The Waiting Game (Garvey Fields) (7 page)

"Yep,” she replied, “but I've dreamed about you taking me just like this.”

I pushed her forward so that her breasts rested on the counter.

"Put your leg on the counter," I commanded.

She hesitated for a moment before lifting her thigh onto the desk. I took a Trojan out of my pocket and slipped it on.

I reached under knee and spread her legs further apart, all the time my other hand squeezing her ample ass. Taking the full length of my shaft and balls out of my trousers I plunged in, my shaft sliding into her effortlessly until it ran out of room. She moaned in a mixture of pain and pleasure, but I was past caring because I wasn’t going to be at this place tomorrow. I started to pump slowly at first easing more of myself inside her with every thrust of my pneumatic drill.

"Oh fuck this is good," she groaned.

She began to buck under me and whisper obscenities as she began to climax.

“Harder,” she demanded.

I obliged her with gusto, smashing into her until my pelvis bone with hitting hers.

And then I stopped.

I pulled out of her, pulled her leg down, turned her, placed a pillow from her chair on the desk and leaned her back in to as I lifted her legs. All the time she stared at me with admiration.

Holding her legs over my shoulders I entered her with no hands and started press my affection into her. I leant forward and we kissed, salt wet tongues, all the time I pounded her like I was trying to break ground and lay foundations for a new hotel.

Somewhere between blasphemy and calling on the Lord’s help we finished with as much passion and lust as we had started. I put the CCTV back on.

I could hear the music on again in the relaxation room. I walked in and found the lithe Miss Cormount stretched out on a couch on her front singing along to
Undercover Lover
by Smooth.

“You finished your business?” she said as I entered. “You know I couldn’t sleep a dime.”

She had changed into a tiny tennis dress, it was the only item of clothing she had on.

“Sure,” I said.

She stretched like a cat and her butt in the air; the dress rode up a little.

I smiled at her ass, “you okay?”

“Waiting is so hard,” she complained and turned to face me.

“I guess.”

“I like you, you're a sweet guy.”

I took a deep breath and dismissed the devil on my shoulder whispering indecencies into my ear.

“Everybody can be sweet,” I said.

“The men I’ve met usually turn out to be only sweet until they get what they want.”

That sounded like all men.

“I guess some people can pretend.”

“Sit with me a little,” she said yawning.

I sat on the opposite couch and watched as she fell asleep swiftly with the kind if stillness you attribute to deep water. I went over to her and thought about it. Then I took off my blazer and covered her with it.

I walked back to the lobby where Veronica was present and correctly attired. I walked over to her and kissed her, the look in her eyes said she wanted more, wanted us to do it again soon. But I knew that you don’t get perfect moments twice and I’d probably never see her again. I’d be the indiscretion she told her daughter about one day in the future when her husband wasn’t listening. I went into the security office and got changed into my Timberlands, Levis and Averix jacket.

As though trying to avoid a final farewell Veronica wasn’t at her station when I came out dressed like hip hop artist on a coffee break. I walked down to the garage; there were a few nice motors down there. I had a feeling that a Bentley GT that had been down there a month but kept spotless was being readied for a speedy exit after some great crime. Joe came out of his booth to great me. He was big and burly, he had a record but wasn’t dishonest and protected each car as though it were his own.

“Garvey,” he said.

“The guy I send down leave okay?”

“Yeah, about half an hour ago, but he didn’t take the bike. Said he was taking the Range Rover and you’d be cool with that. I do okay?”

”Yeah, let’s keep it between us though,” I said and gave him thirty bucks.

I found the BMW M4 convertible parked and cleaned in a bay; Joe watched me as I opened it up and unfolded the hard top roof. It was brand new, less than 100 miles on the clock and fresh smelling Nero black leather.

I was on Linden Boulevard heading back to my place by Prospect Park thinking about a detour to the Hamptons, a slow cruise through Central Park or pop over to the Brooklyn Navy Yard. I’d seen they were offering 12 months lease for the price of 9 months with advance payments, I had more than enough saved to start my detective business.

