The Creep (36 page)

"Hey! Any of you guys seen or heard from Officer Hernandez? He's been gone for over three hours with those two English guys. He hasn't reported in to my knowledge, and even if he ran them to the Airport he'd be back by now."

"Perhaps he's showing them Hollywood Hills," wisecracked a rookie.

"OK smart ass, you can phone up the office in Pasadena and see if they've left and if not, why not," barked the desk Sergeant. "And move on it!"

"Yes, Sergeant.
Consider it done." The rookie moved over to the phone and
dialed
.

"Sergeant, all I'm getting is a
n answering machine with some beautiful sounding dame telling me it's the International Organization of
Hypnotherapy and for me to leave a message or
contact I.O.H. headquarters, Springfield, Missouri."

"OK, I'll get one of our cars to drop in and take a look see. Why don't you go with Swartze?"

"Yes, Sergeant."
The rookie looked around for Swartze, who was propping up a counter drinking coffee and stuffing his face with cinnamon-roll.

PRICKS is
a leading tattoo
parlor
located on the fashionable Portobello Road in London. In the windows are cuttings of newspaper articles and stills from various television shows that Jacob Jacobson has appeared on. He doesn't make a fortune, but he sure makes a good living. He's achieved fame, and that was his main goal. Many famous people come here from all over the world, especially from New York City where tattooing has been illegal since 1961, banned on moral grounds.

Once inside the shop you cannot be anything other than impressed.
The first thing you see is an impressive display of trophies, plaques and certificates of recognition, from all over the world. You know you have arrived in the emporium of an internationally recognized tattoo artist.

Neither can you help but be awe
struck by the three magnificent Harley Davidsons that are on display, beautifully decked out in chrome and
polished
aluminum
, finished off with a specially designed, airbrushed paint job. On the middle Harley was sitting a skeleton flanked by two Hell's Angels in suits of armor.

Here is the man who can create an awful lot with a tiny needle and a few different colored inks. This is the man who offers psychedelic
options,
he will set you apart from the crowd.

A guy and a girl, both punk rockers, walked in. The girl had red hair, made up into about twenty twelve-inch-long spikes. She wore a low-cut top that showed ample boobs, covered in a mass of pretty freckles. The guy was completely bald and was immediately recognized by Jacobson.

"Hey Mungo, how ya doing?
Outta nick, then. What's this - a new girl?"

"Yeah, been out nine mumfs now.
This is Debbie. She's a
Yank,
I met her while hanging out on Chelsea Bridge."

"Good for you, mate. Are you just visiting or did you want a tattoo? You still do all that shit with the Road Rats?"

"Na, I'm frew with all that shit, we're punks now - fuck me, can't you tell?" He pointed at Debbie's hair, pulled on the ring in his nose and pointed to the rows of safety-pins in his ears.

"We want tattoos, right - and not the hunt scene with the fox disappearing up my arsehole." Debbie
giggled,
Mungo stubbed his cigarette on the floor.

Mungo looked at Debbie and grunted: "Gi' us a
snout,
or I'll chin ya!"

"There ya go, honey," said Debbie as she handed over a cigarette.

Jacobson couldn't help smiling, or for that matter staring at Debbie's boobs.

"Where are you from then, Debbie?" Jacobson sat back on his chair, trying to make conversation.

"I'm from America"

"I know that.
Whereabouts?"
Jacobson toyed with an electronic tattoo needle, playing variations on its unique buzzing noise.

"Oh, Brooklyn.
You've heard of the Brooklyn Bridge right? Well I lived in Brooklyn. I got involved with some bad shit out at a place called Fairfax Island. I doubt you've heard of it. It's where all the rich people live. Anyway I wanted to get away from that shit so I came here. I got a 3,000 mile ride all the way from Groton to Liverpool in a Trident submarine. The crew were a lecherous lot, I've never been fucked so many times in all my life
...
I suppose that's what they call working your passage, ha ha ha
...
I met Mungo the first week I came down to London.
Fuckin' good job too, ha ha ha."

"We know what we want, don't we luv? HIS and HERS right, got me?" Mungo laughed.

"His and hers what?" asked Jacobson.

"On 'er forehead you tattoo HIS and on my forehead you tattoo HERS. Got me?
...
HIS and HERS
...
got it?
ha
ha ha."

"Got it."

"No fuckin' pain, right, or I'll chin ya.
Right?"

"Right," said Jacobson
.
.

T
he Hotel Russell is not the best hotel in
London, but it certainly has some great things going for it. It's got some seductively pleasant suites and its location is perfect for American tourists who want to see London: lots of handy restaurants, museums and galleries; within walking distance from the British Museum and the Holomart Exhibition of Holography and Tottenham Court Road. Only
a subway ride
to Madame Tussaud's, the Planetarium and the London Dungeon.

