The Jerk-Off
by Jack Lynch
Chapter 16
Morning Came Early.
5:30 a.m.
The sun was just peering over the horizon, the sudden glare causing Freddie's eyes to flutter open. He squinted before burying his eyes deeper into the pillow. His arm was slung over Elliott's back, Freddie's cock neatly burrowed between his butt cheeks.
He pressed his lips to the back of Elliott's head, delighting in the taste and smell at the nape of his neck. He felt his dick begin to swell.
Last night had ranked right up at the top of the secret life he sometimes called Freddie's Follies. It certainly hadn't started out that way. His wife was in the Cities with a couple of other girls going to some chick concert. So, Fred was left on his own. Dinner was take-out. Several messages to Elliott went unanswered, so he just vegged in front of the TV watching a Twins game.
Freddie was already in bed, fast asleep when the doorbell rang. Answering the door, he was delighted to find Elliott standing just outside completely naked. His clothes were strewn around him on the front porch.
"Why don't you come in?" He asked, holding the door open. "You'll catch your death of cold out here like that," he chuckled. Freddie stared down at Elliott's cock which was thick and hard, standing straight out.
If he hadn't taken a Xanax, the fourth of the day, or was it the fifth, he would have been good for a second round, at minimum. Instead, Freddie let Elliott jam his stick down his throat twice, once when he was fully awake, the second time, roused from unconsciousness when he gagged.
Kicking the sweaty, stinking covers off, he pushed Elliott over onto his stomach, scooting down so he could spread the boy's cheeks apart and lick a wide swath of saliva from his nuts all the way to the small of his back. Obligingly, Elliott expelled a long melodious groan.
"What time is it?" Elliott gasped, his eyes barely open.
"It's early, but," Freddie chuckled, "there's time enough for…"
With that, they went at it again.
Awhile later, Elliott was awakened, this time, by the sound of Freddie growling through gritted teeth. Even though he was downstairs in the front hall, Elliott could still hear him talking to some unidentified person.
"You give it up, mother fucker, or you're gonna lose a lot more than a coupla pieces of machinery."
"Fred, me boy, your bill is now up to sixty g's. Twenty-five for my silence and thirty-five to get the engines on five of my machines rebuilt." A pause. "Or I'm guessing Gail is gonna bounce kick your faggot ass all the way to Mille Lacs."
Naked, Elliott crept on hands and knees out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He peeked over the balcony railing to observe Freddie talking to Deck, the guy who found them when they were in the middle of their first encounter out in the country. It looked like a Mexican stand-off, Deck standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips, his legs spread wide. Freddie held onto the front door with one hand as if he was about to violently thrust it at Deck.
A couple of more exchanges and Deck turned to leave.
"You got 'til midnight tonight or the, ah, chocolate syrup, is going to hit the proverbial fan," he said.
With that, Fred slammed the door after him.
Over the next half hour or so, Freddie poured out the whole story. Elliott, his arm around Freddie's shoulders, tried to console him. In tears, Freddie told him that Deck had him by the balls, threatening his entire life, over his indiscretion.
"Is that what this has been? An indiscretion?" Elliott asked.
"No! No! No!" You know what I mean," Fred wailed.
Elliott sighed. "You want some help?"
Fred sniffled as he wiped his eyes. "I dunno. What can you do?"
"Maybe I can use my special powers of persuasion," he replied with a grin.
"You? You're just a kid!" In spite of everything, Freddie had to chuckle, even with tears still streaming down his cheeks. "God fuckin' damn, you're cute!"
Tony was standing on the front step of his cabin just before 7 a.m., waiting for his car, when the door to the adjacent cabin opened, and a woman stepped out. With quick strides, she headed down the winding path toward the parking lot.
Even from behind, he could tell she was attractive. Chestnut colored hair down to the middle of her back, a narrow waist, and a pleasant looking ass. Unusual, being this was a lake resort, she wore a black business suit, slacks, black pumps with three-inch heels on her feet, a briefcase slung over her shoulder.
"Gretchen!" A man called to her from the cabin door. "Keys!" He held his hand up, waving them at her.
When she turned around, his first impression was confirmed. She was a looker, all right. With a smirk, she returned to the cabin door, smiling foolishly, and swiped the keys from the guy's hand, before leaving for good.
Tony turned his attention back to the guy. Salt and pepper hair, a receding hairline, short trimmed beard, a long nose, a modest pot belly. Bare foot, he wore a t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. He returned to the cabin's interior, closing the door. Just as the woman drove away, Tony's car and driver arrived. He quickly filed all that he had observed into the back of his mind. You never know , he thought. Wherever there's nookie nookie, there's bound to be a cover-up. Where there was a cover-up, there were even more lies. And lies were his specialty.
