The Predator Ch. 01

The Predator

Chapter One

It was a new town. I had worn out my welcome in the last one. Well, okay, the last one's son had chased me out of town with a shotgun in his hand. I had jumped into my little car, which much to my surprise had actually started and headed west, from Pueblo. I had the money in my pocket, a few hundred dollars in my CitiBank account, and that duffel of my clothes, shaving gear, toothbrush, and my Colt Defender, that I always kept in the trunk.

So here I was, Salida, Colorado, a beautiful mountain town with 14,000 feet peaks (the Collegiate Peaks if it matters) and some of the most spectacular views in a spectacular state. I checked into a motel, not one on Highway 50, the main street, but off the beaten path where the rates dropped like a stone falcon. My money wouldn't last long.

So I was on the hunt. I stopped by the Senior Center, usually a good hunting ground. I looked at the calendar, posted on the bulletin board as they always were. And there were two likely hits in the next two days. There would be a bunco game tonight, well, at 7:00. That was a possibility and I'd certainly drop by. But the better shot would be tomorrow, the Friday Night Dance with a live band (The Mountaineers). I'd try the bunco game, but the dance would truly be a target-rich environment.

I stopped by the local grocery store and bought a loaf of bread, a pound of bologna, some mayonnaise (I never developed a taste for salad dressing), a twelve-pack of ginger ale, and a big package of double stuff Oreos. I needed to husband my money, so I went back to the motel and turned on the television. I caught the news, happy to see no mention of my unfortunate exit from Pueblo. Then I found reruns of "That 70s Show" and laid back to relax.

I napped.

The clock in my head woke me at 6:00 and I showered and made myself a sandwich. Hair carefully combed, face shaved, wearing my cougar hunting costume, a button-down Oxford cloth shirt, white with blue pencil stripes, white denim Levi's, white socks, and loafers I was ready to go. My shirt was slightly threadbare, just a hint of fraying at the collar and cuffs. In the same way, the hem at the bottom of the jeans legs was just slightly frayed, a few stray threads peeking out. I wanted to look a little down on my luck but not so far down as to be dangerous. I had found, over the years, that women of a certain age found this look, combined with my, well, my "boyish good looks" to be a little immodest about it, worked in Senior Centers and since I'm lazy, and those were usually full of easy pickings, it's what I had on tonight.

One final check in the mirror and I headed out to see what the herd might look like.

There was a good crowd for Bunco. For those of you who don't know, the game involves teams of 12 players keeping score in some odd system that involves dice. I had a basic understanding of the game, as I did for Euchre, Pinochle, Canasta, any of a half dozen games involving dominoes, and even Bridge. If you spend much time in Senior Centers you learn them.

It took a while to sort out who was who. It's easier at a dance, but this way I would have some information to work with tomorrow. In the end, though, this group ran true to form.

First off, there were twice as many women as men. While it's true that women outlive men, it's also true that women tend to get out more. In my experience, it is especially true of men once they retire and a condition I call Terminal Sedentariness sets in. It's a condition that has kept my own bed warm, well, the bed of whatever motel I'm living in at the time, more than once.

At a dance, with a distinct floor and tables, it's easy to spot my target in a new town. First, you find the Queen Bee. At a dance, she will inevitably be at a table on the edge of the floor. Then you find her punching bag. That will, without fail, be the woman sitting to her left. While not as reliable a predictor, you can still pretty much count on the punching bag being just as attractive as the Queen Bee and the opposite body type. If the Queen Bee is thin, the punching bag will be plump. If the Queen Bee is thick, and there are plenty of beautiful heavy women in the world, the punching bag will be thin.

But it's harder on a game night since there is no specific table to spot.

Here in Salida, I got lucky. As people moved around the Queen Bee was easy to spot. She was holding court whenever there was a break in the action. She was striking, that's for sure. She was tall, for one thing. She was attractive rather than pretty, with a halo of that silvery grey hair that can never come out of a bottle. She had deep-set eyes and a largish nose giving her a regal look.

Spotting her punching bag turned out to be easy too. And she ran true to form. She was a short, round, butterball of a woman. Probably no more than 5' 2" tall and easily over 200 pounds. And so cute I just stared when I picked her out. When our eyes met for an instant I smiled but then looked away as if I was just surveying the room.

