Special Sauce

I looked down onto the glossy black hairs covering the top of my secretary's head as she swallowed my meat. After six months of practice, Suzi was finally able to take most of me down her throat without gagging. Her head bobbed up and down in order to exhale and to refill her lungs with air before swallowing me whole once more. I felt her pace quicken as my balls began to tighten in her hand just as my cell started to vibrate and move around on the top of my desk.

I reached over her bobbing head and picked up the phone, deftly punching the 'send' button one-handed while my other hand stroked her hair. "Havarti Investigations, Swede Havarti speaking."

"Don't you have a secretary to answer your phone, Swede? Or is she taking 'dictation'"?

I immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the cell, a longtime associate, United States Attorney Jonathan Welsh. An associate who had the bad habit of passing off the cases he couldn't investigate to his 'old buddy'. Welsh is the closest thing to a DA that Washington, D.C., has and the closest I have to a hemorrhoid.

"Yeah, Suzi's busy taking 'dictation,' Welsh. What do you want?"

"I've got a delicate matter, Swede, that requires a clumsy hand and I couldn't get you out of my mind."

"How sweet, you knock up the mayor's teenage daughter or something? I thought you D.C. politicos had learned your lesson when it came to interns and their job descriptions."

"All right wise ass...you win." Welsh's voice shifted to formal as our tit-for-tat ended and he explained the case in detail. A local butcher, Ronald Scholtz, the favorite of the rich and shameless, had received several notes hinting at health code violations and extortion. The would be thug never quite revealed what it was he thought he had on the old guy, but made it clear that the revelation would close him down for good. However, the thug hadn't known several important pieces of trivia: (1) the old man was a retired DC cop, (2) the current government lawyer was the son of Scholtz's former partner, and (3) that the lawyer would call me, a two-bit shamus, instead of releasing the boys in blue or, more likely, the feds onto his trail. Outsourcing was everywhere these days though, I had a few investigations come my way from the previous suits that sat in Welsh's chair. Welsh and I had gone to college together though, so he called more often when discretion was the greater part of valor. In D.C., discretion is what made or broke careers, even for the locals.

I must have slipped in too many 'uh-huhs' as Welsh spoke because when he reached the end of his spiel his voice rose a bit in anger. "Swede! Are you listening to me? Never mind, get your fat ass over here so I can look into your beady little bloodshot eyes when I speak. Do you hear me, Swede?"

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" I said into the cell almost moaning as I pushed the 'end' button. I let the cell drop to the floor and grasped Suzi's head in both hands as I came down her throat so hard I nearly blacked out. She didn't miss a drop.

After cleaning me with her tongue and smacking her lips, Suzi tucked me into my boxers and my worsted wool slacks, zipping my fly back into a respectable position. Now standing, she flashed a smile and the corporate credit card before blowing me a kiss and leaving with a wink. It didn't take a detective to realize that while I was out doing damage control for the U.S. Attorney's Office, she would be out doing damage to my credit limit. After the nut I just blew between her pretty red painted lips, I didn't much care if she took me for all I had. Since she was keeping the books and answering the phone, she was in a better position to know just where that was than me anyway.

With my toes slowly uncurling and my mood adjusted, I headed out of the office and down the stairs to the street. At the curb I had my choice of the Dupont Circle Metro Station or Farragut North. Dupont was in the opposite direction of my destination, so I headed down the concrete towards Farragut North. At L Street I turned left and was soon waiting on the platform for the next train to arrive. Soon, another train glided into the station and I boarded as soon as the doors opened wide enough.

I sat down in the seat next to the door and across from a young lady decked out in Catholic schoolgirl fashion: short sleeve white blouse, a pleated Guthrie Tartan skirt, thick white socks and polished Mary Janes with her red hair in pigtails. She looked too old to be going to K-12 or even starting out at college. She had a mischievous grin on her face and didn't meet my eyes, but I had the feeling she was watching me nonetheless. We were alone in the middle of the car with the few other passengers sitting near the other doors on the opposite ends. With the empty seats in between us and them, the most they could see was that we were sitting across from one another and had our shirts on. I stared out into the tunnel's darkness through the windows in the doors to her right, occasionally glancing forward and back to keep my neck from getting stiff.

