Eventualities: Allison Ch. 03byStultus©
The circus got off to a roaring start from the moment that I walked off the plane. A fellow in a good suit, expensive shoes and a chauffeur's hat was holding a sign with my name on it, 'Mr. P. Wells', or at least most of it. He asked for my Texas Driver's License and actually examined it closely (another sure sign that he was really FBI), then he grabbed my one carry-on bag and we were soon driving off towards downtown in a large black SUV that couldn't have screamed 'Government' more if it tried. The driver, an Agent whose name I was apparently not worthy enough to receive, answered all of my numerous questions promptly with, "I don't know Sir," "I don't have that information, Sir" or "I can't divulge that information at this time, Sir."
Exasperated I asked him how long he had been sleeping with his boss's wife? To which I got the more candid reply, "That I could tell you Sir, but then I'd have to kill you." Who says FBI agents have no sense of humor!
We got checked into a nice downtown 3 or 4 star hotel and I was hustled up to my room without ever having to sign in, nor did I in fact actually ever receive a room key from anyone for several days. Swell. The party in my hotel suite appeared to be already in full swing. No it wasn't that kind of party (mores the pity). Instead there were four FBI agents (three local San Diego based Field Agents and also Allison's kidnapping case Agent from DC) facing down three DEA agents from across a table.
Everyone was shouting and no one was particularly listening. Another fellow whose name and agency I never did find out, but screamed hardcore Government such as Secret Service or 'No Such Agency', was attempting to play mediator between the FBI and DEA but no one was listening to him either. Three lonely looking dogfaced fellows in cheap suits who looked like they might actually work for a living were sitting on a sofa near the window. Obviously these were the local SDPD boys and they were all far too unimportant for the feds to be wasting any time dealing with. Those were my kind of fellas. I walked over and joined them in a chair where we quietly traded information and bets on which fed was most likely to get pistol-whipped first.
I learned what I needed to know fast, and we started to come up with the bare bones of a plan.
About half an hour into our private skull session a leggy lady with short-ish raven hair, probably about in her late 30's but still very decorative, came over and, without introduction, sat in the remaining chair with the rest of the 'B-team'. Turned out that she was a local Fed also who usually worked on Navy operations with NCIS and was primarily their coordinator with other agencies, but she had hostage negotiation experience. She also had some useful local info on a few of the individuals who were likely to be involved and she didn't have a big hard-on for getting the lions share of the credit also - she was very willing to share her toys. She didn't speak much but when she did it was usually involving something critical the rest of us had overlooked. Without her sage advice I'm sure the entire operation might have become a total clusterfuck… it was a very near thing as it was.
Eventually the Fed boys noticed that I had arrived, stopped rattling their sabers at each and instead started to dictate plans of action towards me. I listened as politely as I could manage, but after about forty-five minutes of restraining the urge to do some pistol-whipping myself, I interrupted.
"Ok, fine, I think I understand your plan. Well it sucks, it's going to get people like Allison or myself killed. Fuck you all very much. I've got a much better plan and I don't need you involved at all."
The fed boys were all flabbergasted and speechless. Good start! I continued, "Now that we have established that, here is my plan. This is the plan that we are going to use if you in any way shape fashion or form want my help, otherwise fly back to where ever you came from and go back to fucking yourselves in whatever deep and dark basement they usually keep you locked up in." Jaws were dropping all over the room; the SDPD guys were trying to refrain from laughing and not succeeding at all (I became their bosom buddy for life, saying what they all had felt, but couldn't dare say politically).
"Here is the Primary Objective, the rescue of Allison Blair, assuming she is alive and able to be rescued. There are no other Primary Objectives for this mission! I understand and I am aware that there are some folks here with itchy guns wanting to make some major arrests for narcotics trafficking, kidnapping, slavery, interstate prostitution, gun running, murder, counterfeiting, money laundering and every other facet of organized crime but those objectives are secondary and optional, so long as these do not conflict with our Primary Objective. Are we understood"?