My phone rang.

I pulled off into Ruby Street next to the 24 hour McDonalds, I’d have to sort out the Bluetooth because I didn’t like pulling over unprepared.

“The caller ID said it was ‘Barabbas’, how did he get my number and what was it doing in my phone.

“Is that Garvey, Fields Garvey?” said a voice I didn’t know. He sounded official like the chairman of the board or a press officer.

“Yeah.”

“I have a message from Barabbas.”

“Go head.”

“We intercepted Mr. Fratp trying to leave the location, Barabbas had a hunch you’d smoke him out. We tailed him out of New York before we pulled him over, he didn’t stop for the lights so we went in for a hard stop.”

I held the phone to my ear tightly, “go on, I'm guessing there’s more.”

“There were some shots fired and Barabbas to a hit, he told us to say goodbye just in case.”

“Thanks.”

“That will be all,” he said and hung up the phone.

The air was full of early morning chill and confusion. If he’d taken the bike he’d have gotten away, but he probably wanted to take all the money. And somehow in all of this he’d got the attention of an alphabet agency.

I thought about getting a double cheese burger and a strawberry milkshake when I saw the young man with a red scarf around his face.

“What you saying big hommie,” he said like someone casually asking me where to find a Starbucks. He had a hunting knife pointed at me.

I didn’t answer him, I couldn’t be bothered, and the night had been too long.

“Why don’t you get on and up out the beamer?” he said more earnestly getting into his role. It was stupid of me to park up with the roof down, but he was stupid to pull this alone.

“You asked me what I'm doing,” I said.

“Yeah fool, what’s up?”

His eyes widened as he realized my Dueller was pointed at his chest, guns are quicker than knives where I'm from.

“Well big hommie, I'm just chillin,” I said.

PART TWO

First Day

1

I
took my motorcycle which I would have missed if Fratp had actually taken it. It had been a week since he’d left the hotel and no one had reported sighting of the car he’d taken off in, bodies in trash bags or noise about from the NYPD. It was like he’d evaporated, I had a feeling that I’d see him again one day; he was that kind of person.

67th Avenue was in an old part of town that was popular with tourists which meant it had a sub culture of crime, vice and corrupt cops skimming off the surface.  The demographic was dynamic and fluid; I saw Greenwich Village hobo types, project types passing through, social climbers who thought they were slumming it and evening escorts walking dogs as a day job.

I found the Dodell Apartments without much trouble, it had a small garage next to it and across the road was a bakery, and it was always nice to be near a bakery.  The address was an apartment block with a glass door that would once have been something to look at but was now outdated and worn. The hallway was enticing as an enchanted forest turned up to extra spooky. I went upstairs and found her apartment which had a view of the road. I wrapped softly on the flimsy wooden door, waited and tapped again. I couldn’t hear a sound or see any movement beyond the silent door. Behind another door across the landing a woman screamed, then told whoever she was with to do it harder.

In the empty floor next to a door no one was answering I began to wonder why I had come at all. Miss Jefferson had a gun, Marley One had been sent a threatening letter and thrown it in the trash with contempt and Miss Jefferson had bailed out of the hotel with Coco about an hour after I had told her Marley One had taken his leave.

What I should have done now was leave, I didn’t have anything really and I didn’t even like the man that had been threatened but I didn’t want to waste gas I had put in the bike so I took out my HPC electric pick gun and broke into Miss Jefferson’s apartment. I shut the door but it wouldn’t lock.

It wasn’t a big apartment and it didn’t get a lot of light with the blinds closed as they were. I could smell cosmetics in the air as I entered the lounge which was small with small furniture.

There was a copy of Vanity Fair on the coffee table, menthol cigarettes and a half drunk bottle chardonnay. The bedroom was a minimalist Ikea affair, clean and well organized with lots of clothes and shoes in the closet. All the shoes were a size six.