As the doors closed at Metro Center, I noticed a bit more of her thigh was exposed than when I had first sat down. She must have pulled her skirt up slowly since my peripheral vision had not been attracted to her movements. My sidewise glances in her direction increased as the train rocked along to its final destination in North East Maryland. Unfortunately my stop was much closer.

When the doors closed at Gallery Place/China Town and we headed towards the next stop, I took another peek. Her cheeks were a bit flushed, and as my eyes took her in I noticed that I could now see up her skirt to her panties underneath. Nice white cotton ones, like you'd see as a teenager while fumbling in the back seat of your parent's car with Jenny or Nancy, the girl next door, or the kind you'd see at my age in the laundry belonging to your daughter. I'd have felt guilty, but she was too old for school and too old to qualify for statutory rape. She was either a bit kinky and out for some public exposure to fuel her fantasies or a professional who enjoyed her job too much on the way to give some congressional pervert his or her morning slobber. My stop came too soon and I reluctantly left her sitting there. Even after having received my own morning knobber, the sight of this young lady so fresh and sweet put the lead back into my pencil. If I didn't walk it off, whatever Welsh had for me would surely soften it for me.

The images of the young lady on the train merged with my own perverted imagination and kept my thoughts busy and thankfully distracted until I reached Welsh's office. Settling down into a burgundy government procured chair, I pretended to be impatient and wiggled around in my seat as I waited for Welsh to acknowledge me. I watched him as he looked intently at some papers within a brown folder.

I tried to get his attention, "Come on Johnny". He grunted and continued to read. "You know it doesn't take a good detective to notice that the blonde who just left here had more than her skirt to readjust." I spoke to his forehead. He still didn't respond, but the skin beneath what was supposed to pass for a hair line grew redder as he continued reading and digested what I had implied. He looked up after awhile and leaned back in his chair.

When he finally spoke, his voice was filled with a controlled violence that he had honed over the years for underlings brought to the carpet for some real or imagined transgression. Older, and having known him since before he had need of such theatrics, I wasn't impressed. I loved yanking his chain and he knew it. That's what pissed him off, not what I said. In reality he had to be the most faithful husband this side of six feet under that had ever said 'I do'. As a public servant, his unquestionable integrity caused a few extra years to pass before he reached his current position. He was good people, but a pain in the ass nonetheless.

"About time, Swede," he finally spoke. Handing me the file folder, he continued speaking in his supervisory tone. "I didn't tell you on the phone, but there might be two girls missing also. Mr. Scholtz, the butcher I spoke of, is the owner of 'Kleine & Sons Meat'."

He went on for about twenty minutes giving me the run down on everything that was in the file, as was his habit. Fortunately, this saved me from the boring job of actually reading it. He knew from our college days that anything he said would seat itself far deeper into my head than anything I read. As he spoke, I flipped through the file checking for photographs. There was one of 'Kleine and Sons Meats' which looked familiar. Another shot was of what I assumed was Mr. Scholtz and one of the missing girls. On the back of the photograph was penciled 'Karen, 2001 at Old Mill Creek'...this must be the younger one. Along with running the shop, Scholtz had provided room and board to a couple of runaways over the last few years. Neither had stayed with Scholtz while the other was with him. Welsh didn't think they were involved, but he wasn't ready to rule them out either. There was no picture of Alison, the older of the two. One of the extortion notes was also in the file. Nothing special about it except that it was written on stationary with a distinctive watermark.

If anyone other than Welsh had told me that the old man was Kosher and wasn't playing hide the kielbasa when it came to either of the two, I would have called him a liar. But even with Welsh to stand up for him, it seemed odd to me that not only one, but two attractive 16 year old women found their way to this childless, widower's home and nothing went on when the lights went out. Go ahead and call me a cynic. Although Scholtz looked old school, Welsh told me that he had served, with distinction, as a third generation District Police Officer and went on to some success with his butcher shop and to become a city icon of sorts.