"Gentlemen, are you gonna go for the breakfast buffet?"
Tony glanced to his right. People were lined up at the food trough, piling their plates to overflowing with high fat bacon and loads of carbs in the guise of pancakes and waffles. They were in the dining room at Ruttger's. In Vegas, only tourists and amateurs down on their luck ate at the buffet.
"I'll have an avocado toast and coffee," he replied.
The waitress stared at him, a bewildered look on her face.
"You do have avocado, don't you?"
"Um, yeah."
Neal ordered the full breakfast—bacon, eggs, the works.
"So, what's the plan?"
Tony consulted his phone. "The plane is just landing in Brainerd. We should have the papers within the hour."
"Then?"
"We're gonna track down Linda Ledecker and get her signature. I want to close her out before Noon. Dickie Lee's next. After that? I dunno."
"Maybe go fishin'?"
Tony just smirked.
The first wave of fishermen already cast off, there was a momentary lull in activity at The Bar and Gas. Thayer leaned against an old hitching post as he cracked open his first Shasta Cola of the day. He was finally getting the hang of the job, a more refined rhythm to dolling out bait, getting the dew wiped off of the boats, handing out seat cushions, and checking off boat reservations.
He absentmindedly pulled on his crotch. Apparently, he'd failed to wash all of the spunk off of his nuts while he was in the shower this morning. That was after his first jerk-off of the day. First, as in more to cum. He smiled to himself at the metaphor. Even now, he could feel the juices flowing, the vision of C.O. looking down on him as he thrust his hips up at him.
"Hi Thayer," Rome said as he walked up.
Thayer glanced at him with a grimace, remaining silent. He'd been able to successfully avoid Rome most of the day yesterday. Now, here he was, bothering him again.
"What's shakin'?" Rome asked, trying to break the ice.
"Not much," he replied dully.
An uncomfortable silence.
"I'm ah sorry about ah, you know what," he murmured, looking down. Not that sorry, actually. The only thing he was sorry about was that he'd pounded his pud so many times the last two nights he thought it might fall off. Of course, each time he'd been holding that photo close to his face, as if he could stick his tongue out and lick Thayer's gorgeous piece of meat.
"Romey, some things are supposed to be private," Thayer said harshly, turning to him with a glare.
"I know," Rome replied. He looked out at the horizon, paused, and then took a deep breath. "But some things are so beautiful they should be shared."
"What are you talking about?" Thayer asked, his mouth dropping open.
Rome blushed. "You don't even know," he replied mournfully.
Thayer felt himself getting red in the face. He shook his head a couple of times in disgust. "I don't know, Romey. I don't know."
Rome sighed. He started to walk away.
"Romey?"
"Yeah?" Rome turned back to Thayer, a hopeful look on his face.
Thayer thought for a moment.
"Never mind."
Using a straight-edge ruler with one hand, Shamus slowly went down the list of names, a yellow hi-lighter in the other hand.
Hardly anything stood out. One Clark worked for the City of Minneapolis, a mechanic at the bus garage. Another one was on the staff of the Minnesota Democratic Party, some kind of administrator. Ironically, another one was an aide to a Republican state senator. A sales manager, a waiter, a couple of students.
By the time he got through the list, all the Clark's, Clarkton's, and Clarkson's, he had only highlighted five names that remotely had anything to do with anything. Either this was a dead end altogether or they were going to have to go through the drudgery of checking out everyone on the list.
After getting a second cup of coffee, he sat down at his desk and looked at the list again, paying more attention to the ones he'd previously singled out. A lawyer, a doctor, a chiropractor, an interior designer, and a real estate developer.
Shamus did a cursory search online. The lawyer limited his practice to patents, specifically in the medical device industry, the doctor was a podiatrist, the chiropractor offered the usual services including hypnotism, and the interior designer seemed to have an affinity for Louis XV furniture, wall coverings, and textiles.
"Well, what do you know?" he said out loud, one hand on his chin.
The last one was the one that was worthy of a much closer look. Clarkton Berg, the head of something called Dinwiddie Partners. Real estate development. A deeper dive told him a bit more. Commercial and residential real estate, a downtown office building, some suburban office parks, and a few smallish residential developments, all very high end.
A search of court records revealed a few ongoing law suits and several that had been settled without going to trial. Shamus shrugged. Typical for people in real estate. An uncanny ability to screw people in the quest for power and property. Bushy eyebrows raised. Three lawsuits, separately brought, all settled, having to do with different properties on Bay Lake.
