down. I find out what's going on," Zoov kept telling him.
The fact of the matter was that he didn't know what was going on. Yesterday, he had contacted the guy, his only contact, through WhatsApp. No response. Not until last night when he was loading some groceries into the trunk of his car, after a shopping trip to pick up some more snacks at the Super One in Crosby. Once again, he was taken from behind, his head pushed down into the trunk so hard, he saw stars.
"What do you want?" The guy whispered in his ear through gritted teeth.
"I want to know what going on? Somebody got murdered!"
"That's none of your business!"
"I don't want nothing to do with killing people," Zoov blurted. The side of his head was being mashed into the bottom of the trunk. "I can't breathe! Why don't you let go of me?"
"Listen! You just stick to the plan. If you can't do that, I'll find someone who will. Understand?"
"Ok. But…"
He never got out the next word. He was cuffed with something hard on the back of his neck, making him feel immediately dizzy. In the next instant, the guy was gone.
Later, the guy made a call. His report lasted less than a minute.
"I'll get back to you." The phone clicked dead.
After Tony got off the phone, he crossed the dimly lit bar and went into the back room to report to The Don.
Nah, that's not right. That only happens in the movies anymore.
In reality, Tony adjusted his sunglasses before spreading some more SPF30 on his hairy forearms. Las Vegas was hotter than hell this time of year. But, sitting under a misting umbrella, it actually wasn't half bad. He looked over at Dino who apparently was dozing at the moment. Or, was he? His head was bowed slightly, his breath rhythmically going in and out, also wearing sunglasses. It wasn't until he licked his lips that Tony was sure he was awake. Dino was apparently staring at the girl across the pool, the one who was currently parading her mostly bare, succulent ass around in a thong bikini.
"Our guy is making some progress but, unfortunately," Tony said in a sarcastic tone, "there has been some collateral damage." His eyes were now fixed on the girl, too.
"Oh yeah?"
"He had a close encounter with, wait for it, Orly Keogh."
Tony filled him in. Their guy, as he was referred to, had sent him an e-mail earlier in the day using an encrypted server. After stumbling across Orly and renewing his acquaintance, their guy discovered they were working the same deal. It was his decision, not Tony's, that Orly would have to be moved. Moved was code for eliminated.
Dino smirked. "I guess Orly was serious when he said he was going to retire."
"Hmmm. Retirement must mean different things to different people."
"I wonder who that mortadella was workin' for." Dino turned his head slightly. The girl was now at the pool side bar, innocently arching her back a bit in a way that made her butt stick out even further.
"Our guy has some ideas," Tony replied. In cryptic language, he summarized what he knew. Since leaving The Outfit, as Dino liked his Mafia family to be referred to, Orly had been free lancing, his latest gig with some developer. He was apparently using one of the other Ledecker's to help his clients get control of the island. Her name was Linda, but, like her siblings, went by the nickname Linnie Lee. He was trying to be creative, using some of their own time tested tactics.
"How does he know that?" Dino asked.
Tony huffed. "I guess he's got ears." Code word for someone in a position to overhear conversations and relay it to their guy.
"Let's sweeten the pot. Get the ball moving."
"How much more do ya wanna put in?"
They spent a couple of minutes talking about dollars and terms. Up to a million dollars for each parcel was now on the table.
"But, no more! And, I'd prefer, a lot less."
"Okay. You're the boss," Tony said.
"Don't forget that," Dino replied with a huff. "I'll see ya later." He pulled himself up from the chaise lounge and ambled toward the girl who was still waving her ass around at the bar.
They always seemed to call so late. Why did they do that? It was nearly eight o'clock and Vern was in his pj's, ready for bed. He'd already brushed his teeth and cut his toe nails. I wonder what time zone they're calling from?
"What have you got for us, Vern?" the man on the other end asked. He had such a mild voice, devoid of any accent at all. He spoke clearly and quietly, never hesitating nor stumbling over any phrases.
"Eckankar." The man had to repeat it twice. Some church, he found out eventually. Headquartered in Chanhassen, just outside the Cities.
Five years ago, in the midst of his grief over the passing of Mr. Ledecker, Vern received first a text message and then a phone call. After identifying himself and his organization, the man explained that Mr. Ledecker had bequeathed Eckankar ownership of his cabin and the surrounding acreage on the island.
"What is this…ECK, or whatever you call it," Vern asked?
