Geek's Revenge Ch. 08

I spent the next several days tying up loose ends on my big warehouse deal and getting things straight with the lawyers, my time with Carla the Companion (or Peaches the Crackwhore, depending on your perspective) fading into a fuzzy and pleasant memory. I had to hand it to her – she made an excellent temporary girlfriend, and I didn't even have any of those pesky late night "oh God, am I ever going to meet someone real for a relationship?" moments in the middle of the night that single people are prone to.

Carla must have been just as busy, and we lost touch for a week or so until I saw her coming out of Honey's, a popular 24 hour coffee shoppe, at about three in the morning. I needed a waffle. Yes, at 3 in the morning. No, that's not normal. If I was normal, I wouldn't be rich.

"Hey, Peaches," I called, as she almost walked by me. She had a girlfriend in tow, a pretty black chick about ten years her junior.

"Coop!" she said, giving me a hug in greeting when she realized who I was. Her eyes were spacey – coke, and plenty of it. "Coop, this is my girlfriend Rialta," she said, introducing me, and I shook her hand. She was a working girl, too, I could tell (no other reason to wear a mini skirt and tube top at a coffee shop at three in the morning) and she was pretty cranked, too. "We just got off work," Carla explained, "and were waiting for a cab."

"Getting some waffles," I explained. "Playing HALO 3 all night. Well, you girls have fun, 'kay?" I said. Not that I wasn't interested – but the economic news and my recent deals had made me a little more cost-conscious about pussy.

"You, uh, wanna . . ." Carla started to ask, softly. "You know . . .?"

"I gotta get home," Rialta complained. "My feet are killin' me, my asshole hurts, and I gotta get my kids up for school in the morning."

"I was just getting waffles," I told her. "I mean, of course I'm interested, but—"

"How about I trade you a blowjob for a place to crash, tonight?" she asked, beseechingly. "I hate to go back to my boyfriend's place . . . he's gonna be up all night with his fellas playing cards, and I'll never get to sleep."

It was an interesting proposal – I mean, if you're up for waffles at 3 a.m., how could you not be up for a blowjob? Sure, she looked shifty and nervous, but I figured that was the coke talking. But the prospect of inviting a known junkie back to your apartment for the evening – rest of the night – is always a little dicey. I hemmed and hawed about it, and postponed the decision until after my waffle.

"Tell you what," I proposed, "keep me company while I eat, and then I'll either take you up on it or I'll drop you off and spare you a cab ride."

She shrugged, not particularly happy about it, but not put out, either. "That works," she agreed. "What's it been like in nerdville, lately?"

"Oh, you know, new Star Wars action figures, bitching about the latest comic adaptations, that sort of thing," I said, sarcastically. "Oh, and putting together multi-million dollar deals. How's the whoring?"

"Did a frat party," she yawned. "Two grand, but I had to do seven guys. And Rialta. She took five up the butt, though, and that always makes you tired. Split the tip even." I sat down in the smoking section and ordered, our steely-eyed waitress looking at Carla with distaste.

"I think I'll stick with action figures," I chuckled.

"So, Coop," Carla said, hesitantly. "You got any more special work for me? Any more old guys that need blowing?"

"Not at the moment," I said, guardedly. "But maybe soon."

"Good – just between you and me, I need the money."

When doesn't a whore need the money? I knew she was in deep with her pimp over blow, but a couple of extra suck jobs, no matter how lucrative, weren't going to put a dent into her habit. "I could do a few referrals," I proposed, cautiously.

"That would be grand," she sighed. "I like fucking nerds. They have less expectation than the homeboys."

"Here's to the geeks of the world," I said, toasting with my coffee cup. "Lowering expectations for American masculinity for almost a hundred years!"

"No, no, I mean . . . well, they're just nicer. And they don't like it rough, not like some of my other clientele."

"A couple of the guys from my nerd party a while back have asked," I pointed out. "I could make a few calls."

"That would be great. There's a whole new crop of competition rising, and I need to find a good niche. Me an' Rialta were discussing it tonight after the party. My boyfriend just found two new eighteen year old white pussies to put on the market, and some of my regulars have switched." She sounded depressed about it.

"Eighteen, you say?" I asked, intrigued.

"Oh, FUCK no!" she exclaimed, a little pissed off. "Not you, too? Yes, they're fresh, but they barely know which end of a cock to put in their mouths. But the brothas like it fresh, so . . ."