The defendant's representation, in every case, was an attorney named Daniel Gopnik. Unknown to him, Shamus searched the Minnesota Bar Association web site. Gopnik was listed with his affiliation—counsel for Dinwiddie Partners. Back to the case list, the plaintiffs' attorney in two of the cases was none other than the Meshbesher firm. Known for outrageous representation in the most notorious criminal and civil cases in the area, their attorneys were uniformly hated and envied for their underhanded and devious tactics.
Curiously, Meshbesher's attorney in each case was a guy by the name of Broad Street. Of all the nasty lawyers at the firm, Street was considered to be the best, or the worst, depending on your point of view. Around town, he was known as the Dybbuk, a worthy moniker because he possessed an uncanny ability to occupy the minds and hearts of his adversaries.
"Not too early, Broad?" Shamus asked when he got him on the phone.
"Been here a few hours already," he huffed. "What can I do ya for, Shamus?"
"So, about Dinwiddie Partners," Shamus began.
In a few succinct phrases, Shamus outlined what he knew, asking for Broad's insights.
"I didn't know how low anybody could go until I faced off with Danny Gopnik," Street told Shamus.
Slimy. Dirty. Ruthless. Unconscionable.
"I wouldn't put anything past those guys."
"Even murder?"
"Anything, Shamus," Broad confirmed in a firm voice.
It was relatively slow in the International Terminal this time of day. Most of the flights heading to Europe, even some to Asia, left in the evening.
The two Chicago-O'Hare cops ambled through the concourse, one yawning, the other one scrolling through screens on his phone. At this hour, the sun cast a sharp golden hue through the east facing windows. As they passed by Hub 51, one of the bartenders was just rolling the gate up.
"Hey! You got coffee ready yet?" Officer Gabe Sarda yelled.
"Yep! Help yourself," Eddie replied.
The two cops slipped under the still half open gate, Gabe going behind the bar and pouring out two cups of coffee into styrofoam containers.
"I'm glad to see you finally got some help," Eddie said, referring to Gabe's partner. "'Cause you obviously need it."
Gabe smirked. "This is Lieutenant Tom Hughes," he replied, nodding to his partner. "He's here to finish up some work on that casualty we had yesterday downstairs."
"Oh yeah," Eddie said, wiping the bar with a rag. "What is that now, seven or eight so far this year?" He was referring to the number of people who had jumped in front of trains, a troubling and all too common occurrence at Chicago-O'Hare.
"Well, it's seven," Hughes replied. "Except this guy was pushed. He didn't jump."
"Jeez, that terrible! Who did it?"
"We don't know yet."
"What about the Vic?"
"Sliced cleanly into three pieces. Right across the neck and straight across the legs just above the ankles. A lot of blood, as you can imagine," Gabe offered. "Problem is, we don't know who he is."
"Why's that?"
"No ID. Pockets completely empty. Not sure if he even paid to get down to the platform."
"Man!" Eddie said, as he pulled the tray of olives, cherries, and cocktail onions out of the refrigerator.
"See ya later, Eddie," Gabe called, as the two men headed back out to the concourse.
They were several feet away when the bartender called to them.
"Hey guys?" Eddie yelled. "I completely forgot. Someone left a wallet and passport here yesterday."
Both men turned, looked at Eddie, then at each other. They returned to the bar.
Handing the wallet and passport to Lieutenant Hughes, "I threw them into a drawer. Figured the guy would be right back. I completely forgot about it," Eddie said sheepishly.
Hughes opened the passport, took one look at the picture, and nodded at Gabe.
"Guess we have our victim," he said holding up the passport, "Gentlemen, meet the late Louis Lee Ledecker."
It was already past 8 a.m. on the East Coast. Valdespino reviewed his meeting notes, making sure the bullet points were in the correct order and directives were clear before sending the report up to the Deputy Director. He had no doubt the FBI Director would be kept in the loop.
In the video call between Minneapolis, Chicago, and D.C. this morning, it was decided two agents, Roy Petty out of Chicago, and Mel Satrom from Minneapolis, would be heading up to Bay Lake immediately. Petty would be on a plane to MSP by Noon, picked up by Satrom, and arriving at Bay Lake by early evening.
FBI lawyers were in the process of assembling an array of potential charges directed at the Barzini gang. Using the RICO statute as a basis, they had already identified wire fraud, extortion, kidnapping, and first degree murder claims, along with a laundry list of grand theft felony charges related to the shoplifting gangs.