Bedlam broke out again, loudly, violently and all over the place. Good, now we were really getting somewhere. The Navy gal gave me a big smile that hinted she'd love to bear my children. The feds ranted, raved and blustered the rest of the evening until darn near midnight but I held all of the cards, well the only important one anyway, so I held firm.
Someone inside the den of crime and vice that was the Blue Velvet (Gentleman's Entertainment Club) knew the whereabouts of Allison, a known kidnapping victim, and I was the only ticket to get the feds inside. This club was long suspected of being the base for some very serious criminal gang activities but until now nothing could be proven. The repeated attempts law enforcement had made to infiltrate the club had ended in disaster each time, with the potential witnesses uncovered nearly immediately and swiftly killed. In actuality both DEA and the FBI were utterly desperate for any potential means of getting any useful inside information from inside the club. The fact that it was going to be my head alone that was jeopardized bothered no one.
I threw everyone out of my suite at around midnight, including a slightly disappointed Navy gal. I don't think she actually wanted to start the physical process of beginning to bear my children but she was enjoying our conversation. I managed to get a few decent hours of sleep before we started things rolling again early the next morning.
It took nearly all day to get all of the things I wanted and had demanded, meanwhile we tried to polish over the remaining rough spots in our plan, and unfortunately there were many. Ok, the plan was still pretty much a turd but it was the only plan we had that would:
A. theoretically even have a chance of working and
B. give me a likely life expectancy of longer than thirty minutes.
The bare details of it were this:
1. Under the best of circumstances I was going to be an unknown stranger walking for the first time into a hazardous location, looking like a fish out of water and potentially asking sensitive questions that were very likely to get me killed.
2. I would wear no 'wires' and there would be no other 'active surveillance' while I was inside because the last person to walk into that club wearing a wire was found dead in San Diego Bay the next morning.
3. Limited availability of backup (see #2 above)
4. As an unknown stranger I would have to be from out-of-state and have a plausible cover identity and adequate reason to not only wish to visit that club once but perhaps several times for up to a week if necessary.
The last, #4, was the worst part, and where our resident Navy Angel offered her best advice. She noted that about six weeks ago, a local doctor with possible crime ties was found killed execution style (and again floating in San Diego Bay). This suggested a possible "vacancy" in the crime organization for a trained trauma surgeon (the smart and rich crooks don't go to the hospital when they've been shot). While I was not a Doctor, my advanced Paramedic training (and Army Medic background) made this option a believable one, and if actually put to the test, I actually could indeed operate on gunshot wounds more or less in the manner of a trauma surgeon.
We created the persona of fast living Minor Emergency Doctor with a private practice from Austin, Texas. We then got the FBI to create a set of believable credentials for me and then we found a medical convention running at a local hotel and retro-actively registered me there. It was scheduled to run until Saturday and included discussions on trauma surgery so it was an excellent fit. I left my normal wallet and keys with the SDPD guys, carefully checked my baggage and personal articles for anything remotely suspicious, transferred over to the new hotel (this time I did get some keys) and began my new double life.
So, I became the slightly shady Doctor Peter Finch and was assured that my new identity would withstand the highest level of scrutiny for least 72 hours. Unlikely, but this whole operation was running on faith to begin with. I was also well funded with some special currency that was genuine but had special traceable RFID strips in each bill. The FBI did install recorders in my new room (alas not a suite) and my rental car. Fine, that seemed the safest way to keep everyone updated, in the event I drew attention… assuming that I had the chance to squeal for help. We also planned for one of several contingencies and had several backup rooms at a cheap motel that was within a few blocks (and night-vision binocular range of the Club).
Things were all ready to go and I was now just waiting for later in the evening when, hopefully, things in the club would be at their busiest. We did a few last sound checks at the convention hotel in the car and at the nearby motel room. All was still good so, when the clock hit 9 p.m., I left the motel room. I parked sort of near the center of the parking lot so I had a fair chance to make it to the car if I had to run for the door and made sure it was facing towards the road so I had a slightly better chance in the even more unlikely event I did make it. A minute or two later I was walking through the front door of the Blue Velvet.
