The Jerk-Off
by Jack Lynch
Chapter 23
Tomorrow (Today).
Dickie Lee sat bleary-eyed on a bar stool. Naked, his sweaty ass stuck to the cheap vinyl. A thin towel covered his privates. He glanced around the small bar before training his eyes back to the documents in front of him. Zoov sat next to him, a pen in his hand, studying Dickie Lee for any sign that he might back out of the deal. Blong and Nick stood nearby, ready to act as witnesses. Dickie Lee glanced quickly at Nick, his eyes clouding momentarily as he noted the outline of his cock, easily visible through the thin fabric of his thong.
He'd arrived at Zoov's late last night. After the shock and sadness of losing his brother and having his house fire bombed by Molotov cocktails, he wanted to blow some steam off. Or get blown—or both. Now it was just shy of 1:00 a.m.
With a sigh, Dickie Lee clicked the top of the pen twice and began signing the papers relinquishing ownership of his piece of Ledecker Island over to a company with the innocuous name of Omaha Partners. Page after page, signature here, initials there. Just as he finished signing the last of many pages, a guy stepped out of the shadows from behind him.
He barely had a chance to look at his face. It was mostly covered by the bill of his cap. It was that slender young guy, the one who'd first confronted him at his cabin. The one with the threatening tone of voice. Instead, Dickie Lee studied the phone in his hand. The screen displayed a Zelle page with his bank account number on it.
"Wait a minute!" Dickie Lee exclaimed. "That says, $750,000. The price is one bill!"
The guy shook his head.
"Last page, my friend."
He held the document open to the settlement page. The details read, "Sales price, $1 million, origination fee $250,000, net $750,000." At the bottom of the page—Dickie Lee's initials.
"Aww shit! You're shittin' me, right?"
"Nope."
There was a long pause. Zoov looked at Dickie Lee—Dickie Lee glared at the guy—the guy stared back.
"You signed, big boy." A smirk on his face. He held the phone up and slowly pushed the button. A soft ding was accompanied by a "Transaction Complete" notation indicating $750,000 had been transferred to Dickie Lee's account.
"We want you out of there today," he said, a note of finality in his voice.
"Can I get my gun back?"
"No," he responded as he turned and walked away.
Just outside the doorway of the bar, standing in a dark hallway, Ty observed what had happened, only remembering at the last second, to bring his phone out and take a quick snap shot. He immediately punched a number into his phone and messaged the photo out with a time stamp.
Less than two minutes later, Valdespino sat on a stool in the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom, where his wife was snoring brightly. He zoomed in as far as he could, squinting to see the features on the young guy who had just executed the transaction.
"Oh!" He groaned softly.
With a grimace, he punched some numbers into his phone.
"Yes sir," a woman responded after one ring.
"I need a 'last known' on," and then gave a name and an identification number he knew from memory, it having been stamped there for much too long. "Stat!" He added.
A few seconds later.
"Where are you?" Valdespino demanded.
"We're at the head of the road. I can see the outside of the club right now with my night vision glasses. No one is getting past us," Agent Petty replied.
"Do you have any idea who we're dealing with here?" Valdespino blurted angrily.
After hanging up, Petty turned to Agent Satrom and Deputies Porter and Blaisdell.
"Fan out!" He yelled.
Can you let me in? The text message read.
Fred had been awakened by the brightly illuminated screen on his phone, next to his bed. He rubbed his eyes as he tried to focus on it. 1:45 in the morning. His wife barely stirred as he quietly slipped out of bed.
"Hi," he whispered quietly after he opened the deck door a sliver.
As Elliott started to nudge his way through the narrow opening, Fred pushed him back.
"Pool house," he said.
"Long night," Elliott sighed after he flopped down on the sofa, pulling the rubber band out of his man bun, and shaking his long dark hair out. "Can I take a shower?"
"Only if I can watch," Freddie smiled.
A minute later, the warm water streaming down his pale body, Elliott turned to Freddie, giving him a cute smile. In return, Freddie licked his lips.
"You are just something else," he said. His eyes took him all in, instantaneously stiff. Likewise, Elliott's cock slowly rose and thickened, the eye at the tip appearing to widen.
In seconds, Freddie was in the shower himself after quickly shedding his sleep shorts and t-shirt. Elliott found himself pushed against the sidewall, leaning on his forearms. He gasped as Freddie knelt behind him, his tongue bathing Elliott's ass cheeks, and upper thighs. He groaned as Freddie ran his tongue up and down his crack, pushing it into the soapy butthole, still slightly bitter to the taste. Reaching up and around, Freddie found Elliott's nipples, scratching them with his fingernails. Elliott gasped with the pain and pleasure of it.
