MJ 4: The Nightlife Case

"I'll cut straight to the point. You said you'd been waiting for me. What did you mean?"

To my surprise his eyes dropped over me the way most men size up an unknown woman, appraising. If his eyes had held a light of humor, I might have taken it for a pure line. As it was, I wondered if I'd get straight answer; if he even knew what he'd meant.

"I think it'd be best to come inside, if you're willing."

Never had I been that much of a fool; I nodded yes but brushed my windbreaker open to show my gun on my side, holster unsnapped.

He brushed past me, radiating warmth, and being only human with a strong weakness for manflesh, I checked out his ass in his jeans as he climbed in front of me. Yup, suitable for either bouncing off quarters or chomping on it like a horny madwoman.

He unlocked the door and let me into a sparse, neat, but true man cave. The floors were scruffy wood covered in cheap navy rugs; the walls were wood paneled like a cabin and the paintings on them were vivid depictions of wild nature. There was a pull-out couch from the 70's, a milk crate table with garage sale lamp, a low, scarred dumpster-dived coffee table, and a similar scarred wooden stand holding a modern and snazzy looking television.

A small high counter denoted a postage-stamp kitchen, and three close-bound doors demarcated a bathroom, a bedroom, and likely a linen closet.

It reminded me of my first apartment in college, and screamed mystery. Hank Mobley was not the kind of man who should be living like this, I thought. He should have a surfboard, pictures of him with a bevy of women, modern artwork and overpriced matching furniture.

Come to think of it, he shouldn't be named Hank.

"Welcome to my little abode. Want a beer?"

"Your name isn't really Hank, I it?"

He opened the fridge and leaned through the small passage-way. "I'll take that as yes, you'd like a Heineken too."

The sound of tops being popped and clattering to Formica rang out and he came through with a loose swing to his stride and his button-up shirt slightly undone at the top and pulled from his jeans.

He saw me take inventory and smiled a real smile as he passed me a beer. "Hey, it was a long day and you already ogled my ass."

I sat down on the couch uninvited and it almost swallowed me whole. I didn't respond, just leveled my gaze on him and took a swig of the bland, generic beer.

He sat beside me, disturbingly close. He seemed to radiate warmth, and the smell of cleanser, stale beer, and beneath it something like sunshine. He was just so much more...real than I was used to, it was disturbingly enchanting.

"My name is Henry Lucas Mobley, but around here everybody calls me Hank."

"Fair enough. So spill it. I need to find this woman Liz. I have reason to think she may be in danger."

"I thought you were searching for something else and she was just involved," he damn near smirked.

"If you must know what I am truly after is something that only she knows the location of. Her husband did hire me, he's an old...acquaintance. Look, it's complicated but in short, Liz is the key, other people are after it, and lives are at stake.

"Liz's trail dies here, with you. When I asked why you didn't look into things earlier you said you'd been waiting for me. What did you mean?"

He casually and completely unselfconsciously slung his arm on the back of the sofa behind me. I didn't relax into it nor did I tighten up and away. I merely chugged more beer and waited.

"Liz is a haunted woman. You could see secrets in her eyes, and the way she conducted herself...she was scared, she was alone, and she was seeking something. Whatever the hell she'd thought she'd find in this hole in the wall is beyond me. It was a matter of time before someone, a cop or a PI, came looking for her."

Here was the part where in normal conversation I'd ask why he was there, why he worked there, if he truly owned the bar, and if he did why did he have the insanely perfect teeth of a male model or actor?

I could have done what I could to feign an interest in this man but I was reasonably attractive, I was lonely, and I was horny as hell. All signs pointed to happy complacency and so I merely turned, cupped his head, and kissed Hank Mobley as if I truly knew what the hell I was doing.

It was pleasant; he tasted like beer, his smooth vanilla tobacco, and a tang unique to him and him alone.

I normally tore through the preliminaries but two years of celibacy had made me rethink my approach. I realized I missed all the things Finn used to force on me; the touching, the kissing, the closeness, that slow exploration.

Some people called it making love but I preferred to think of it as taking the scenic route.

Either Hank was of the same mind or he was good at reading me. It didn't matter, he mirrored me. One hand of mine cupped his head, one of his cupped mine. We angled our heads, slanting our mouths back and forth, across, slowly, tasting one another. I'm sure I tasted of stale cigarettes, cheap beer, and the Luden's cough drops I'd taken to chewing as a vain attempt to cover the cigarette breath.