"So you have to find other stuff to do while they take the limelight," I finished.

"Yeah," she admitted, lighting a cigarette. "I don't mind the competition, really – okay, a little, maybe – but it's the . . . well, shit like this frat party. More work. And it's a rough economy. And my boss says if I don't start picking up the pace and paying off my debt . . ." she let it hang there a moment.

"Donkey shows in Tiajuana?" I supplied, helpfully.

"Or worse. And before you ask, don't ask."

"I see," I said, thoughtfully. I recalled the conversation that Bev and I had about the potential advantage of a full-time whore on the payroll of our new enterprise – beyond the "employee morale" aspects – and let that part of my brain churn while I ate. Carla told me a couple of amusing whore stories until it was time to go, then looked at me expectantly.

"So, what about tonight?" she asked, finally.

"Yeah, come on back to my place," I decided. "I don't mind if you crash."

"I'll pay the rent first, promise," she said, happily.

And she did. As soon as we got through the door, she had me in my favorite recliner, slurping on my cock with her well-used mouth. I don't know how many frat boys she sucked off that night, but there was a definite looseness in her mouth that I found pleasant and strange at the same time. Still, she did a professional job, and I unloaded in less than ten minutes, my hand pushing her head down on my dick as far as it would go. We fell asleep in my bed, curled up like boyfriend and girlfriend. Just before I dropped off I reminded myself to ditch the sheets – no telling where those frat boys had been.

I had planned on my usual noon rising time, but some asshole was banging on my door at six a.m sharp, and that makes me grumpy. And you don't want to make a nerd grumpy. I flicked on my computer screen and clicked on the icon that opened up the hallway webcam, and saw two well-dressed African American men with determined jaws just outside my door. They carried themselves with the kind of confidence that only a large caliber handgun or a lifetime of martial arts training can impart.

"Coop?" Carla asked, nervously, as she saw the screen. "Um, I think they're here for me."

"No shit," I commented. "I don't have any appointments this morning."

"I'll get my stuff," she sighed, desperately.

"Wait," I told her, pushing her back down on the bed. "No one fucks with my beauty rest. I'll deal with them."

"Coop, no," Carla objected. "These guys—"

"Yeah, yeah, thugs and gangsters and pimps," I said, disgustedly. "I don't care: this is my building, and I don't appreciate the enthusiastic way they're keeping me awake."

I slipped out of bed and put on a bathrobe over my Cookie Monster boxers, and stopped by the safe long enough to open it and grab my 9mm, which went into one of the oversized pockets. Carla's eyes got wide when she saw the piece. Then I answered the door, opening it just enough to let the chain catch it. Thug #1 pushed it to the limit of the chain.

"Open the fucking door!" he snarled.

"You wanna just calm the fuck down?" I asked. "I'm not opening the door for anyone but Santa right now, and you ain't him."

"You don't open this door, I bust it down," the thug responded evilly. He had apparently skipped the mouthwash this morning. "You got our boss' property in there!"

"Actually, gentlemen," I pointed out, "You are on my property, and trespassing to boot. This is my building, it's not open to the public on this floor. So either calm the fuck down and discuss this properly, or we can summon law enforcement and let them settle this."

"You really want everyone to know you consort with prostitutes?" the quieter man asked. "Could be bad for your business."

"My business is my business, and I don't care if anyone knows I fuck whores. Or guinea pigs, for that matter. So the 'embarrass the white boy' tactic ain't gonna work. Get out of my fucking building, and we'll settle this by the cool light of day – say, this afternoon. Not at six o'clock in the morning."

"Fuck you!" the first thug said, viciously. "Tell Peaches she better get her ass back home!" He pushed aside his suit coat and showed me a holstered automatic. "Or we come back."

Time for a direct intervention. He had his foot wedged into the bottom of the door, keeping me from shutting it. And yes, his pistol was intimidating. But this was my fucking building, and I quit being intimidated by people in lower tax brackets a long time ago. "Never attack a wizard in his castle" is a well known geeky maxim – and never threaten a well-armed nerd in his own goddamn building should be. Casting caution to the wind, and likely suffering from over-exposure to first-person shooters, I pulled out the 9mm and pointed it into the hallway. Not at anyone in particular, but it would only have taken a twitch of my finger to send a bullet into either of them.