"It's very simple, Vern. We believe all of us have a soul that is part of a larger soul, that of God, and that spiritual freedom is our founding tenet."
"Yeah, okay. So, what can I do for you?"
In simple language, simple enough even for Vern, the man offered him a job as caretaker of the property until the Members, as he called them, could decide how or if they wanted to dispose of it. The money they offered was nearly as much as Vern had been making full time working for Mr. Ledecker. It was an easy decision.
"Perhaps you would like to come to Eckankar and chant HU with us sometime."
"Who is Hugh?"
"No, not Hugh, HU. HU is our sacred chant."
"Oh, I don't sing so good," Vern replied. In fact, he was tone deaf.
"No matter. We will talk about this another time."
Since the murder, Owen, as he identified himself, had called daily. How he even found out about it was a mystery to Vern. He obediently told him everything he knew, both fact and gossip.
"That's very good to know. We thank you very much," Owen purred, just after receiving Vern's latest update.
Before Vern could ask who "we" included, the line went dead. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. Time for dreamland, he thought.
"Ethel?" He asked as he climbed into bed.
"Yes, dear."
"Would you scratch my back?"
"Of course! Roll on your side and pull your Jammie top up," she replied softly.
Owen put the phone down and clasped his fingers together, saying a silent prayer. He proceeded to open a sliding door, step off the wide deck, and onto the Contemplation Trail. It was a beautiful summer evening, the sun having nearly disappeared behind the tree line on the northwestern horizon. He found the Sri Mahanta sitting cross-legged on a mat, legs crossed, his thumbs and middle fingers squeezed together in meditation. Gray hair, silver metal framed eyeglasses, a spry figure of a man in his late '70's.
"Yes?" He opened his eyes slowly and looked up at Owen.
Bowing slightly, "Sri, I believe we have an opportunity."
At the same hour, Deck poured a jigger of bourbon into two cocktail glasses, then another generous splash into each. No reason to spare the booze if it helped get the result he was looking for. He turned to face Dickie Lee, who was sitting on the expansive sectional in the great room of Deck's cabin.
"Amazing what they're getting for some of these places," he said. Dickie Lee was thumbing through a magazine published by area realtors.
Deck smirked as he reached out to hand one of the drinks to Dickie Lee.
"So, what are you going to do now? Go into the real estate business?" He asked sarcastically.
"Nah," Dickie Lee responded, scratching the back of his head. "I was thinkin' about buying into a club."
"I hope that works out for ya," Deck huffed.
Dickie Lee had a long list of failed ventures under his belt. Used cars, movie rentals, vending machines, marine sales. He'd probably flushed a half million down the toilet in the last ten or fifteen years. Money he'd received from the Ledecker Family Trust Arthur had set up for his kids.
They commiserated for a few minutes about the murder and its ramifications.
"They got any ideas?" Dickie Lee asked.
"Not a damn thing! Concannon and his bunch remind me of Andy and his sidekick Barney," Deck replied. "That guy from the state, Bueller, seems to wanna hang this on one of us."
"That's insane," Dickie Lee replied.
"Well, it ain't me, and the idea Linnie Lee or Louie Lee could be tied up in this is a fuckin' joke."
"Bueller seems to think the killer was headed for one of their places."
"Or your place," Deck interjected. He looked at his brother suspiciously.
Dickie Lee smirked as he sucked on an ice cube before spitting it back into the glass. "So, what do ya want, Deck?"
They spent the next few minutes lobbing offers back and forth to each other. Admittedly, Deck was taken aback when Dickie Lee started throwing around the $1 million figure.
"Why would I ever do that, Richard Lee? I got over eight hundred into the house alone!"
Deck used Dickie Lee's formal name whenever he wanted to try to lord it over him.
"Cuz I gotta friend over at your bank. I know you're behind," He retorted.
Deck sat back and thought for a second. Well, yeah. A million would go a long ways toward righting the ship. That would take care of the mortgage and his past dues. Of course, he'd take a major hit to his status and his ego. How much was that really worth, he thought?
"Where ya gonna get that kind of money?" Deck retorted, his bluster quickly returning.
"I maybe got my own bank, Deck," he responded.
They went a few more rounds until Dickie Lee drained the last few drops from his glass. Getting up and heading toward the door, he called back to Deck, "Toodle-oo."
Deck just sat there, stewing, balancing his empty glass on his stomach. Linnie Lee seemed to have temporarily disappeared. In the meantime, maybe he could get to Louie Lee or, even better, that damn church.
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