"What's that tune you've been humming all morning?" asked Anita as she started to undress.

Bishman lit a smoke and sipped his champagne. "Well, it's a bit screwed up. It started out as
The Night They Invented Champagne
and finished off as
I'm
So
in Love With You
."

They'd been for a short walk around the block thinking they might find a little restaurant that sold American-style breakfasts, but came back
a little disappointed and decided to have a champagne breakfast of their own.

Anita took off her blouse and slipped off her skirt. She stood in her sexy black lace bra and panties - the ones that had made so much impact upon Harvey. There was a knock at the door. She covered herself up again with her bathrobe.

"Who is it?"

"Room service, ma'am."

"Come right in."

Anita got up and let the bellboy in. He
was pushing a small chrome trolley, which he carefully unloaded.

"There you
go,
ma'am, flowers, chocolates and more champagne. I managed to get you
The Los Angeles Times
. It's yesterday's edition. I hope that's OK." He placed the champagne in an ice bucket, the bouquet flowers in a vase that he'd brought with him, and he laid the chocolates on the table.

"Fine, buddy."
Bishman gave him a couple of pound coins. "There you go, honey, some presents for you," said Bishman, sucking on his cigarette as though it were oxygen.

"Thanks, hon, whatever made you get
The Los Angeles Times
?"

"I just wanted to see if Dr. Bill has missed his million bucks yet, and I wanted to catch up on what's happening back at home. Home away from home - I thought you'd like it. We'll look at that later
...
much later." Bishman sipped his champagne and
unwrapped
the large box of Milk Tray chocolates.

"I do like it.
I like it lots and lots."
Anita wrinkled her nose as champagne bubbles went up it. "Why did you pick this hotel, Bob? There's hundred of hotels in London, why this one? I mean there's nothing wrong with it, I quite like it, but I'm just curious."

"It was Dr. Bill. He talked about this place and I felt as though I knew it. I just wanted to check it out for myself.
Nothing sinister, honest."
He laughed,
then
Anita laughed.

"I knew the minute I met you we'd be soulmates." Anita squeezed his hand.

"Yeah, it's funny you know, the minute I met you, I knew you were a crook. A million bucks my ass, what are we going to do with a million bucks. Boogaloo!
...
Ha! Ha! Ha!" Bishman laughed heartily.

"All I want to do is have a blast, see the world, have a Rosie Future."

"Yeah, boogaloo, I'll drink to that." They
clinked
glasses.

"Whatever made you steal the million bucks in the first place, Anita? Dr. Bill must have done something pretty bad, huh?"

"The bastard nearly killed me. He went too far in one of our fantasies. Much too far, the bastard left a huge vibrator up me for about three hours, and left some video playing that was sickening. He really did some bad stuff. I truly believed I was about to die. I still wake up in cold sweats thinking about it. I thought I'd teach the bastard a lesson."

"Well, he wouldn't have killed you. Anyway, no matter what he did to you, it's not
half as bad as what he could have done to you. Believe me."

"I believe you. What do you mean, he wouldn't have killed me. How do you know?"

"Let's just say you have a guardian angel looking out for you, who wouldn't have let any real harm come to you, and leave it at that!"

"Bob, two questions for you.
Where do you want to go for the second leg of our honeymoon? And what do you want for your birthday?" She cuddled up to him and stroked him gently. Bishman put his head on her golden bush and caught the musky odor of her pussy and thought, Aahh, the smell of success!

Smiling, he replied: "Well, I was going to suggest Boise, Idaho but that's a private joke. I thought I'd leave our honeymoon up to you. We've got the
money,
we can go anywhere we want."

"You know what? I don't know why, but I always fancie
d taking a look at Scandinavia,
you know, Norway, Sweden, Denmark.
It's
one place I've never been
but they reckon it's good. Your
sveng is
borgen,
ding a ding, inga ding." She giggled at her girlish attempt at Swedish.

"That's it then! Later today get the airline tickets. Let's go to Copenhagen, make reservations at the
five-star Marriot
Hotel and let's live it up for a
few
weeks
. While you're doing that I think I'll go over to the Chelsea Bridge again. When we were strolling there the other day I'm sure I recognized someone, a blast from the past." Bishman hucked up a large grisly golly of brown
phlegm
swallowed it and thought, there's only one girl with huge boobs
covered in freckles and if it is her
...
I have some unfinished business.

"Done!
I'll get the flight tickets and book the hotel. What about the second question, your birthday?" said Anita, swallowing a large draft of bubbly at the same time.