"Yeah, that's sweet," I said, tiredly, as the thug's eyes bulged – he wasn't prepared to be looking back at a gun barrel. "I've got one too. And a shotgun I can put my hand on in five seconds. I don't appreciate intimidation, gentleman. It's uncalled for. It's rude. Tell your boss I'll be around tonight – with his property. But if he sends another couple of gay-looking corporate commandos to my door at an untoward hour, I might have to take exception. You think you can handle delivering that message?" I asked the nearest thug, sarcastically. "Or shall I repeat it using small words?"

"We got it, Chief," the quieter thug agreed. "No worries. Tonight will be fine. But you make it, or there's going to be consequences and repercussions. Dig?"

"Dug," I agreed, putting away the pistol. "You have a pleasant morning, then," I finished, and shut the door after Thug #1 removed his foot.

"Jesus, Coop!" Carla said in a harsh whisper, eyes wide at my calm display. "Are you fucking insane?"

"Nope," I sighed, returning the pistol to the safe while I watched the two go down the elevator on my screen. Just to be safe I disabled the elevator's ability to stop at this floor for the moment. If the bastards wanted to come and get me now, they'd have to take the stairs. "I'm just pissed off at getting woken up."

"You've got a gun," she observed, as if just realizing it. "Oh my God, you have a gun? You don't seem the type."

"I live Downtown," I dismissed. "And if you haven't noticed by now, I'm not bulging with muscles," I said, collapsing back into my bed. "But I do have an appreciation for precision machinery. I've got a bit of collection, actually. I wasn't shitting them about the shotgun – a cheap Mossburg, but it gets the job done. Another five minutes of warning and I could have hosed them with either the AK47 or the MAC10. But they're . . . put away."

"God, I never would have taken you for a gun nut," she sighed, joining me, her hand on my chest.

" 'Gun nut' is an unnecessarily negative portrayal of someone who exercises their second amendment rights. I've got some guns. I live in a dangerous neighborhood."

"Plenty of guys with guns would have just let them have my ass," she said, softly. "You didn't. Why?"

"Because you're a guest in my home," I explained with a sigh, "and it pisses me off when someone tries to fuck with my guest. We might have a business relationship, but that doesn't mean we aren't otherwise acquainted. Besides, it's too early for a job performance review, even for a crack whore."

"I've never had someone just . . . stand up for me," she said, caressing my chest hairs. Yes, I have chest hairs.

"Think of it as that damn geeky Dungeons & Dragons inspired chivalry, then," I said. "Now let me get some more sleep. If I have to stare down your pimp, then it might go poorly if I yawned in the middle of it."

"You can rest in a minute," she said, rising a bit. "Right now . . . well, I want to reward you." She slid over my lap and my cock was instantly hard. It didn't take her long to find the right spot, and in seconds she was sliding slowly down my shaft. "My hero," she whispered, blowing me a kiss.

I had Carla bring the car around from the garage while I got ready, about four in the afternoon. I packed a little bag, including the 9mm, and put on some particularly geeky clothes. Why? Because I enjoy intimidating people as much as Thug #1. Instead of relying on my bloodthirsty nature and propensity for violence (both of which are pretty understated, outside of Halo 3) though, I wore a threadbare MIT t-shirt under a CalTech varsity jacket. I hadn't attended either school, but that didn't matter. I also grabbed one of my portable computers – a netbook, not a notebook – and stuffed it in a gym bag with a few other items.

When I got downstairs Carla was enjoying driving the Jag around the block, and asked permission to drive us there. I agreed – I'm not one of those guys who must drive, even if it was my car. It gave me time to send a couple of helpful emails.

It only took ten minutes for Carla to pull us up behind one of the more disreputable apartment complexes on the bad side of town. There were ten or twelve people just lounging around the parking lot, and the moment I pulled up the silver Jag drew curious onlookers like flies to shit. Carla and I got out and she looked around sternly.

"Don't fuck with the ride," she warned.

"Yo! Peaches! Movin on up?" came a call from an onlooker.

"Driving over your toes, if you touch this car, Toby," she called back. "I'm serious."

"Is it in any danger?" I asked, once we were walking in and out of earshot of the rest of the crowd.

"Shouldn't be," she shrugged. "A lot depends on who's alive at the end of this . . . "

"Negotiation," I supplied.

"Negotiation?" she asked, surprised. "I thought you were just giving me a ride?"