After a round of getting his ass thoroughly fucked out, he let Freddie tuck him into the day bed.
"Can't you stay with me?" He pleaded.
"No," Freddie chuckled. "If my wife wakes up and finds us, I'm toast."
"I have an idea," Elliott said. "Let's go away—the two of us."
Freddie chuckled uncomfortably.
"Great idea, kid. But, ya know, I have a wife and a life here."
"I suppose," he responded glumly.
"Good night, sweet prince," Freddie smiled, giving Elliott a soft kiss on the side of his head.
A minute later, Fred eased himself back into bed next to his wife. As he drifted back to sleep, he fantasized about the two of them together—forever.
Earlier, after gleaning as much information as could be gotten from the most recent murder site, they had all repaired to a hastily arranged for conference room at nearby Ruttger's. Brushing the remnants of the previous evening's bingo games aside, they huddled over laptops to study the footage from the security cameras.
Just before 1 a.m., as they were piecing together a description of the slender young man who had come and gone from the de la Renta boat, there was a knock at the door.
"Yes?" Deputy Troftgruben asked when he answered it.
Standing before him, completely filling the doorway top-to-bottom and side-to-side, was one of the largest Black men Shamus had ever seen, complete with a menacing scowl on his face.
"Lookin' for the FBI," he responded in a husky voice.
Petty immediately rose from his chair and went to the door.
"Tookie, what's up?"
"Weez got some goin's on's at the club."
It took only a few more words of elaboration for Petty and Satrom to get the gist of the situation.
"Sheriff, we're going to need some back-up," Satrom said, pulling on his jacket as he headed for the door.
After that, the relay of information went at lightning speed. Their undercover's undercover, a kid named Tyrone, had alerted them of the situation. A suspicious transaction about to take place, a mysterious man lurking around, a criminal cocktail recipe shaken together.
"Shit on a brick!" Concannon exclaimed, after learning the guy had given two deputies and two experienced FBI field agents the slip. But, at least now they had a photo, taken surreptitiously by their man in the club, relayed through Tookie, to Washington.
Just minutes after getting that news, the information from D.C. appeared on their computer screens. Shamus stared at it, an astonished look on his face. An international killer-for-hire who went by the oddly aristocratic name, Stuart Churchill—that, and a long list of a.k.a's. Amazingly, up until now, they only had a physical description and a crude sketch. A kind of cute cherub face, long dark hair, pale skin, a bit of scruff on his face. Height estimates ranged from 5'10" to 6'1." Slightly built—in the range of just 145 pounds.
It was exactly 7 a.m. Thayer knew that because he was facing the time clock, punching in for work, his eyes momentarily squeezed shut with a big yawn.
"Boy!" Mr. Elwinde yelled from outside the boathouse.
"Christ almighty!" Thayer yelled in surprise. He turned and ran out the door.
The lakefront and parking lot had spontaneously filled with cars and trucks. Several men and women either stood near shore or just on the dock. Two or three others were unloading bags out of a pickup truck. Most of them wore navy blue windbreakers with the letters, "FBI," emblazoned across their backs in bright yellow.
"Boy! Help me get five boats ready for these folks!" Elwinde yelled. After that, he issued a long string of rapid-fire orders that included wiping down dew laden boats, fetching motors, gas, and seat cushions. About five minutes later, Rome showed up, immediately viewing the frenzy of activity, and jumping in to help.
Squatting down to steady one of the boats, Thayer's mouth fell open, watching one of the men hand a long canvas bag to his partner. It was obviously a gun bag.
His mouth fell open again awhile later when he felt someone behind him and turned to find C.O. smiling down at him.
"What are you doing here?"
"On my way to meet a college rep," C.O. replied. "I just wanted to, ah, see." He paused, looking down a bit shyly. "See how you're doing."
"I'm doing fine, I guess," Thayer responded. He looked away, suddenly feeling a little bit shy himself, and embarrassed. His cock twitched, even though he was a bit sore down there from a vigorous jerk-off right after he woke up this morning. "I sort of missed seeing you last night."
C.O. glanced around quickly. Seeing that no one was looking, he took Thayer's hand and led him around the far side of the boathouse.
"C'mere," he said hoarsely, pulling Thayer in closely.
Instinctively, Thayer's hands reached up and around C.O.'s neck. In an instant, their mouths were locked together. Their tongues wound around each other, the saliva they exchanged was so profuse, it ran down their chins. It was, by far, the juiciest kiss either one had ever experienced.