Scholtz had met his wife at a Red Cross dance before shipping off to the Pacific where he earned a Bronze Star and two Purple Hearts while fighting the Japanese in WWII. According to what I remember of my own grandfather's dinner time tales of his exploits in the war, Scholtz's German surname must have been worn more comfortably in the Pacific than it would have been in the European theater. Scholtz came back and married the young lady who had danced with him, Mary Kleine. They bought a cookie-cutter townhouse on a GI loan and a rookie's salary. It was nestled in between two identical houses, in a nicer D.C. neighborhood than either Welsh or I had inherited. He walked a concrete beat for nearly 20 years before taking over his wife's family's business. Mary's father had become too old to run the business. His son had never came back from Korea and his grandson had never returned from Vietnam. After Scholtz retired from the police force, he took over the business and learned the trade from his father-in-law. The father-in-law soon died, joining his son and grandson. The mother-in-law went south to Florida to slowly bake in the sun. She didn't last long either and ten years later the daughter, his wife, joined them all. That left him with a family business and no family, except for those who worked for him. He took better care of them than the teamsters did of their own members. When Welsh had finished speaking, he had covered everything I would need to know in the folder and the details that he knew personally.

"Is that it?" I asked to make sure he was finished.

"That's it. He may ask you to look into the two girls' whereabouts, but I'm only interested in whoever is trying to black mail him. Unless it's the girls, they can wait."

I replied a bit too sarcastically, "No time for the innocents, uh?"

"Don't start in on me, Swede. Both girls had a history of running away. And one is 18, an adult..."

"So was that intern..." I interrupted him and he returned the favor.

"You're preaching to the choir. The fuck who's trying to strong arm Scholtz is an immediate threat. There's no telling how he'll play it if Scholtz doesn't pay him off."

"You're probably right," I replied. "I'll start with the employees. Even those who love you can hurt you and even if not, they may know who would. Is there any chance of this being an ex-con with an old beef?"

"Checked that first; it's a dead end so far. Here's a list of Scholtz's employees. There ain't many."

I took the paper from his hand and handed him the folder as I got up and left. I knew there would be no friendly banter until this case was over.

* * * * *

On the Judiciary Square platform, I found a bench and sat down to look over the list. Scholtz lived in the suburbs, but all of his employees except one lived near the shop. Robert Fowler, Scholtz's night manager, lived in Old Town. I let my stomach decide. I could make an easy afternoon of it interviewing all of the employees near the shop or I could make the trek to Old Town. On my way, I could stop at Five Guys and have one of the best hamburgers in the world. With only a coffee for breakfast, my stomach won. A Red Line train headed in my direction had just passed through. Since it was not rush hour, it could be 15 minutes for the next one. I had to get to Gallery Place/Chinatown to transfer to the Yellow Line where I could have another 15 minute wait. There must have been a backup because another Red Line train pulled into the station 5 minutes later and left hauling my butt along with it. I caught a Yellow as it entered the station seconds after I reached the platform. Good luck like this could be a bad sign.

During the ride, I started to think about the missing girls. Welsh wasn't too concerned about them, but then he may have been too blinded by loyalty to a fellow cop and family friend. I on the other hand, was not blinded by loyalty or distracted. One girl disappears, that could be a coincidence. Two disappear, now that's suspicious. Even then, it could still be a coincidence. I didn't believe in coincidences, I entered what I knew and what I suspected into my PDA. Once the train hit the sunlight, I emailed Suzi so she could look into their disappearance. That should divert her attention from charging away whatever money I have.

The Yellow Line train to Huntington came to a stop in the King Street Station and opened its doors in order to regurgitate its human occupants and to take on more. Those new passengers attempted to defy the laws of physics and enter within the same space at the same time as those departing the train. I laughed and walked through the two suits standing shoulder to shoulder in front of my exit. My broader self parted them like the Red Sea. Fuck 'em. They were too stupid to worry about. I rode the escalator down to the street and forgot them among the dozens of faces I saw and ran into as I made my way to those two hot beef patties.