I waited, kind of walking around the room. I read once, in a Stephen King novel as it happened, that the way to avoid being noticed when you were trying to watch someone in the same room was to keep moving. I don't know if there was any validity to that in terms of being a real theory of police work or stakeout science (if there is such a thing), but I had found it worked for me. So I picked up one of the complimentary glasses of iced tea and kept moving, circulating, waiting for my chance to make my first pitch.

Finally, it came. I had been there for about a half-hour and was about to bag the whole project. When you're in your 20s, and look like you need to be carded before you get a beer, people get suspicious if you just hang around the Senior Center too much. So I was about to call it a night when she went to the drink table, doubtless sent to fetch the Queen Bee something.

I headed for the same table and threw my paper cup away. The movement and the little noise drew her attention.

I put on my best boyish grin, the one I practice at least ten minutes a day in the mirror, and said, "excuse me, can I ask you something?"

She smiled back. My Grin has that effect. "Sure," she said.

"I'm new in town," I started, "and I was wondering if it would be okay for me to put a little sign up on the bulletin board. I need work. I'm a pretty good handyman, know my way around a lawnmower, and work hard."

She smiled, "Oh," she said, and the way she was smiling I could tell she was enjoying my attention, "I don't think that would be a problem. There are lots of signs on the board. Would you like a tip?"

"Sure," I said, the Grin at full wattage.

"Use some colored paper," she said, "the board is about covered in white."

"Well thank you," and I paused, "I'd say your name but I don't know it."

She actually giggled a little at that.

"I am Doris," she said, holding out her hand.

"And I am David," I said, taking her hand but not just shaking it. I held her eyes while I bent and kissed it. It was a soft, pudgy hand. I liked it.

She giggled at that, a full-on giggle making her jiggle a bit. I liked it.

"Very pleased to meet you," I said.

She was actually blushing a little when she said "and you."

"Thank you, Doris," I said, making a point of saying her name.

"Oh, you're welcome," she said.

"Now I think your friend is wanting you," I said, and the Queen Bee was waving at her.

"Well," she said, obviously reluctant to leave the attention, "I'd better get over there."

"Thanks again," I said and watched her leave. I'm pretty sure she put a little extra swing in her hips.

I thought about stopping by a bar I had seen that also featured a live band but on second thought I went back to my room. I didn't want to be seen in bars at this point in a new, and very small, town.

The next day I spent sightseeing. And there were a LOT of sights to see. I hadn't been in Colorado long and was still learning just how spectacular it was. I drove up Monarch Pass to see the ski area of the same name and had lunch in the lodge. No skiing in September. The neighboring town of Buena Vista was another jewel set in a beautiful valley. The tiny burg of Poncha Springs wasn't much. What WAS nice were the hot springs and I relaxed in them for a solid hour, feeling completely relaxed and spent when I headed back to my room for another nap. I was hoping the night would involve some serious exercise. I had noticed that Doris did NOT have a wedding ring.

I got up, having overslept. It was 4:30 and the office supply store I had spotted would probably be closing at 5:00. So I got up, moving, went to the store, and had a bright yellow sign made up. Nothing special, just "General Handyman. Good Work. Reliable. Honest. Reasonable Prices." And my cell phone number.

I made another sandwich and drank a Coke I had splurged on.

I waited until about 7:30 before going over to the dance. First, the lights would be low. Second, I just didn't want to be too obvious.

When I went in I almost laughed. I mean, seriously, it was exactly what I just described. The double table was sitting on the edge of the dance floor. There were eight chairs, two empty so I assumed those women were dancing. The Queen Bee was centered on the long edge of the table, holding court, in a position so she could see what was happening on the dance floor. And there, to her left, was Doris, my cute little butterball.

I stood and listened. The Mountaineers were actually pretty good. They did a reasonable cover of some interesting blues. The lead singer's version of "Stormy Weather" was downright goosebump raising. I was deliberately not looking at the Queen's table but when I noticed Doris look over at me in my peripheral vision I met her eyes, flashed The Grin, and waved my bright yellow sign.

I went into the hall then and hung up the sign.

Then it was back to the main room. The band kept going through their repertoire. They did a passable "Twist and Shout" and then right into "La Bamba" using the same four-chord progression. When they went into "Unchained Melody," the frontman doing a VERY passable Bill Medley imitation I moved.