Eventually they had to pull away from each other, if nothing more than to catch their breaths. Thayer's hands were still around C.O.'s neck—C.O.'s arms around Thayer's waist. They looked at each other.
"Do you ever camp out?" C.O. asked.
"Yeah, sometimes, I guess." Thayer actually hadn't gone camping since he was eight years old.
"Wanna go tonight—just the two of us?"
"Yeah, I'd do that," Thayer chuckled.
"We could go over to Ledecker Island. I know a spot. Secluded, away from everyone. We can even build a fire."
Thayer's heart thumped so hard in his chest he thought he might pass out.
"Should I bring anything?"
C.O. was thinking. Sure—bring your lips, dick, and your butt.
Instead, "Nah, I got what we need." Pausing for a second with a sheepish smile, "Don't even bother with a sleeping bag. We'll only need one."
Thayer smiled back and blushed as he nodded. He was about to say something when he glanced to the side, only to fine Rome standing a few feet away. He had a frown on his face.
"Thayer, Ten Ethyl is lookin' for you."
"Fancy meeting you here," he said.
Linnie Lee used her hands to cup her face, elbows resting on the blackjack table.
"Oh, you again."
The Ghost just stared at her, a serious look on his face.
"It's time," he said.
"Why is it time?"
"You're in a death grip."
"No different from before," she huffed in response.
"Yeah, it's a little different now. Different how, you may ask?" He paused a moment for effect. "Because, I now own your paper—and the interest rate just doubled."
It had only taken a couple of phone calls to locate the shark that had his hands around Linnie Lee's throat.
"Yeah, we gotz her on our books," Mingo told him.
The Ghost smiled.
"Have I got a deal for you,"
A minute later, Mingo clicked off the call. He turned to his deputy.
"Tookie, I got sompin for ya to do."
Later, Tookie met The Ghost at a corner table in the back bar of The Saloon, a notorious Gay bar in downtown Minneapolis.
"See ya around, motha fucka," he said, as he turned to leave after the trade was made.
The Ghost nodded to the dealer, who instantly got the message and decided to take a break. Less than five minutes later, they were done dickering. Three-fifty to pay off her loan, giving her a hundred thousand extra to stake out a new life.
"Get me another gin and tonic and let's just do it," she said, with a sigh.
As she affixed her signature to the closing documents, she glanced at The Ghost out of the side of her eye.
"What about the other guy?" She asked.
"What other guy?"
In a few words, she described her interaction with a man who called himself Tony. Somehow, he'd been sent by her brother, Dickie Lee.
"Don't worry about him."
That's what he said on the outside. On the inside, he was thinking. Now, this is a revelation! Who, what, where, and how everything had come down was now much more clearly in focus.
With the papers signed, the funds wired into her bank account, The Ghost slipped them into his briefcase.
"Is it too much to ask for you to be cleared out by the end of the day?"
"My brother's funeral is at two. I guess, after that," she said, in a glum voice.
It didn't take long for the army of FBI agents to return empty-handed from Ledecker Island. The only thing they had accomplished was to scare the crap out of Cutie. After scouring the island, Deck, Dickie Lee, and Linnie Lee were nowhere to be found.
Shamus and Concannon were over at the Deerwood Police Department, where they had commandeered the squad room to set-up an outpost. Concannon reviewed the video footage from the security camera over-and-over, trying to glean any additional crumb of information.
Shamus was focused on the FBI report on Stuart Churchill. He brushed his hand over his mustache every few seconds as he studied the rough sketch.
"We've got to circulate this, and now," he said.
"Uh-huh," Concannon replied. He seemed to be distracted by something on his laptop.
Shamus gazed out the door thinking. Just at that moment, Smokey waddled by, a mug of coffee in his hand.
"Hey, Smokey!" Shamus called out.
"Yeah, Inspector Bueller. What can I do for you?"
Shamus shook his head, annoyed, not even bothering to correct him. He held the Churchill sketch up to him.
"Does this guy look familiar?"
Smokey squeezed his lips together with two fingers, thinking.
"Uh, no. Not really?"
"He doesn't resemble that guy?" Shamus shuffled some papers around. "That guy Elliott Winehouse? You know, the one you caught having sex with the de la Renta kid."
"Uh-h-h, maybe," Smokey responded tentatively.
"Well, did you get a good look at him?"
"Yeah," Smokey chuckled. "I got a pretty good look at him." He was thinking about the sweet way Elliott Winehouse's perky asshole furled itself closed after Ozzie de la Renta's cock fell out of it.