I maneuvered enough to set my beer down between a seat cushion and a back one, and used my free hand to grab onto his shoulder. Hank shifted slightly and I felt his hand on my ribcage beneath a breast. Not a perfect mirror, but something like a magnifying one.

I couldn't tell you who began to slowly pull off the other's clothes first; his mouth found the slow slide along my jawbone that turned my brain into jelly, and by the time he nipped at the spot beneath my ear he was magnificently bare-chested and I was struggling with my holster.

He merely chuckled and pushed aside my clumsy attempts and unsnapped it properly. It slid off and fell to the navy rug with a dull thunk. I helped with my tank top and went for my bra but he stopped me.

Once more his mouth found mine and this time it was like a direct hit, no teasing slides, just what felt like a command I was only too happy to obey.

His hands now teased my breasts through the shabbily practical green cotton and the sensation drove me insane. I had almost forgotten the hot shivers, that keening anticipation that filled me and pushed my consciousness outward, expanding into pure need. I felt greedy and wanton and let my hands stroke down that carved chest into his loose pants.

I felt heat and heartbeat and finally that magically soft skin stretched over a hard length. He felt average but thick, and I thought of how tight I'd be after such a long time, and the dark thought washed through me like a hot wave.

Urgency gripped me and it must have telegraphed through my kiss because suddenly we were moving, a jumble of limbs. Never breaking contact clothes were tugged down but not off, and our teeth clicked together, our tongues mashed. I didn't care, I was surrounded by him, his heat, and I felt a need in him that echoed my own bottomless pit.

I heard the foil packet rip and conscious thought was a cold streak of relief before surrender to the great deep ocean of desire.

My shorts were at my ankles and I was on my back so he used the shorts to jackknife me. When he entered me he felt fucking huge. At first I felt just female; filled, slightly violated, yet melting, warming, accommodating. I was satisfied by his grunt, by the keening hungry need I felt.

Quickly it flashed through my mind how little we had spoken. Why should I feel guilty, I thought, but I did. Then his large, rough hands reached up, braced on his forearms, to capture my breasts. He gently squeezed, thumbing my nipples until I gasped, and then he began to move his hips is a swiveling figure eight.

All thought shut down and I grabbed his arms, clawing at the muscles as my own hips sought to mash us closer together. The cool night disappeared in a haze of sweat as my muscles tightened, my nipples hardened, and my pussy clenched riding the climb to orgasm eagerly.

When finally I reached the shimmering pinnacle and screamed d out wordlessly, that was when Hank let go and began to thrust like a madman. My own haze of afterglow disappeared beneath the crushing march and desperate grab of his own pleasure.

There was always something cold in that moment for a woman, when a man has so focused on her pleasure that his own is far behind. Not much of it is ever made in society, but nothing else on earth makes a woman feel so alone.

Were I riding him, teasing him, controlling Hank's pleasure I would feel the most powerful being on the planet. As it was now I felt like a mere receptacle.

He finished growling like a rabid bear and at least in that unguarded moment there was some redemption.

He did not collapse on me which was great, my legs had fallen asleep. Instead he pulled out, sat down, and helped me to sit up. All this before he pulled the condom off.

Without speaking we pulled our pants up, I tugged my shirt back down but left my bra loose, and pulled out my cigarettes, lighting one.

"Could I?" he asked, motioning to my pack.

"Sure." I gave him one and passed the lighter. I'd had more casual than intimate sex in my life but I hadn't had any in two years. That was the definition of a soulless fuck, yet what bothered me the most was that it didn't bother me.

At times like this I wasn't so sure I liked Marly Jackson.

"So tell me what it is exactly you're looking for," he said, blowing a showy smoke ring.

I couldn't say why, but the whole tale slipped from my lips. Arthur, the first robbery, the double cross, Arthur's tale of betrayal. Through it all he smoked, fetched us some water, and seemed to consider it all.

When it was done, he shifted on the couch as I lit a third cigarette. "Marly...Arthur is planning to kill you. You have to know the endgame here."

I blew out a column of smoke. "I know. But who says I'm not planning to kill him?"

"Why hire you? He could have come here talked to me himself, learned about her meeting this guy. Why hire you?"