In the meantime, Claire was providing a stream of juicy telephone transcripts along with a few concise observations about Dino and Tony. All they needed now was a smoking gun.
Things were starting to fall into place. Tookie was being extremely cooperative, attempting to save his very fat ass. The big question mark, in Valdespino's mind, was The Outfit's operative at Bay Lake. This person was apparently creating some real havoc. Who was he? Or she?
The Ghost used the plastic swizzle stick to swirl the half-and-half into his second cup of coffee, remnants of the English muffin on his plate.
He absentmindedly smacked his lips, loud enough that the woman behind the bar gave him a sidelong glance. Last night had been something else. By habit, he turned his head away to avoid her stare.
After the horrifying discovery yesterday, The Ghost had to jump right back in his car and hightail it back to Bay Lake. A level of redemption was definitely needed after he fucked up that deal with Louie Lee. Someone had gotten a hold of those papers. Once he found out and retrieved them, he had every intention of making the thief pay a terrible price.
In the meantime, Linnie Lee's parcel was practically a done deal. With the cops sniffing around, she could be pretty easily coerced into selling and getting the hell out of Dodge. The only problem was finding her. Linnie Lee's phone went right to voicemail. She was either talking to someone else or had it turned off.
The same kid rented him the boat, giving him a curious look, when The Ghost walked up to rent another one.
"Did you know you left all of your fishing tackle here?" Thayer asked.
"Oh yeah. Well, I don't need that stuff today. Just the boat," The Ghost replied.
After having him sign the waiver and collecting the money, Thayer pointed to a nearby outboard.
"You can have that one, Mr. Woodcock."
Without another word, The Ghost jumped in the boat, pulled the cord on the motor, and put it in gear.
"Wait! Wait! The tie rope!" Thayer yelled.
The force of his forward motion pulled the mooring rope tight, jerking the boat back into the dock. The Ghost turned his head, annoyed, as he watched Thayer quickly untie it and throw it into the boat.
Thayer frowned as he watched Woodcock speed away. Just then, Rome sidled up next to him.
"Here's another oar to replace the busted one on that boat," he said.
"Oh yeah, thanks," Thayer said, his mind still occupied by the non-fisherman fisherman.
"You okay?"
"Did you see that guy?"
"What guy?"
"The one who just took off out of here in a big hurry," Thayer responded, still frowning.
Rome looked out at the quickly receding boat.
"Nope. Didn't see him," he replied.
"I don't get it. Who goes out fishing without tackle or bait?"
In order to avoid tipping off Linnie Lee that he was coming, The Ghost boated over to Louie Lee's place first. A short walk in the woods and he was at her cabin. He smirked as he looked at it. The place wasn't a dump like Louie Lee's, but it was certainly no gem. Cheap clapboard siding, small windows. After peeking in a couple of them and not seeing her, he easily picked the lock on the side door. Inside, basically four walls, a bedroom in the corner, cheap galley kitchen, and a small bathroom. Based on the stuff laying around, she was still occupying the place. A small bookshelf held several bottles of liquor, mostly half empty. There was food in the Fridge. Cold cuts, some celery, a jar of pickles. The bed was unmade, clothes strewn across it, on a chair, and a bra on the floor.
A half hour later, The Ghost was back at The Bar and Gas.
Not even bothering to tie up, he jumped out of the boat onto the dock. As Thayer approached, he swept right by him, slapping a five into his hand as he went by.
"Thanks, kid."
For what it was worth, he made a mental note, for the second time, no less—good-looking young fella.
Thayer stood there, watching him go, his mouth open.
A minute later, The Ghost was at The Bar, examining the foam on a tall glass of beer. His well tuned ears were listening to the conversation Gretchen Millerberg was having with some guy. They were sitting in one of the narrow booths along the side wall.
"I think it's way too early to start talking about a tax levy abatement, Norman," she said.
"I tell ya, Gretchen, people are talkin' no matter what you think!"
"It's just a couple of little things," she replied.
"Little? A murder, arson, and now vandalism!"
Gretchen huffed, but had no answer.
"Did you know Louie Lee Ledecker is missing?" Norman asked.
"No, I didn't know that," Gretchen replied in a low voice. "What do you mean, missing?"
"He was supposed to be over at Hoover's place for cards at noon. Never showed, never called. Nothin'."
"Oh, c'mon Norman! That doesn't mean anything. Louie Lee's probably off somewhere, causing trouble," Gretchen chuckled uncomfortably.
"Maybe. I hope so. Hoove even went over to the island and checked. Not there, and he said the place looked strange. Neat like. Not the way Louie Lee keeps it."
