Shifters (16 page)

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Authors: Edward Lee

BOOK: Shifters
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Lethe followed Locke’s gaze and chuckled, “Well, crass commercialism and a gift of gab does seem to have some rewards, but I rather doubt what we’re seeing there has the same depth and power as love, loss, and the other subjects you write so well about. I’m not basing my proposition, of course, on a single poem—I’ve read your work extensively.”
Locke turned a suspicious brow. “Is that right? Where?”
“
Calvert, Gothic Light, Mynd.
Oh, and your ‘Preceptor’ piece in
The Phoenix
was exemplary, as was “Exit” in
Cosmopolitan.
 Quite a lofty sale, I’d say.”
Locke had sent back the $300 that
Cosmo
had paid him, but that wasn’t what grabbed him at the moment.
This guy’s for real,
he had no choice but to conclude.
He’s read my work…
“While I’m certainly not able to compete with Random House or Penguin,” the articulate man went on, “I am rather…ample of means. Would you consider, say, $10,000 a substantial enough fee to ignore the ‘wider circulation markets’ for this particular project? Reprint rights, of course, revert back to you. Immediately.”
Locke was stunned—$10,000 for a privately-printed limited edition!
Robert Frost and John Updike didn’t get money like that!
 “That’s more than generous Mr. Lethe,” he close to stammered, wondering if he should pinch himself awake. “I don’t know what to say. I, I…”
“I know, you don’t want to make any hasty decisions, and you must talk to your agent. Not to worry; there’s no pressure—here, take this, as shall we say, an advance. If you decide you don’t want to pursue this project, well, then just consider it a token gift from an admirer of your work.” Lethe passed a small sheaf of bills across the table and rose to depart.
Locke stared at the five matching engravings of Benjamin Franklin that smiled knowingly at him from the table.
Five-hundred dollars, is this guy whacked?
 Locke slowly slid the money across the table uncovering the man’s somewhat old-fashioned calling card which read in stolid print:
A. Lethe
Todesfall Rd.
North Bend, WA
888-0776
A Microsoft millionaire?
 Locke wondered. North Bend was a small suburb to the East with incomes ranging from just above the poverty line to palatial estates that had been carved out of the bucolic countryside by the cyber geniuses of Nintendo and Microsoft. Yet North Bend was still small enough that its Post Office tolerated quaint anachronisms such as no street numbers. Perhaps this strange commission was the beginning of a turn for the better, a fresh start, a new day in his pocked life. Feeling expansive, Locke signaled the waitress to bring a round of drinks over to Lehrling and his beauteous companion. The waitress scowled at him when he gestured to Lehrling’s table.
It was empty.
Oh, well,
Locke thought. He looked at the money in his hand.
At least Lehrling’s not the only one who got lucky tonight.
(iii)
Lehrling groaned with pleasure and subtly shifted his position, the silken ropes that held his wrists to the bed-frame were smooth enough to preclude any chafing even if things got a bit more energetic. He couldn’t believe this good fortune: he’d met the girl, Anna, only by chance at Concannon’s. She’d bumped into him and dropped her wine spritzer whereupon he’d quickly taken the blame and offered to buy her another. From that point on the evening had moved along at a delirious pace that was much better than anything he could have contrived to orchestrate. The language barrier had been dissolved by the solvency of several more drinks, and Anna had begun to display such a degree of passion and enthusiasm that Lehrling thought a hasty exit from the pub to be in order.
Pay day,
he
thought.
He’d had lots of pay days—the “Rich Novelist” persona served him well—but this was a bit more than a typical bar floozy. This was prime turf.
Upon inviting her to his place for another drink, Anna had responded with her usual reply of “Ja ist gut!” and Lehrling had negotiated the winding drive to his Laurelhurst condo in record time. After arriving he’d barely time to mix them a couple of Champagne cocktails before she was leading him to the bedroom. Anna had apparently gone out well-prepared for a carnal frolic, from her backpack she’d produced a couple of pieces of silken cord and a small wooden paddle; she bent over and wriggled her firm buttocks at him and indicated that she wanted to be tied up and spanked. Lehrling complied with her request, though he was more than a little disconcerted by her yelps with each stroke of the paddle. It was obvious the spanking was bringing her to the point of orgasm. On about the fifteenth stroke she convulsed and shuddered, gasping “Aaah…gott!”
Kissing her on the neck, Lehrling untied the cords and made to turn her over. She quickly rolled over on top of him saying “My turn, ja?”
Uh, ja,
 Lehrling thought.
She scooted up on the bed, lowering a pristinely blonde muff over his face. At the same time, though, she tied his wrists to the headboard. Lehrling began lapping at her sex as she rocked back and forth on his face when…
Did he hear something? He thought he’d heard the front door open, but of course that was impossible. Not with the Arrowhead alarm system, and the motion detectors in the foyer.
The only door opening here is hers…
He lost himself in Anna’s wet musk as he felt her hand reach back and grasp his cock. She climbed off of her perch and began running her tongue up and down his chest, all the while gently tugging his erection—Lehrling closed his eyes at the tensing pleasure, reveling in the sensation of her tongue and lips traversing every inch of his chest and belly, finally coming to his groin. The lips, then, with an almost painful slowness, worked their way up the shaft, toying with him, a tease of flesh. This was exquisite torment.
Tough life, huh, Lehrling?
 he joked to himself.
Then she finally took him into her mouth and began to suck…
“Now, Anna…”
Lehrling’s eyes shot open at the sound of the man’s voice. A tall figure stood in the doorway, features indistinguishable in the darkness; however, the shock of an intruder in his bedroom paled in comparison to the blinding white-flash pain as Anna’s teeth came together and precisely bit the corona off of his penis. Lehrling jerked so violently that both wrists dislocated.
Blood gushed. The red smile showed him what she was doing…
Chewing. She was chewing his glans, vigorously, as one might chew a tough piece of clam meat.
Then, so to speak, she went back to the well, and sucked some more.
Teeth, with the exactitude of siding shears, bit off the rest of Lehrling’s penis in minute increments—biting, chewing, swallowing—biting, chewing, swallowing—until nothing remained but a meager stump. All Lehrling could do, of course, was feel the pain… Coherence was long lost, nothing sapient, no human thoughts in his head, which seemed reasonable. Well, maybe just one, somewhere flitting about in the mad crush of his brainwaves…
—s
he’s eating my—
 