I rubbed my chin, Coco didn’t live here, just the sick and not sick again Miss Jefferson.

I went through the bedroom draws; I found shells for a .25 automatic gun under newspaper. I went back to the living room; the cigarette butts in the ashtray only had lipstick on them. Unless I spoke with Miss Jefferson I was wasting my time.

I walked to the door and gave the room one last survey before I left and looked for something better to do with my notice period when I saw it.

It was a toe.

It was a toe in stockings that were almost sheer. She was behind her couch on her side; her legs were splayed out like she’d been kicking at something. She had one ballet shoe on, I couldn’t see the other. She had a boat necked wool jumper on that had ridden up over bra, a breast was almost out and her ribs had purple bruising on it. She had a pleat skirt that had been almost torn off to exposes the fact that her bra and panties matched. Her underpants weren’t torn. Around her neck were deep purple bruises, the marks you get from big hands.

Her Asian face had turned almost plum in color and her grey eyes were like a light show that had been turned off at brightest glow, and her mouth was open as though she had died frozen in a scream. She was cold, but still limp which meant she hadn’t been dead more than six hours, I reckoned it was maybe two or three.

The bag from the hotel room was there again next to her, it was wide open like her mouth and its contents dumped around her, there were no papers and her gun had been taken.

I listed at the door before I made my way back into the landing again. The floor was empty; the neighbors were still having loud sex. I went to the lower floor and checked mailboxes, hers was empty. I walked over to a door marked ‘MANAGER’ and knocked. A woman’s voice shouted something like come in, I made sure I had my riding gloves on before opening the door.

The room had a desk like a small motel reception as you entered and to the side was a TV and some old couches. The voice belonged to an old woman whose body was slack in one of the couches. She had a sepia skin tone and fine wrinkles, her hair was in a scarf and she turned to look at me with watery eyes.

“Good afternoon mam, are you the manager?” I said with as much deference as I could offer.

“No honey that would be my son.” Then she took some air and said loudly, “Henry.”

From behind a door behind the counter a fridge door closed and big man came out carrying a bottle of Dragon Stout and a steaming hot Jamaican pattie. He looked like Riddick Bowe with a bald head, big arms and bear paw like hands. He wore mechanics overalls

He nodded at me in acknowledgement then set the food and drink in front of his mother who was watching a Christian channel on cable.

“How you feeling?” he said to her concerned.

“I’m good; the cleaning took it out of me a little.”

“We need to hire someone and increase the service charge.”

“I can manage stop fussing, no go on and see to the gentleman.”

He looked at me.

“You the manager?” I said.

He regarded me carefully before answering.

“Yep, and I can snap a neck with a mean right cross too.”

“Good to know, who lives in apartment 227?”

He rolled his shoulders and leaned forward, I believed him about the neck snapping thing. “A woman.”

“By herself?”

“Ask me a proper question.”

“I have.”

“Follow me into the kitchen.”

He held the door open and followed me through to a small and surprisingly clean kitchen area that lead to a well maintained stone garden. He pulled a couple of Dragon Stouts out of the fridge and threw one at me.

“You’re either a customer or private detective. You don’t see too many private detectives. You’re too eloquent to be some thug on the make, so what the deal?”

I took out and handed him my business card and flashed my license at him, “I see, what’s she done this time?”

“She might have been involved in some kind of blackmail, definitely looking to seduce some fool singer for money. She got any siblings you know of?”

“No, she’s an orphan. Besides anyhow, I like her, she gives me a little freebee sometimes, most women usually scared of it you know.”

“So she runs tricks out of the apartment?”

“Perhaps.”

“And you're not worried about the cops coming through?”

“Let them come, I don’t give a shit, she’s a nice girl. Besides this obviously isn’t a police job and ain’t going to rat on her unless there’s something in it for me.” He said and sipped his beer.

“You’ve good got big hands, the kind of hands that could break a neck,” I said looking at the scaring around the eyes.