Five Guys had fresh beef, never frozen, fried up with a standard mix of toppings to choose from and a side order of boardwalk style fries, same kind of fries I grew up with in Michigan. Five Guys had the malted vinegar too that topped them off better than ketchup. I ordered my burger with the usual: mustard, mayo, pickles, onion, and cheddar. It made for a thick, juicy and satisfying mouthful. The burger and fries were served in a plain brown bag whether you were staying or going. I grabbed a bottle of vinegar on my way to a seat and wolfed it all down with a root beer chaser.

With a satisfied stomach and burger breath, I headed out the door and deeper into Old Town. It took me 15 minutes to find Bobby's. A highly polished brass knocker shone in the afternoon sun. The three-story house was well-maintained with plants in cedar boxes outlining the three steps from the sidewalk to the door. With square footage in such high demand, houses were thin, even if over 100 years old, but they were deep and tall to make up for it. It never ceased to amaze me that people would choose to live in such small places after having grown up in houses three times their size myself.

I knocked on the door using my knuckles on the hardwood, saving the polished brass from my greasy burger hands. The door was opened by a short woman with dark hair and bright blue eyes almost wearing a maid's uniform. Its style was more along the lines of lingerie than a working uniform. It revealed a lot of cleavage and it rode high on her legs, a nice pair top to bottom from what I could see as she led me into the house. She left me in a sitting room, or something. There were chairs and end tables, but no television. I vaguely remember an aunt with a room like this too.

I stood when the lady of the house entered. She had that effect even though I didn't have those kinds of manners. She looked old enough to have a kid as old as Bobby, but she wore it well. She was a good four inches taller than the maid, but she was still a couple less than the top of my head. That brought us more or less to eye level as I stood there, figuratively, hat in hand. She was wearing a black, wool suit consisting of a blazer, a white blouse, a matching skirt, and low-heeled pumps. I mentally made a wager that she was wearing stockings rather than panty hose, and didn't care whether I won or lost, as long as I found out. The suit was tailored and fit her like a glove. A pair of wire rim glasses and her dirty blonde hair in a bun completed a very severe look. She looked like an attorney or a lobbyist, the kind the opposing guy tends to have on his side.

"Hello, I'm Swede Havarti. I'm an investigator working for the U.S. Attorney's Office." Well, it wasn't a complete lie. "I'd like to speak with your son."

"May I ask what business you have with my son, Mr. Havarti?" Her voice was thick and sweet as honey. "Would you like a drink or are you on duty?" There was a slight smile and good humor in her voice. It would be hard to concentrate with my dick taking over most of my thinking, but I'd have to try.

"Something wet would be nice. I'm actually a private investigator contracted to the U.S. Attorney, so I'm never officially on duty. With the case load as it is, they've been outsourcing the less pressing ones." I said as I returned to my seat.

"I'm afraid my son's not here; he has already left for work. His boss, Mr. Scholtz, asked him to come in early today. Robert usually works from 6pm to 12am, Sunday through Thursday. Mr. Scholtz spoils him and pays a full 40 hour salary anyway." Her voice had become a bit harsh.

"It doesn't sound like you approve." I replied.

"I was too soft on Robert. His father left us very early and I mothered him too much..."

The maid reentered with a tray. Two glasses of iced tea were perched on top with slices of orange in them. She served me first, giving me a nice view down the front of her uniform. Turning around, she served her mistress next. Bending more than necessary to hand Ms. Fowler her tea caused the too short hem of her uniform to rise above her bottom; more than enough for me to see that she wasn't wearing any panties. Once finished serving, she left the room.

"I see you like your iced tea, Mr. Havarti. By the way, how did you end up with the name of a cheese?"

"Actually it's the other way around and the story's as old as it's boring."

"Oh?"

"Aren't you home a bit early, Mrs. Fowler?" I attempted to change the subject.

"Actually, I am at work Mr. Havarti. I work from home."

"That's a rather practical outfit for a home bus..." as my imagination caught up with the conversation I realized what Missus or more likely, Mistress Fowler's occupation was. She smiled as she saw my thoughts play out across my face and stood. Walking towards me she slowly began to unbutton her blazer and removed it. Stopping a few feet in front of me she continued with her blouse and followed with her skirt. I won my bet, stockings.