"Why are you so interested?"

He leaned back and smoothed his already-smoothed-back hair. "Don't read too much into it, but I like you. I would rather not see you get your head blown off."

"Sweet of you. My guess, my real guess at what's going on?" I waited for his nod before taking another puff and then explaining. "I think Arthur and Liz planned to double cross me from day one. I pulled the job and they were going to take the cash and drugs and split town, leaving me holding the bag. The only problem was, and always has been, the drugs. They bring in D-Bag and Cherokee to convert it into cash only to have the lowlifes skip out on them with the cash, and somehow they managed to hold onto the drugs.

"Liz and Arthur dump the drugs and look for a mover. They can only find one back in the states and when Liz makes contact she sends out a red flag. Not only did Cherokee and D-Bag find it, but the man we stole from originally, Alejandro Javier.

"My guess is Liz and Arthur split up. He was supposed to draw Javier on a wild goose chase and she was supposed to make the deal and evade Cherokee and D-Bag. Now she's gone missing and Arthur doesn't know if they took her, killed her, or if she threw in with them.

"I think he hired me because he knew I would likely kill Liz when I found her, as well as Cherokee and D-Bag to get at the money. I think he hired me because sorting through all this is taking time, and by the time I find her the drugs will be cash. I work as the hit man and bag man.

"However I think Arthur disappeared for a good reason; I think he has Javier's men on him, and he's waiting for me to emerge victorious with his cash, and everyone dead. And then I think he plans to double cross me again, disappear with the money and leave me to take the fall with Javier."

He let it roll over in his mind and I stubbed out my butt.

"Fuck," was all he said.

"Exactly."

"I still don't get it, why not just kill Liz and the others himself?"

"Hard to do that while evading the kind of heavyweights Javier will call up from South America for this."

"How did he know that you wouldn't find Liz automatically and instantly?"

I finally fixed my bra and raised a brow at him. "He must have looked into it, knew you were here."

"So?"

"So...you're pretty, and I have a well-established weakness for pretty men."

He wasn't the first to frown at me calling him that, nor was he the first to say that he would help me on this case.

No, Hank was not the first man to fall for that.

***

We slept in his bed. Somewhere between cuddling like an awkward drunk hook-up and like two adults simply sharing space, it was strangely relaxing.

We hadn't talked after he'd agreed to help me. I didn't ask why he had, I assumed it had more to do with money than my irresistible charms. Instead of talking, we'd spent the night drinking, smoking, fucking.

It was the strangest interlude I could remember. After the slow-building vicious fuck we'd become teenagers; making out, petting over clothes, a kind of slow burn that by the time it became the worship of a mouth on genitals we'd both been ready to burst.

I woke first and made use as best I could the bathroom. I was dressed and had the coffee pot going when he woke.

"Good morning," he stretched, yawning, his long hair barely tangled and his skin darkly golden against his white cotton sheets.

I would always hate people like that- perfectly pressed, posed like they were actors in a movie and had spent hours getting the makeup, wardrobe, and lighting correct. I was frumpy, and always would be. My brain darkly flashed to Michael Finnegan, my ex-lover who like me rose rumpled in the morning and was a thousand times sexier for it.

I pushed the thought away and found some granola bars to go with the coffee as he hopped in the shower. When he came out I was on my second cup of joe and Mr. Perfect swaggered with a pristine white towel riding low on his hips held by one hand. He was like a fucking walking Abercrombie poster.

"So last night you agreed to help. No offense, but exactly how can you help me?"

He dropped the towel and I saw that despite our best efforts the night before to complete satiate our bodies, he was halfway happy to see me.

I jerked my gaze away, trying to get into game-mode. Time was slipping by too fast.

He laughed and I heard the jungle of a belt buckle as he slipped on jeans. "That guy Liz meet with? I didn't tell you the whole truth. He paid a couple of times...with a credit card."

I almost spit out my coffee. "Why didn't you say something!?"

"I had to see if you ere following Liz to kill her or not."

"I have been sent to kill her...so?"

He slipped on a dark green tank top and pulled a hair band from his pants, forming a ponytail. "I don't think you will. Come on downstairs with me, let's find the slip."

***

Two hours later it was almost noon, and I was holding hank's hair back as he vomited into a shopping bag. In between disgusting heaves he was cursing loudly enough I was shushing him.