I had a bit of trouble getting in. Two biker type gatekeepers recognized me as being new and not a member of the club where a 'private party' was occurring. They hassled me about my business there, as I certainly wasn't on the approved guest list (a dump with a guest list?), but this was a problem that money could easily solve and a pair of fed issued Ben Franklins bills got me inside the door.
Whatever I had prepared myself for or expected, the Blue Velvet still had plenty of surprises, There was certainly no actual blue velvet used anywhere in the club, as far as I could tell. Secondly, this club featured "Totally Nude Entertainers," and from what I could tell at first glance few of them were worth a second glance. Some women really do look better clothed. Age and gravity seemed to be the most likely common culprits.
A few girls did seem young and a bit "green" and brand new to the skin business but none of these were ravishing beauties. Clearly, this joint was not intended to be one of the big moneymakers for their organization. The hostess wanted to seat me near the stage, close to the lights but much too close to some muscular gang members whose appearance fairly cried out 'thug'. I slipped the hostess $20 (some of my plain money, not the fed's marked bills) while asking if "May was working tonight?" I also asked her for a booth in a dark corner. The bill and the hostess both disappeared fast and I waited.
I gave the joint my best quick inspection, without trying to look like I'm looking too hard. The place didn't improve to my eyes, the talent here was definitely low grade and the more I looked the deeper the feeling I got that this club was really just a stage play designed to attract attention. My dark corner was indeed fairly dark, but for all practical purposes most of the club seating area, except for around the stage, was pretty much also enclosed in gloom. I could pretty much tell what was happening close by me but seeing what was happening in the other corners of the club would be extremely difficult. The stage show suddenly seemed quite toned down from what I had first seen upon entering, which I thought involved two of the more attractive women, but now it was just one of girls gyrating alone.
The bartender, a brutish surly looking lout, seemed to be watching me as was a young well dressed thug who seemed to be one of the clubs managers. He finished speaking with the gal who seated me, came up to my booth and asked, "Excuse me Sir, I don't believe we've seen you here before and you're asking about one of our girls, May is it?" He was well groomed and had a nice suit that almost (but not quite) hid the fact that he was packing a gun. His tone was polite too and my Mama always taught me to repay politeness for politeness, especially to armed folks.
"The name is Doc Finch or just call me Pete or Doc. Hell, whichever you can remember. Yep, I'm looking for a gal that said she works here, name's May, y'all know her? Stupid little blonde cunt; not got much in her head, but she used to be able to suck a golf ball through a garden hose, that one. I used to know her in her prior 'working' days." If I'd winked, winked and nudged, nudged any more, I'd have end up calling him "Squire" for good measure but I thought that this dressed up thug might have accidentally either gone to college or had previous heard of Monty Python, so I behaved. Say no more!
I think it also helped that I was dressed up about as Texan as my brain could stand without rupturing. I've lived in Texas much of my life, have a bit of the local accent but no one from outside Texas believes you're really from Texas unless you have the cowboy hat and boots, blue jeans with a big rodeo buckle, a bolo string tie, and say "Y'all" a lot. Well the bolo tie was out, but I did own boots and was wearing then and a sort of suitable hat I had owned since my Ft. Bliss and Ft. Sam Houston Army days that I'd only worn maybe four or five times total, but I'd grabbed last thing before leaving home for the airport. Since I was playing at being a Doctor, I felt that good slacks and a white shirt would do for the rest. The outfit seemed rustic but professional and when I test wore it at the medical convention during that afternoon I seemed to fit right in with another pair of Texas based doctors.
We talked another minute or two more and the suited thug seemed to visibly relax, I guess he wasn't in the mood for any pistol-whipping tonight and my inevitable one-way trip into San Diego Bay seemed to be at least postponed for now. He said that May was in the back, but he'd send for someone to get her for me right away. He asked me if I wished to start a bar tab so I offered up my new driver's license and credit card (valid up to $10k) and he left.