"So?"
"Ah," Smokey cleared his throat, "Yeah, he could maybe be that guy in the sketch."
"Go fetch him for me."
"Yes sir, yes sir," he replied hurriedly.
"And, take a couple of county boys with you. He could be, ah, illusive."
Deck sat on the edge of the bed, already showered, shaved, and dressed. White shirt and black pants. He pondered—tie or no tie?
Kat turned over and curled herself around him.
"How are you doing, honey?"
"Okay," he sighed. "I got a lot on my mind."
"I think you mentioned that before," Kat replied with a smirk.
What a waste of time last night had been , she thought. Deck barely talked. The sex was, to put it mildly, incomplete. He only got half hard. She could barely feel his mushy dick inside of her, finishing with an orgasm that lasted all of one-point-five seconds. Kat was left entirely unsatisfied. I wonder what Kara is doing this morning . She fought the urge to swipe her index finger across the top of her pussy.
An hour later, he sat across from Fritz Wold. The luxurious surroundings of the bank, usually so attractive and inviting, today seemed dark and gloomy. The hunter green corduroy wallpaper felt like it was closing in on him. All of a sudden, he felt nauseous, a wheeze escaping his throat.
"So, what's it gonna be, Deck."
"You need to give me a break, Fritz. I'm burying my goddamn brother this afternoon. Can't you give me another week?"
"We're all out of breaks, weeks, too, Deck. C'mon," he chided. "Let's just get this done."
Eyes stinging, Deck mumbled, "All right."
After Owen was ushered in and introduced, they got down to business.
Deck initially balked at the amount.
"What the hell happened to the $1 million?"
"Some adjustments were necessary," Owen purred.
"I don't like the way you jewed me down," Deck responded harshly. The final price was now $800,000.
Owen just gave him a hard stare. Unbeknownst to most people, he'd been raised Jewish. He bristled at the racist slur.
Deck dabbed at his eyes as he signed away his property on Ledecker Island and a one fourth share of his business to an entity called Eckankar Holdings, Ltd. After it was all over, Deck got out of there as fast as he could. If he stayed another minute, he thought he might puke all over the felt top of Fritz's mahogany desk.
"Let us know if we can help with that Green property," Fritz called after Deck, as he was leaving.
Without another word, Owen got up and exited through another door to the bank's board room. He handed the paper work to Tony with a grimace and sat down. Tony, in turn, gave the papers to one of The Outfit's attorneys, who went right to work on the next step in the process of transferring the property.
"Can I tell you something, Tony?" Owen asked.
"Yeah."
"I hate your guts."
Tony huffed. "Doesn't that make me feel special?"
After getting caught and videoed in a compromising position, it hadn't taken Owen long to cave. He had stared at the screen in disbelief, watching himself engaged in torrid sex. Not with Claire—that would have been one thing. But, with a Thai boy who represented himself and behaved like a twelve-year-old. Dino supplied him, a young man who was actually nineteen.
"Won't The ECK be disappointed?" Dino asked. With that, he laid out the plan. As he had stated so plainly the night before, Eckankar was going to take a back seat in the deal for Ledecker Island. They didn't have to actually sell their parcel—just sign a 99-year lease.
Within the hour, Smokey radioed into Concannon.
"That guy, Elliott Winehouse, is nowhere to be found."
Shamus and the Sheriff shook their heads in unison.
"He wasn't at his home address. The folks over at Lonesome Pine said he was a 'no show' for work today."
"Winehouse is now a 'person of interest' in the murder of Cornish Jago," Shamus stated in a matter-of-fact tone."
"What are ya gonna call that Stuart Churchill character?"
"I'm pretty sure Churchill and Winehouse are one in the same," Shamus replied. He stared at him for a moment, thinking, before finally saying, "But, for Churchill, we'll say, Wanted on Suspicion of Capital Murder."
"What's next?" Concannon asked.
Shamus looked at his written notes, glanced at his computer monitor, and grabbed Concannon's radio. "Smokey, find that de la Renta kid. We need to have a conversation."
"Where do you think you're going?" O asked, in a sharp tone.
"Out," Ozzie replied, without elaborating.
Late morning, the day after that horrid event on the boat. O had already talked to his insurance adjuster about the damage and clean-up necessary to restore the Sea Ray to its previous perfection. After finding out an insurance claim likely wouldn't exceed his deductible, he delegated the whole mess to his executive assistant.