The conversation continued. Norman claimed people all over the township were freaking out, concerned that Bay Lake might be getting a reputation. The last thing they all needed was to be known as a high crime area.
As he stood up, Norman warned her, "It's gonna come up at the next commission meeting, so ya better be ready." With that, he stalked off.
Right on cue, The Ghost swiveled around on his stool.
"Well, hello Mrs. Millerberg!"
Gretchen looked up, the troubled expression on her face vanishing instantly.
"Oh, hi! It's ah, Mr. Woodcock, isn't it?"
"Yes! And, it's Peter!" He bent over to shake her hand.
"Of course," she laughed. "And, it's Gretchen!"
A couple of drinks later, after some lively conversation filled with laughs and a fair amount of innuendo, they decided on dinner at the Lonesome Pine Restaurant on the south shore of Bay Lake. Over a steak for him, shrimp for her, and two martinis each, The Ghost managed to get her drunk enough to loosen up her tongue.
"Where's the hubbie tonight?" The Ghost finally asked.
"Oh, he's fishin'." She stopped for a moment and looked at him with a mischievous smile. "In Canada!" After which, she burst into an almost unending stream of giggles.
As they staggered out of the Lonesome Pine, The Ghost suggested they go back to her place.
"Nah," Gretchen replied, with a lazy wave of her hand, "Too far," she slurred. "There's a place right up the road. Follow me."
Somehow they made it up to Woodland Beach Resort and got one of the last cabins available. They practically ripped the clothes off of each other. In Gretchen's case, The Ghost had to literally tear her panty hose off of her. Who the hell wears panty hose and panties , he asked himself?
Maybe it was the frustration and humiliation of the whole day. Whatever it was, The Ghost took it all out on Gretchen. He'd never fucked anybody so hard. Arms over head, holding dearly onto the bed's headboard, she gasped and groaned with every violent thrust.
She was a magnificent lay, after all. Her brown hair, loose curls, laying across the pillow, eyes tightly scrunched closed, her oval face, breasts that begged for attention, and a tight stomach. Her box, well her pussy, lips folded back, juice foaming around the edges. He'd done his share of rug munching, but this one was special.
Afterwards, they lay next to each other, eyes staring up at the ceiling.
"So, tell me about Deck."
Gretchen smirked. "Well, I'll tell ya about Deck."
From there, she went on to describe everything about him. What an arrogant asshole he was. How he slept around until he got caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. Suzanne, his ex, was a constant pain in his behind. How he was using every underhanded trick to get all the big projects, the latest being for the new hospital. Constantly juggling big money, always on the brink, taking big risks, somehow coming out, in the end. At the moment, she'd heard, he was in hot water with his bank.
He had no love for his brothers and sister, was trying to buy them off an island that he always considered to be his and his alone.
"He's gonna find a way to screw them. I just know it."
"What's his pain point?"
Gretchen smirked.
"Well, his daughter Cutie, I suppose." She continued, "and probably the gal he's stuffing right now."
"Who's that?"
Gretchen went on to describe Kat, a woman she had only met a couple of times.
"I could smell an operator the second I met her," she said.
"Interesting!" Wheels were beginning to turn. He pondered the situation as he lay there, his thoughts interrupted only by the sound of Gretchen's snoring.
Taking a gulp of his coffee this morning, The Ghost turned to look out the window of The Bar. Down at the docks, that cute kid was running around, like a chicken with its head cut off, getting boats and fishermen cast off.
He pressed one number on his phone.
"Gopnik," The Ghost said when the phone was answered.
"Good morning, Leonard. How's tricks?" Danny said sarcastically.
"I may be onto something."
"Or on something? Just so you know, Louie Lee's property was transferred late yesterday afternoon. The new owner is some company called Missouri Investors."
"Well, shit," The Ghost responded in a low voice. "Let me get back to you on that. In the meantime, you know anyone over at Bank of the Ten Thousand Lakes?"
"Yes, I do."
"We need to apply a little bit of pressure. Using as few words as possible, he outlined what he wanted.
"Well, as you like to say, let me get back to you on that," Danny said, in a wry tone of voice.
After he gulped down the rest of his coffee, he plunked a five-dollar bill down on the bar.
"Thanks, hon!"
With that, he slapped his knees, got up, and left.
When Ethel was sure he'd left, she cleared his place, pocketed the money, and picked up her own phone, which she kept on the back of the bar.
"Yes?" The person responded when he picked up.
"I've got something for you," Ethel said. In a cryptic tone, she described everything she'd heard this morning.
"I'm busy now. I'll talk to you later." Click.
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