As I approached the table the Queen flashed a very nice smile. I noticed that her teeth were ivory rather than an artificial white. I smiled back, not The Grin but just a smile of acknowledgment, and then leaned across the table and offered my hand to Doris. "Come on beautiful," I said, "I always try to get at least one dance with the prettiest girl in the room."

She blushed VERY prettily and giggled.

"Don't leave me hanging," I said, enjoying the way the Queen's smile slowly faded when she realized what I was doing.

I thought I had blown it when my count hit four but then she stood and took my hand.

I led her onto the floor, stood, took her into the classic slow dance position, my left hand held out, palm up, my right laying on the softness of her hip, and waited. She looked at me for a few seconds and then took my hand, her left reaching up to lay on my shoulder. Since I was so much taller than her she had to step close to make it work.

We stepped off into a nice easy box step, and she followed my lead accurately if not particularly gracefully. "Relax," I said, "it's a dance. I'm not marching you to your execution." She giggled a little at that and got better. Before that first dance was over she had relaxed enough that she didn't flinch when our bodies touched.

She started toward the table but I held her hand. She finally smiled, a real smile, not something forced. The band started into "Cry Me A River" and she was back in my arms.

"What is this, David?" she asked.

"What I told you, I like to dance with the prettiest girl in the room," I said, smiling down at her.

"God," she said, giggling again, "I can almost believe you."

I just flashed The Grin and let my hands explore her back.

"Are you trying to get in my pants after one dance?" she asked.

The Grin.

"Is it working?" I asked.

And there was that smile again, making her truly pretty rather than just cute.

"Welllllllllllllll," she said, "not after ONE dance," and her emphasis on the number showed me I had won again.

"I guess I'll just have to keep you on the floor, then," I said, and pulled her a little closer.

This time she didn't resist.

I could have kissed the band when they started into "Jailhouse Rock."

Again she started for the table and again I held her hand.

"David," she said, her eyes wide.

But I took her into my arms again, bounced a little to pick up the beat, and spun her away.

She was really very light on her feet and soon we were doing a pretty good Jive.

Her grin was ear to ear and she looked about 17 as we moved around the floor. And the floor was almost empty, not many of the Seniors were interested in fast dancing. I could tell she was enjoying the attention, something she wasn't used to.

When the music ended she was breathing hard and obviously sweating.

I leaned close to her ear and whispered, "how about you introduce me to the girls (I deliberately said "girls") at your table and tell them I've worn you out and you're going to call it a night. Then I take you somewhere for a drink."

She looked up at me, one eyebrow up, and I could see her make a decision. She took my hand and led me to their table.

"David," she said formally, "meet Victoria (of course she introduced the Queen first), Rita, Rene, Bonnie, Darla, Mary, and Samantha" working her way around the table. "Girls, my new favorite dance partner David."

I waved.

"David and I are going to get a drink so I'll see you tomorrow," she said and I could tell she was enjoying being the one to leave with a man.

She giggled when she saw my car. "David," she said, "do you think I'll fit?"

I laughed and said, "of course."

"Here's how you mount it," I said, and opened the door, sat in the bucket seat, lifted my feet, and spun in. Then I reversed the process, stepped out, and stood.

My car is a FIAT 124 Spyder. I bought it, used, a week after I got out of the Air Force. I had been steadily working on it. It is great fun. Open-air motoring and all that. But it's not practical, especially for a woman of Doris' size. After a few practice runs, and a LOT of giggling, she had the drill down. When she got into the car she flashed a yard or so of white making us both giggle while she pulled her dress down.

"So, beautiful," I said, flashing The Grin, "a local bar, or do you want to protect your reputation and go up the road."

And she laughed at that. Not a giggle, a full-blown belly laugh. I liked her laugh.

"Oh David," she said, "my reputation was probably ruined when I stayed on the dance floor with you and what shreds were left were lost when we walked out that door."

She took my hand and kissed it. "Honey, you're giving a fat girl a thrill so let's just go downtown."

I started to put the car in gear but she touched my hand.

"Can we put the top down?" she asked, "I've never ridden in a convertible."

I gave her The Grin, reached up, pulled the two levers that latched the top, and gave a push.