I wanted to go back in the room and search for clues, but I couldn't leave any trace behind and Hank was in no condition to be back in a motel room with a dead body, nor could I leave him alone on the balcony where any guest or maid would overhear him.

"Shut the fuck up! If someone calls the cops who do you think is going down for this? Do you realize I'm not the only person in the world who likes pretty boys? Plenty of rapists and murderers in prison share my tastes."

His eyes glanced up at me through a dark fringe of lashes. He still looked a bit green and the combination of that very feminine look at that nauseated skin tone brought out grudging maternal instincts in me.

"Come on, cheer up. It's just Cherokee, a 'bad guy.' Jesus Christ, work with me here, Hank. You said you wanted to help and we're on the trail of big things and bad people. What did you expect?"

"I've never seen a dead body outside a funeral home, ok?"

I blinked at that. I'd been a cop for years, a PI, had killed people myself. I'd grown up where people died on the street commonly. So standing at the Sunny Shade Motel in the hot midday sun, smelling the stale tang of blood, and seeing a post-rigor corpse with an exit wound the size of a cantaloupe meant this must have been a Tuesday. I checked my watch and indeed it was.

"Sorry Hank, but I thank you for the help. You can either trot back home and trust me to mail you a check, or if you want your cut of the cash, you're going to have to man up."

Good, he was pissed off now. I took the puke bag from him and tied it off, stepping back inside the room to grab more and tie it inside.

The television was on, showing Cherokee had ordered a porno and it had expired. He was naked on the bed, the top of his head missing and the front mutilated by a bullet wound. .38 hollow point it seemed. Blood was everywhere, his clothes were crumpled on the floor, and sadly I noted he was well-built. Hard to tell with his head wounds if he'd had a nice face, but he had a nice dick.

Jesus, I needed a vacation, I thought with a shake of my head.

"Don't touch anything, just keep guard."

Hank nodded at that.

I looked through the suitcase; it was picked clean of anything but clothes. No watch, no wallet. I only knew it was Cherokee because the idiot had registered under his real name.

The garbage showed a coupe of used condoms, some Chinese food containers, and a pair of women's pantyhose. In the bathroom the conditioner had been used and there was the plastic cover of a Lady Bic razor.

Nothing, no blinking sign of where they had been going or where they'd come from. No sign of D-Bag, and no for sure sign that the hose and razor belonged to Liz and not some whore. I was guessing, however, a whore would shave there and leave her hose.

I went to the phone and grabbed gloves from my pocket. With tissue over the phone I picked it up and hit redial. Sadly the phone didn't do it, damn switchboards, but the TV remote showed a check-out option.

I picked it up and went to check out but entered "Review Bill" first. One call had been made from the room and it was a local number. I pulled out my small steno pad and pen and jotted it down then exited the menu and set the remote down.

"Come on, let's go."

Hank gave one last nauseous look to the room and followed me down the stairs to my car. Once inside I drove to the truck stop back by the highway and told him to wait there. I bought 2 sandwiches, a six pack, some chips, some mouthwash and a travel toothbrush and paste set.

From the payphone I called the number and a cheery woman informed me it was the Winter Wonderland Dutch Cabins motel. I got the address and directions and wrote them down before returning to the car.

We drove without speaking, listening to the classic rock station play "Don't Fear The Reaper" until I found a picnic spot. I pulled over and handed him the mouth care supplies. "Here, clean this up then join me in the shade."

He went off to the bathroom building and I set up our makeshift picnic. When he emerged he looked slightly less like his shirt and golden boy sat down across from me.

I cracked open an Anchor beer and passed him a ham sandwich and chips. He stared at it like I'd presented him with a camel head and a spork.

"How can you eat at a time like this? And eat shit like this?"

I rolled my eyes. One downside to pretty boys; they had to work for that figure and it usually meant seaweed and juicing. I ate like a fifty year old ex-marine and just grunted.

He took the beer at least and took a pull that emptied half the bottle in one impressive go. "So what happened?"

"Common bullet, a .38 hollowpoint, no weapon there. Close range, looks like it happened after sex. Two used condoms in the trash corroborate that. The pantyhose, a razor cover, and the porno suggest that Liz was with him, and Liz was in fact, screwing Cherokee."