"I told the man I'd deliver you, and that's what I'm doing," I assured her.

"I appreciate it, Coop," she sighed. "I'm in big trouble. This won't help much, but—"

"Don't sweat it. Let me do the talking. Got it?"

"I really wish you wouldn't put yourself—"

"Got it?" I repeated, pointedly, as a large shirtless negro with tons of prison tattoos smiled and opened a door for us.

"Got it," she agreed, meekly. "Hey, Windex!" she called and waved to a . . . denizen. He gave her a crooked grin and waved back.

"Hey Peaches," he said in a squeaky Mike Tyson voice. "Bill's been looking for you."

"Oh, I know," she agreed. "He sent Tyler and Giggles for me. I got the message."

"He's real pissed," Windex said, warningly.

"I know," Carla sighed. "I'll take care of it. Don't worry."

"Just watch your ass," he reminded. "You remember last time."

"You don't forget a thing like that," she agreed, grimly.

"What did he mean?" I asked, when we were out of earshot.

"Oh, Windex is on the thug squad that punishes the girls, if Bill isn't happy with them. He's got a cock as big as a Buick. Nice guy, but he really gets off on anal. Especially with white girls. Then he feels bad about it afterwards – but that doesn't stop him from lining up the next time around."

I nodded, trying hard not to visualize that while we were led in to see Bill – or Fireball, Jr., as he was professionally known.

Fireball and his bodyguards were sitting in front of a massive plasma TV that cost more than the monthly rent on the apartment, and had that fresh, just-been-stolen look. So did the Wii they were playing with. Of course they didn't stop playing when I came in, so I stood their patiently for a while, while they let the aggregate accumulation of thuggishness try to intimidate me.

"You aren't breaking your wrist right," I finally said, when one of the massive dudes screwed up the game for the third time in a row. "Try bending it slightly to the left when it comes down, and then . . . flick," I said, pantomiming.

"Who let the white boy in here?" demanded the player I'd been critiquing.

"Hey, Peaches," one of the guys on the couch said. "Tyler and Giggles said they found you."

"Yeah, Bill, they did," she conceded. So this was Bill the Pimp, aka Fireball Junior. Not quite what I expected. He was slightly built, but well-muscled, and he wasn't quite dressed like a thug. More like a slightly thuggy college student on an extended break. Decent looking guy, but his eyes were hard – criminal hard. And his thick jaw made him look just like his Daddy.

I actually knew about Fireball, Sr. – he did a lot of real estate, back in the day, buying houses from his addicted customers when their cash ran out and flipping them. I saw him pull up to a real estate closing one time in a decrepit old pick-up truck, dressed in a stained wifebeater and smoking the stub of a cigar. He had parked in a loading zone and he was carrying a bag full of cash – small unmarked bills, I assumed. I was intrigued, and my lawyer at the time filled me in on him.

Responsible for gambling and prostitution and the all-important crack trade in and around the local predominantly-black college, he was a local fella who had an old-fashioned sense of organized crime's place in the community. He regularly contributed extravagant sums to inner-city churches, who were too desperate for resources to always look carefully at their benefactors. He had thirteen children by seven different women, and he had put every one of them through college, many into professional careers. When the violent Jamaican gangs invaded town in the late 80s, he and his organization worked with the police to bring them down (and eliminate a competitor). Since then he had handed off most of his criminal enterprises to several of his sons. His oldest, Fireball Junior, had inherited a sizeable chunk. Certainly a man to be cautious around. You don't get a criminal nickname like Fireball for your pitching style.

"They also said you weren't willing to come home with them," he added, after some thought.

"That isn't exactly true," I interjected. "Your guys came and banged on my door at six o'clock in the morning. "Peaches and I had just crashed out – she was exhausted after that frat party. She was willing to hop up and come along, but I was pissed off at being woken up – and then your guy had to go and get rude and flash a gun in my home. So I politely asked them to leave, and told them I would deliver Peaches back here this afternoon. Which I've done," I concluded.

"Was she workin'?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"No, she was sleeping. She wanted a place to crash where she could actually get some sleep."

"She got a bed," he grunted. "You that rich dude she's been hittin' so much, lately?"

"Yeah," I admitted. "I've become a regular."

"Well, hate to tell you, but even the cuddle cost money, Jack," he muttered. "Can't have my ladies formin' romantic attachments off the clock. That don't pay no bills."