Her smile was worth it. I turned on the radio, tuned to an oldies station, and started singing along with Ricky Nelson whining about how bad it was to be a teenage idol. I had learned that the way to a, well, a "mature" woman's heart was to know the music she grew up with. And I do enjoy older women.

She directed me, on a very roundabout route, obviously enjoying the ride, to a residential area, and then into the driveway of a big, two-story house.

"David," she said, "I'm saying 'yes' to you. This is walking distance to a neighborhood bar I go to from time to time and I'd be flattered to go there on your arm."

So I smiled, got out of the car, ran around and opened her door, and helped her stand.

She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. It was a good kiss.

"Please don't hurt me," she whispered and then took my hand and led me down the street.

The bar was only a block and a half away and it was a classic neighborhood place. Think "Cheers" in the mountains.

"To drink?" I asked and she laughed and gave her belly a jiggle.

"Need you ask?" she said, "get us a pitcher of beer."

So I got a pitcher and two mugs and joined her at a small table. The jukebox played at a low enough volume we could talk, and talk we did.

She was a widow, her husband was killed in an accident a decade ago, and she never remarried. "Not many opportunities for a fat girl," she said kind of wistfully.

I covered her hand with mine and said, "you asked me to not hurt you," I said, and her eyes were big, meeting mine, "but if you keep putting yourself down I WILL spank you."

She giggled at that and said "promises, promises."

Well, you can cut a few yards of that dialogue and you'll have it right. A young guy, not yet 30, laying his best lines on a woman twice his age.

To my great surprise, she turned out to be a good dart player. She managed to win one out of three and I definitely brought my A-game to win the two I did.

She wasn't drunk, but we were both pretty well-lit when I walked her home.

At her door, I said, "well, that awkward moment. If I kiss you goodnight will you cry rape?"

And there was that belly laugh again.

"Oh sweety, I ain't lettin' you off that easy," she said.

Then she opened the door, took my hand, and pulled me along behind her.

Inside, she kissed me, hard, her pent-up need driving her. I could feel her, soft and warm, pressing against me.

I liked it.

"Easy Doris," I said, "take it easy. I'm not running off, now let me do the work."

She looked up at me, very serious.

"You'll spend the night?" she said, the question mark obvious in her voice, which made me laugh.

"Doris," I said, "I'll be here until you kick me out. I like Salida. I like you. What more could a boy need?"

I reached out and touched the tear that overflowed her eye.

"What?" I asked.

She laughed softly.

"It's been a long time since a man paid any attention to me, David," she said.

I reached up and held her eyes as I unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. Then I bent and kissed the skin I had exposed, a nice bit of cleavage. Her bra, as I would have predicted if I had thought about it, was white and heavy. I kissed the line where her pale, blue-veined breast met the white material. She shivered and her breath caught.

Another couple of buttons and I saw how fat she was, the way she bulged out from where the bra was tight. Her skin was so white you had to wonder if she ever stepped outside and those sexy cellulite dimples were everywhere.

I undid the rest of her buttons and worked the blouse off of her shoulders.

The bra was industrial strength a wide band with, by my actual count, 9 hooks in the back making me wonder briefly how she got the damn thing on. The straps were wide and padded.

I liked it.

I started on the hooks, kissing her mouth and face as I did. When I had those damn hooks undone I actually laughed softly as she pulled her arms tight against her body to hold it on. I waited her out and soon enough she relaxed and I got it off.

Her breasts were big and pillowy. Like many fat women, the glands pulled the skin down until they looked like cantaloupes in skin sacks. I later looked at her bra and found her it be 48FF. Her nipples were pale, barely darker than the surrounding skin, on small areolas, no bigger than a nickel, and they were very long, drooping under their own weight.

When I touched them tentatively, just using my thumb and forefinger to touch, very lightly, and she made a soft, humming sound deep in her throat.

My WtE (Woman to English dictionary) translated that sound as, "ohIlikethatdon'tstopmaybealittleharderplease."

My hand moved down a bit farther, finding the button and zipper of her skirt. Her breath caught as I undid the button and put the first pressure on the zipper. The little sound she made was subtly different, a little more "ahh" in it. And my WtE translated it as, "ohGodnowhe'sgoingtosee."