But that was about it.
ELEVEN
Interrogation and a Solitary Wake
(i)
The knock on the door startled Locke to wakefulness; he groggily threw on his bathrobe and glanced at the top of his dresser, where the money and calling card remained, fanned out like a winning poker-hand. Yes, one could be true and be financially rewarded at the same time it seemed.
Right?
 he asked himself. The knock came again, jarring him from the first positive mood he’d known in quite a while.
Locke opened the door to see a grim-faced Captain Jack Cordesman, accompanied by another man whose off-the-rack coat and scuffed
Volume Shoes
 loafers readily identified him as one of the hippish-detective’s brethren in law enforcement.
“May we come in, Mr. Locke?” Cordesman seemed stern, distant—not much like the refined wiseacre Locke recalled from their first meeting.
“Is there a problem?” Locke was puzzled. Cordesman, in spite of his previous method-acting, had seemed satisfied that he’d had nothing to do with White Shir—er, Byers’ suicide.
Why are they here?
 
“You’re not under arrest, and we don’t have a warrant, at least not yet… We would like you to get dressed and come with us, there’s something we’d like you to take a look at.” This from Cordesman’s companion, a man who seemed completely devoid of emotion. In another setting the Jack Webb monotone would have been hilarious; in this context it seemed to possess something of a creep-factor. Locke glanced at his clock, 9:38 a.m.
“Captain Cordesman, can’t you at least give me some idea what it is that you’re after? I work quite late you know—”
“Work late or drink late?” the captain slipped in, one eye on the empty sheet that hung out of the typewriter.
I’m not in the mood for this.
 “I can juggle mangoes late and whistle Dixie but I don’t see how that’s any of your business. So why don’t you and Major Hochstetter there turn around and—”
Evidently Cordesman wasn’t in the mood for it, either.
“It’s like this Locke, you get dressed and come with us now, freely and of your own accord, or we’ll…” The captain paused. “Let’s see, how can I say this with eloquence? Ah, I got it. We’ll grab you by your hair, drag you out of your palace, and throw your ass in the county detent with a bunch of guys who’ll just be tickled pink to have a real live poet in with ’em to help the time go by. Those fellas will make you go through every verse of ‘Old MacDonald’ from quack-quack to moo-moo before they get tired of your attributes. In the meantime, we’ll be processing your arrest report.”
“Oh, yeah? For what?”
“First-degree murder,” Cordesman said.
««—»»
The journey in the unmarked prowler was short and uneventful, other than the terse introduction of the second man as “Detective Kerr.” Both policeman maintained a stony silence as they headed east on 45th past Concannon’s, past the University, to the winding streets of the Laurelhurst neighborhood. Locke had a sinking feeling that he knew what the ultimate destination would be… His suspicion was confirmed as they pulled onto Lehrling’s cul-de-sac.
It was a frenzy of activity, three squad cars, a plain vehicle with city plates, and a camera crew from one of the local stations. Locke was reminded of scurrying ants racing about a pile of spilt sugar or roaches surprised by a sudden burst of light.
“What is it, what’s happened here? Is it Lehrling? Has there been some kind of accident?” Locke was suddenly very concerned for his friend.
“We thought you might be able to tell us, buddy,” Kerr said.
“Oh, give me a break!” Locke exploded. “Is Lehrling dead?”
Cordesman looked back, a brow cocked. “Why would you guess that?”
Locke felt astonished by this outrage. “Well, for starters, you just implied I was about to be arrested for murder, and for seconds, we’re pulling up in Lehrling’s fucking driveway. So I guess it’s reasonable to assume—”
“I was merely citing an abstract possibility, in order to gauge your initial, emotive reaction,” Cordesman blandly replied and refaced the window. “Thus far, I’m not sure how to judge them…which is disturbing.”
Locke exploded again. “You fucking mind-game, Gestapo motherfuckers can’t—”
“Just come with us,” said Cordesman.
The car jerked to a halt, then Locke was being led out. The threesome made their way quickly through the crowd of gawkers and newspeople, to the front door of the building with the ominous “Crime Scene” barricade flanked. Two granite-faced uniformed cops stood guard.

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