"Nothing to worry about," William assured him. "I'm in touch with a company that does crime scene clean-ups. We'll have everything back to the way it was in a few days. Paint, new carpeting. The new bed arrives from New York tomorrow."
"Your mother and I wish you would stay close to home, especially in view of last night's activities. You know," he paused to emphasize the sarcasm in his voice. "As in the position you were discovered in."
Ozzie smirked, "Why? It's not as if it's the new news."
O grunted.
"Besides, I have an appointment. See yaz," Ozzie called out as he walked dismissively out the door.
Ozzie jumped into the Beemer and roared out of the driveway. With all of last night's craziness, he'd forgotten that he had promised Edgar he would show up at his group's little get-together this morning.
"The Mourning Group?" Ozzie laughed into the phone when Edgar called him. "Who died?"
"No, no. The Morning Group, as in, we meet in the morning," Edgar wheezed.
There were usually five or six of them, all retired men, old fogies, although they always referred to themselves as "mature." Most of the time, they met for coffee and hashed over the news of the day. Lately, they had been playing pinochle at the home of Wilbur Finley, one of the group's long-time widowers.
A couple of weeks ago, they paused between hands. One of the men had nodded off, still holding his cards, purring away in dream land, so they decided to take a break. Wilbur, who frequently and loudly boasted of being a sex addict, told them about a web site he'd discovered recently called "Slow Teasing Handjobs." They quickly gathered around Wilbur as he brought the site up on his phone.
Through hooded eyes, they watched a man about their own age, minister to a young guy whose hands were tied above his head as he lay naked on a coffee table. Over the course of a half hour, the man tormented and edged the young guy until he couldn't take it any more, the ending evidenced by the massive load he expelled.
"What I wouldn't give," one of the men said, shaking his head.
"Well, what if…?" Another man posed the question.
There was a long pause.
"I might know somebody," Edgar said quietly.
Ozzie pulled up to the older clapboard covered house in Ironton. He silently congratulated himself for taking the time to clean off the stubble on his pubes and around his butt hole. What was the best part of this—getting off in front of a bunch of old farts or the $125 they'd pooled together for his performance? The money meant nothing to him but the idea of getting paid for his talent thoroughly juiced him.
After introductions were made around and he pulled his shirt off, he giggled softly as he listened to a couple of the guys smacking their lips. He stood in front of Edgar.
"Wanna do the honors?" Ozzie was now wearing just a pair of chartreuse panties. He swiped his hair off of his forehead, letting it fall back in place, as he first looked at Edgar with a serious look, then giving a twinkly-eyed smile as he looked around the room at the other men.
Edgar licked his lips, his hands reaching forward before a vision of Mavis, shaking her finger at him, leapt into his mind. He stepped back.
"Wilbur, have at it."
Wilbur gladly complied, reaching over and nudging Ozzie's panties down over his hips, pulling the waistband out until his cock sprung out.
A few minutes later, Ozzie was naked, flat on his back, laying on a low table. His wrists had been tied with an old tow rope, held over his head, and fastened to the leg of a piano. He tipped his head back, his jaw open, and sighed. This feels so fuckin' good , he thought.
He sucked his stomach in and grunted with the first touch. One of the men cupped his balls while two others swept their hands along his sides and chest. Another stood just next to his head, reaching down to lightly pinch his nipples.
The goal, as a guy named Wilbur had explained, was to refrain from orgasming for 30 minutes. The prize if he made it? A treat, so he was told. Several times during the half hour, he felt it coming on. Only the glare of his father's face in his mind, kept the moment at bay.
"Oh! Sweet Martha!" One of the men kept repeating, the sight of Ozzie's asshole winking at him, his knees having been pulled up to his chest.
"Who's Martha?" Ozzie asked in a hoarse voice, a bit bewildered. No one answered.
The "ding" from the timer on the stove in the kitchen was all he needed. Gasping and chuckling from the men came as he shot jizz all over his stomach and chest.
As he was getting dressed, he got a text from Maddie. Great news! My dad just agreed to let me transfer to Brown! I'm putting in the application today! Ozzie smiled. Fall semester was looking to be better than he could have ever imagined. Epic!
A few minutes later, Ozzie jumped off the front steps of Wilbur's house, money in his pocket along with a $25 gift card from High Wheel Confectionary. He smirked to himself. His prize for his complete performance was literally a treat.
His jaw dropped open when he saw a Sheriff's Department squad car and another unmarked police car in the middle of the street in front of Wilbur's house. Two deputies and two men wearing FBI windbreakers watched him as he approached.
"Ozzie, we've got a few questions," one of the FBI agents said, as he took him by the arm.
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