Leaving my table, I noticed he made a sort of hand gesture toward the bartender, who in return then, faced the DJ and nodded to him. A red light which had seemed to be a general signal to the floor staff now stopped glowing above the DJ booth, and the club patrons relaxed. The dancer on the stage stopped her lethargic dance and began kissing another dancer that immediately now joined her. The action everywhere around me began to heat up noticeably and neither the Floor Manager or the bartender appeared to pay me any further heed.
I could bet that already the electrons were starting to churn as the folks in the back room were starting their background check on me. A good start. Phase 1 seemed to be a success and now it appears as if Phase 2 was bouncing down the isle toward me.
It was unmistakably May. Either that or Mary Lou Retton had dyed her hair bleach blonde and started a major amphetamine habit. The perkiness was unfathomable and she oozed hyperactivity from every delicious pore. She was dressed, sort of, in a tight silk camisole top that did nothing to hide or restrain her D cup breasts that somehow utterly defied the laws of gravity and eraser tip nipples that had to be at least an inch long. Her cute wiggling bottom was covered with a tiny silk thong that revealed in its glorious entirety an ass that just cried out for buggery and pretty much displayed in exact profile the full moist lips awaiting discovery under the thin silk front. She looked to be at least 40 years old, but it seemed like a good 40. She must have been a knockout at 20.
May came bouncing up to my table and launched herself into the booth, hugged me and squeaked loudly, "Petey!" So far so good. Grabbing my crotch with one hand and hugging me with the other, she pulled herself up as tight against me as she could get and, in-between loud giggles and other feminine eruptions, she whispered close to my ear, "EMS Fireman Pete from Houston?" She asked? I whispered back in the affirmative.
"Ok," she again whispered, "Here's the big question, Where did you take Allison for her vacation and who is your best friend?" A nice choice of things that only the real Pete Wells (and not a mob pretender) should know. This 'dumb blonde' did have a few hidden brains, just like we suspected (and hoped for during our planning).
I answered, briefly but directly, about the 'detox vacation' from Houston to San Francisco. I almost mentioned Myra's name instead of Tiny's, true now, but not true when Allison was with me. My true persona established, I began to press May for information until she squeezed my cock hard enough to hurt and, after pressing her lips to mine, she whispered again in my ear, "It's not safe to talk here, it's not safe to say anything, anywhere here. Tell me fast, quietly, anything I need to know, then shut up and play lover boy to your 'dumb bitch'. We need to wait a bit, there are some things you need to see. Be calm, be cool and we'll all be ok."
While she nibbled on my ear, I give her the barest of the important details, I was an old lover from her working days (seven years ago in Dallas she thought was the best fit) who was an ER Doctor, both bored and always in need of a bit of extra cash. The horse races had not been good to me this year.
The 'facts' organized we called for another round of drinks and began to talk about 'old times', loud enough that anyone who wanted to hear could. As the evening progressed we discussed increasingly improbable sexual events we had been a party to and fully acted the role of two old lovers that shared some quite sordid past history. May's left hand never seemed to leave my crotch and she would alternate caressing my cock through my pants or my thighs and stomach if she thought my pants were becoming too strained. With the cover of May's close presence, I could take a closer look at what was happening around me. It was certainly educational.
The booths around me each contained one or two men, and a few naked ladies, who offered and provided any sort of sexual release upon command. I saw women giving hand jobs or blow jobs from on their knees under the tables. Some were even having open sex with their seated male partners, riding on their pricks or else, as in one instance, boldly being fucked right on the table. Everywhere I looked, the women were also kissing each other, fondling and licking each others breasts, and caressing and even eating each others cunts. Now that I could appreciate what was happening around me, May's handiwork had no problem keeping my cock at near full hardness. May continued to kiss me and asked me to hold and openly caress her breasts, I was happy to oblige her, and did so at once. A few minutes later I when I starting to think about removing her top for a better view of her ponderous gravity defying breasts, she hissed in my ear, "Here she comes. Just watch, but do nothing." This was what we had been waiting for.